[1] THE CASTLES OF ATHLIN AND DUNBAYNE.

On the north eaſt coaſt of Scotland, in the moſt romantic part of the Highlands, ſtood the caſtle of Athlin; an edifice built on the ſummit of a rock whoſe baſe was in the ſea. This pile was venerable from its antiquity, and from its gothic ſtructure; but more venerable from the virtues which it encloſed. It was the reſidence of the ſtill beautiful widow, and the children, [2] of the noble Earl of Athlin, who was ſlain by the hand of Malcolm, a neigh⯑bouring chief, proud, oppreſſive, re⯑vengeful; and ſtill reſiding in all the pomp of feudal greatneſs, within a few miles of the caſtle of Athlin. Encroach⯑ment on the domain of Athlin, was the occaſion of the animoſity which ſubſiſted between the chiefs. Frequent broils had happened between their clans, in which that of Athlin had generally been victorious. Malcolm, whoſe pride was touched by the defeat of his people; whoſe ambition was curbed by the authority, and whoſe greatneſs was rivalled by the power of the Earl, conceived for him, that deadly hatred which oppoſition to its favourite paſſions naturally excites in a mind like his, haughty and unaccuſtomed to controul; and he meditated his deſtruc⯑tion. He planned his purpoſe with all that addreſs which ſo eminently marked his character, and in a battle [3] which was attended by the chiefs of each party in perſon, he contrived by a curious fineſſe, to entrap the Earl, accompanied by a ſmall detachment, in his wiles, and there ſlew him. A gene⯑ral route of his clan enſued, which was followed by a dreadful ſlaughter; and a few only eſcaped to tell the horrid cataſtrophe to Matilda. Matilda, over⯑whelmed by the news, and deprived of thoſe numbers which would make re⯑venge ſucceſsful, forbore to ſacrifice the lives of her few remaining people to a feeble attempt at retaliation, and ſhe was conſtrained to endure in ſilence her ſorrows and her injuries.

Inconſolable for his death, Matilda had withdrawn from the public eye, into this ancient ſeat of feudal govern⯑ment, and there, in the boſom of her people and her family, had devoted herſelf to the education of her chil⯑dren. One ſon and one daughter were [4] all that ſurvived to her care, and their growing virtues promiſed to repay all her tenderneſs. Oſbert was in his nine⯑teenth year: nature had given him a mind ardent and ſuſceptible, to which education had added refinement and expanſion. The viſions of genius were bright in his imagination, and his heart, unchilled by the touch of diſappoint⯑ment, glowed with all the warmth of benevolence.

When firſt we enter on the theatre of the world, and begin to notice the ob⯑jects that ſurround us, young imagina⯑tion heightens every ſcene, and the warm heart expands to all around it. The happy benevolence of our feelings prompts us to believe that every body is good, and excites our wonder why every body is not happy. We are fired with indig [...]ation at the recital of an act of injuſtice, and at the unfeeling vices of which we are told. At a tale of [5] diſtreſs our tears flow a full tribute to pity. At a deed of virtue our heart unfolds, our ſoul aſpires, we bleſs the action, and feel ourſelves the doer. As we advance in life, imagination is compelled to relinquiſh a part of her ſweet delirium; we are led reluctantly to truth through the paths of expe⯑rience; and the objects of our fond attention are viewed with a ſeverer eye. Here an altered ſcene appears;—frowns where late were ſmiles; deep ſhades where ſate was ſunſhine: mean paſſions, or diſguſting apathy ſtain the features of the principal figures. We turn indig⯑nant from a proſpect ſo miſerable, and court again the ſweet illuſions of our early days, but ah! they are fled for ever! Conſtrained, therefore, to behold objects in their more genuine forms, their deformity is by degrees leſs pain⯑ful to us. The fine touch of moral ſuſceptibility, by frequent irritation, becomes callous, and too frequently [6] we mingle with the world, till we are added to the number of its votaries.

Mary, who was juſt ſeventeen, had the accompliſhments of riper years, with the touching ſimplicity of youth. The graces of her perſon were inferior only to thoſe of her mind, which illu⯑mined her countenance with inimitable expreſſion.

Twelve years had now elapſed ſince the death of the Earl, and time had blunted the keen edge of ſorrow. Ma⯑tilda's grief had declined into a gentle, and not unpleaſing melancholy, which gave a ſoft and intereſting ſhade to the natural dignity of her character. Hi⯑therto her attention had been ſolely directed towards rearing thoſe virtues which nature had planted with ſo libe⯑ral a hand in her children, and which under the genial influence of her eye, had flouriſhed and expanded into beauty [7] and ſtrength. A new hope, and new ſolicitudes, now aroſe in her breaſt: theſe dear children were arrived at an age, dangerous from its tender ſuſcep⯑tibility, and from the influence which imagination has at that time over the paſſions. Impreſſions would ſoon be formed which would ſtamp their deſtiny for life. The anxious mother lived but in her children, and ſhe had yet another cauſe of apprehenſion.

When Oſbert learned the ſtory of his father's death, his young heart glowed to avenge the deed. The late Earl, who had governed with the real dignity of power, was adored by his clan; they were eager to revenge his injuries; but oppreſſed by the generous com⯑paſſion of the Counterſ, their murmurs ſunk into ſilence: yet they fondly che⯑riſhed the hope that their young Lord would one day lead them on to conqueſt and revenge. The time was now come [8] when they looked to ſee this hope, the ſolace of many a cruel moment, realized. The tender fears of a mother would not ſuffer Matilda to riſque the chief of her laſt remaining comforts. She forbade Oſbert to engage. He ſubmitted in silence, and endeavoured by application to his favourite ſtudies, to ſtifle the emotions which rouſed him to arms. He excelled in the various accompliſh⯑ments of his rank, but chiefly in the martial exerciſes, for they were conge⯑nial to the nobility of his ſoul, and he had a ſecret pleaſure in believing, that they would one time aſſiſt him to do juſtice to the memory of his dead father. His warm imagination directed him to poetry, and he followed where ſhe led. He loved to wander among the roman⯑tic ſcenes of the Highlands, where the wild variety of nature inſpired him with all the enthuſiaſm of his favourite art. He delighted in the terrible and in the grand, more than in the ſofter landſcape; [9] and wrapt in the bright viſions of fancy, would often loſe himſelf in awful ſolitudes.

It was in one of theſe rambles, that having ſtrayed for ſome miles over hills covered with heath, from whence the eye was preſented with only the bold outlines of uncultivated nature, rocks piled on rocks, cataracts and vaſt moors unmarked by the foot of traveller, he loſt the path which he had himſelf made; he looked in vain for the ob⯑jects which had directed him, and his heart, for the firſt time, felt the repulſe of fear. No veſtige of a human being was to be ſeen, and the dreadful ſilence of the place was interrupted only by the roar of diſtant torrents, and by the ſcreams of the birds which flew over his head. He ſhouted, and his voice was anſwered only by deep echos from the mountains. He remained for ſome time in a ſilent dread not wholly unpleaſing, [10] but which was ſoon heightened to a degree of terror not to be endured; and he turned his ſteps backward, forlorn, and almoſt without hope. His memory gave him back no image of the paſt; and having wandered ſome time, he came to a narrow paſs, which he entered, overcome with fatigue and fruitleſs ſearch: he had not advanced far, when an abrupt opening in the rock ſuddenly preſented him with a view of the moſt beautifully romantic ſpot he had ever ſeen. It was a valley almoſt ſurrounded by a barrier of wild rocks, whoſe baſe was ſhaded with thick woods of pine and fir. A torrent which tumbled from the heights, and was ſeen through the woods, ruſhed with amazing impetu⯑oſity into a fine lake which flowed through the vale, and was loſt in the deep receſſes of the mountains. Herds of cattle grazed in the bottom, and the delighted eyes of Oſbert were once more bleſſed with the ſight of human [11] dwellings. Far on the margin of the ſtream were ſcattered a few neat cot⯑tages. His heart was ſo gladdened at the proſpect, that he forgot he had yet the way to find which led to this Ely⯑ſian vale. He was juſt awakened to this diſtreſſing reality, when his attention was once more engaged by the manly figure of a young Highland peaſant, who advanced towards him with an air of benevolence, and, having learned his diſtreſs, offered to contact him to his cottage. Oſbert accepted the invita⯑tion, and they wound down the hill, through an obſcure and intricate path, together. They arrived at one of the cottages which the Earl had obſerved from the height; they entered, and the peaſant preſented his gueſt to a venera⯑ble old Highlander, his father. Refreſh⯑ments were ſpread on the table by a pretty young girl, and Oſbert after having partook of them and reſted awhile, departed, accompanied by Al⯑leyn, [12] the young peaſant, who had offered to be his guide. The length of the walk was beguiled by converſation. Oſbert was intereſted by diſcovering in his companion a dignity of thought, and a courſe of ſentiment ſimilar to his own. On their way, they paſſed at ſome diſtance the caſtle of Dunbayne. This object gave to Oſbert a bitter reflection, and drew from him a deep ſigh. Alleyn made obſervations on the bad policy of oppreſſion in a chief, and produced as an inſtance the Baron Malcolm. Theſe lands, ſaid he, are his, and they are ſcarcely ſufficient to ſupport his wretched people, who, ſinking under ſevere exactions, ſuffer to lie uncultivated, tracts which would otherwiſe yield riches to their Lord. His clan, oppreſſed by their burdens, threaten to riſe and do juſtice to them⯑ſelves by force of arms. The Baron, in haughty confidence, laughs at their defiance, and is inſenſible to his dan⯑ger; [13] for ſhould an inſurrection hap⯑pen, there are other clans who would eagerly join in his deſtruction, and puniſh with the ſame weapon the tyrant and the murderer. Surpriſed at the bold independence of theſe words, de⯑livered with uncommon energy, the heart of Oſbert beat quick, and "O God! my father!" burſt from his lips. Alleyn ſtood aghaſt! uncertain of the effect which his ſpeech had produced; in an inſtant the whole truth flaſhed into his mind: He beheld the ſon of the Lord whom he had been taught to love, and whoſe ſad ſtory had been impreſſed upon his heart in the early days of child⯑hood; he ſunk at his feet, and em⯑braced his knees with a romantic ardor. The young Earl raiſed him from the ground, and the following words relieved him from his aſtoniſhment, and filled his eyes with tears of mingled joy and ſorrow. "There are other clans as ready as your own to avenge the [14] wrongs of the noble Earl of Athlin; the Fitz-Henrys were ever friends to virtue." The countenance of the youth, while he ſpoke, was overſpread with the glow of conſcious dignity, and his eyes were animated with the pride of virtue. The breaſt of Oſbert kindled with the noble purpoſe, but the image of his weeping mother croſſed his mind, and checked the ardor of the impulſe. "A time may come, my friend," ſaid he, "when your generous zeal will be accepted with the warmth of gratitude it deſerves. Particular circumſtances will not ſuffer me, at preſent, to ſay more." The warm attachment of Al⯑leyn to his father ſunk deep in his heart.

It was evening ere they reached the caſtle, and Alleyn remained the Earl's gueſt for that night.

CHAPTER II.

THE following day was appointed for the celebration of an annual feſtival given by the Earl to his people, and he would not ſuffer Alleyn to de⯑part. The hall was ſpread with tables; and dance and merriment reſounded through the caſtle. It was uſual on that day for the clan to aſſemble in arms, on account of an attempt, the memory of which it was meant to per⯑petuate, made, two centuries before, by an hoſtile clan to ſurprize them in their feſtivity.

In the morning were performed the martial exerciſes, in which emulation was excited by the honorary rewards beſtowed on excellence. The Counteſs and her lovely daughter, beheld from the ramparts of the caſtle, the feats performed on the plains below. Their [16] attention was engaged, and their cu⯑rioſity excited by the appearance of a ſtranger, who managed the lance and the bow with ſuch exquiſite dexterity, as to bear off each prize of chivalry. It was Alleyn. He received the palm of victory, as was uſual, from the hands of the Earl; and the modeſt dignity with which he accepted it, charmed the beholders.

The Earl honoured the feaſt with his preſence, at the concluſion of which, each gueſt aroſe, and ſeizing his goblet with his left hand, and with his right ſtriking his ſword, drank to the memory of their departed Lord. The hall echoed with the general voice. Oſbert felt it ſtrike upon his heart the alarum of war. The people then joined hands, and drank to the honour of the ſon of their late maſter. Oſbert underſtood the ſignal, and overcome with emotion, every conſideration yielded to [17] that of avenging his father. He aroſe, and harangued the clan with all the fire of youth and of indignant virtue. As he ſpoke, the countenance of his people flaſhed with impatient joy; a deep mur⯑mur of applauſe ran through the aſſem⯑bly; and when he was ſilent, each man, croſſing his ſword with that of his neighbour, ſwore by that ſacred pledge of union, never to quit the cauſe in which they now engaged, till the life of their enemy had paid the debt of juſtice and of revenge.

In the evening, the wives and daugh⯑ters of the peaſantry came to the caſtle, and joined in the feſtivity. It was uſual for the Counteſs and her ladies to obſerve from a gallery of the hall, the various performances of dance and ſong; and it had been a cuſtom of old for the daughter of the caſtle to grace the oc⯑caſion by performing a Scotch dance with the victor of the morning. This [18] victor now was Alleyn, who beheld the lovely Mary led by the Earl into the hall, and preſented to him as his partner in the dance. She received his homage with a ſweet grace. She was dreſſed in the habit of a Highland laſs, and her fine auburn treſſes, which waved in her neck, were ornamented only with a wreath of roſes. She moved in the dance with the light ſteps of the Graces. Profound ſilence reigned through the hall during the performance, and a ſoft murmur of applauſe aroſe on its conclu⯑ſion. The admiration of the ſpectators was divided between Mary and the vic⯑torious ſtranger. She retired to the gallery, and the night concluded in joy to all but the Earl, and to Alleyn; but very different was the ſource and the complexion of their inquietude. The mind of Oſbert revolved the chief occurrences of the day, and his ſoul burned with impatience to accompliſh the purpoſes of filial piety; yet he [19] dreaded the effect which the communi⯑cation of his deſigns might have on the tender heart of Matilda: on the mor⯑row, however, he reſolved to acquaint her with them, and in a few days to riſe and proſecute his cauſe with arms.

Alleyn, whoſe boſom till now, had felt only for others' pains, began to be conſcious of his own. His mind uneaſy and reſtleſs, gave him only the image of the high-born Mary; he endea⯑voured to exclude her idea, but with an effort ſo faint, that it would ſtill intrude! Pleaſed, yet ſad, he would not acknowledge even to himſelf, that he loved; ſo ingenious are we to con⯑ceal every appearance of evil from our⯑ſelves. He aroſe with the dawn, and departed from the caſtle full of grati⯑tude and ſecret love, to prepare his friends for the approaching war.

The Earl awoke from broken ſlum⯑bers, [20] and ſummoned all his fortitude to encounter the tender oppoſition of his mother. He entered her apartment with faultering ſteps, and his counte⯑nance betrayed the emotions of his ſoul. Matilda was ſoon informed of what her heart had foreboded, and overcome with dreadful ſenſation, ſunk lifeleſs in her chair. Oſbert flew to her aſſiſtance, and Mary and the attendants ſoon recovered her to ſenſe and wretch⯑edneſs.

The mind of Oſbert was torn by the moſt cruel conſtict: filial duty, ho⯑nour, revenge commanded him to go; filial love, regret, and pity, entreated him to ſtay. Mary fell at his feet, and claſping his knees with all the wild energy of woe, beſought him to relin⯑quiſh his fatal purpoſe, and ſave his laſt ſurviving parent. Her tears, her ſighs, and the ſoft ſimplicity of her air, ſpoke a yet ſtronger language than [21] her tongue: but the ſilent grief of the Counteſs was ſtill more touching, and in his endeavours to ſooth her, he was on the point of yielding his reſolution, when the figure of his dying father aroſe to his imagination, and ſtamped his purpoſe irrevocably. The anxiety of a fond mother, preſented Matilda with the image of her ſon bleeding and ghaſtly; and the death of her Lord was revived in her memory with all the agonizing grief that ſad event had im⯑preſſed upon her heart, the harſher characters of which, the lenient hand of time had almoſt obliterated. So lovely is Pity in all her attitudes, that fondneſs prompts us to believe ſhe can never tranſgreſs; but the changes into a vice, when ſhe overcomes the purpoſes of ſtronger virtue. Sterner principles now nerved the breaſt of Oſbert againſt her influence, and impelled him on to deeds of arms. He ſummoned a few of the moſt able and truſty of the clan, and [22] held a council of war; in which it was reſolved that Malcolm ſhould be attacked with all the force they could aſſemble, and with all the ſpeed which the importance of the preparation would allow. To prevent ſuſpicion and alarm to the Baron, it was agreed it ſhould be given out, that theſe preparations were intended for aſſiſtance to a Chief of a diſtant part. That, when they ſet out on the expedition, they ſhould purſue, for ſome time, a contrary way, but under favour of the night ſhould ſud⯑denly change their route, and turn upon the caſtle of Dunbayne.

In the mean time, Alleyn was ſtre⯑nuous in exciting his friends to the cauſe, and ſo ſucceſsful in the under⯑taking, as to have collected, in a few days, a number of no inconſiderable conſequence. To the warm enthuſiaſm of virtue, was now added a new motive of exertion. It was no longer ſimply [23] an attachment to the cauſe of juſtice, which rouſed him to action; the pride of diſtinguiſhing himſelf in the eyes of his miſtreſs, and of deſerving her eſteem by his zealous ſervices, gave combined force to the firſt impulſe of benevolence. The ſweet thought of deſerving her thanks, operated ſecretly on his ſoul, for he was yet ignorant of its influence there. In this ſtate he again appeared at the caſtle, and told the Earl, that himſelf and his friends were ready to follow him whenever the ſignal ſhould be given. His offer was accepted with the warmth of kindneſs it claimed, and he was deſired to hold himſelf in readineſs for the onſet.

In a few days the preparations were completed, Alleyn and his friends were ſummoned, the clan aſſembled in arms, and with the young Earl at their head, departed on their expedition. The parting between Oſbert and his family [24] may be eaſily conceived; nor could all the pride of expected conqueſt ſup⯑preſs a ſigh which eſcaped from Alleyn when his eyes bade adieu to Mary, who, with the Counteſs, ſtood on the terrace of the caſtle, purſuing with aching ſight the march of her beloved brother, till diſtance veiled him from her view; ſhe then turned into the caſtle weeping, and foreboding future cala⯑mity. She endeavoured, however, to to aſſume an appearance of tranquil⯑lity, that ſhe might deceive the fears of Matilda, and ſooth her ſorrow. Ma⯑tilda, whoſe mind was ſtrong as her heart was tender, ſince ſhe could not prevent this hazardous undertaking, ſummoned all her fortitude to reſiſt the impreſſions of fruitleſs grief, and to ſearch for the good which the occa⯑ſion might preſent. Her efforts were not vain; ſhe found it in the proſpect which the enterprize afforded of honour to the memory of her murdered Lord, [25] and of retribution on the head of the murderer.

It was evening when the Earl de⯑parted from the caſtle; he purſued a contrary route till night favoured his deſigns, when he wheeled towards the caſtle of Dunbayne. The extreme darkneſs of the night aſſiſted their plan, which was to ſcale the walls, ſurprize the centinels, burſt their way into the inner courts ſword in hand, and force the murderer from his retreat. They had trod for many miles the dreary wilds, unaſſiſted by the leaſt gleam of light, when ſuddenly their ears were ſtruck with the diſmal note of a watch⯑bell, which chimed the hour of the night. Every heart beat to the ſound. They knew they were near the abode of the Baron. They halted to conſult concerning their proceedings, when it was agreed, that the Earl with Al⯑leyn and a chofen few, ſhould proceed [26] to reconnoitre the caſtle, while the reſt ſhould remain at a ſmall diſtance await⯑ing the ſignal of approach. The Earl and his party purſued their march with ſilent ſteps; they perceived a faint light which they gueſſed to proceed from the watch-tower of the caſtle, and they were now almoſt under its walls. They pauſed awhile in ſilence to give breath to expectation, and to listen if any thing was ſtirring. All was in⯑volved in the gloom of night, and the ſilence of death prevailed. They had now time to examine, as well as the darkneſs would permit, the ſitua⯑tion of the caſtle, and the height of the walls; and to prepare for the aſſault. The edifice was built with gothic mag⯑nificence upon a high and dangerous rock. Its lofty towers ſtill frowned in proud ſublimity, and the immenſity of the pile stood a record of the ancient conſequence of its poſſeſſors. The rock was ſurrounded by a ditch, broad, but [27] not deep, over which were two draw⯑bridges, one on the north ſide, the other on the eaſt; they were both up, but they ſeparated in the center, one half of the bridge remaining on the ſide of the plains. The bridge on the north led to the grand gateway of the caſtle; that on the eaſt to a ſmall watch-tower: theſe were all the en⯑trances. The rock was almoſt per⯑pendicular with the walls, which were ſtrong and lofty. After ſurveying the ſituation, they pitched upon a ſpot where the rock appeared moſt acceſſible, and which was contiguous to the principal gate, and gave ſignal to the clan. They approached in ſilence, and gently throwing down the bundles of fag⯑got, which they had brought for the purpoſe, into the ditch, made them⯑ſelves a bridge over which they paſſed in ſafety, and prepared to aſcend the heights. It had been reſolved that a party, of which Alleyn was one, ſhould [28] ſcale the walls, ſurprize the centinels, and open the gates to the reſt of the clan, which with the Earl, were to remain without. Alleyn was the firſt who fixed his ladder and mounted; he was inſtantly followed by the reſt of his party, and with much difficulty, and ſome hazard, they gained the ram⯑parts in ſafety. They traverſed a part of the platform without hearing the ſound of a voice or a ſtep; profound ſleep ſeemed to bury all. A number of the party approached ſome centinels who were aſleep on their poſt; them they ſeized; while Alleyn, with a few others, flew to open the neareſt gate, and to let down the drawbridge. This they accompliſhed; but in the mean time the ſignal of ſurprize was given, and inſtantly the alarm bell rang out, and the castle reſounded with the clang of arms. All was tumult and confu⯑ſion. The Earl with part of his peo⯑ple [29] entered the gate; the reſt were fol⯑lowing, when ſuddenly the portcullis was dropped, the bridge drawn up, and the Earl and his people found them⯑ſelves ſurrounded by an armed multi⯑tude which poured in torrents from every receſs of the caſtle. Surprized, but not daunted, the Earl ruſhed for⯑ward ſword in hand, and fought with a deſperate valour. The ſoul of Alleyn ſeemed to acquire new vigour from the conflict; he fought like a man panting for honour and certain of victory; wherever he ruſhed, conqueſt flew before him. He, with the Earl, forced his way into the inner courts in ſearch of the Baron, and hoped to have ſatisfied a juſt revenge, and to have concluded the conflict with the death of the murderer; but the moment in which they entered the courts, the gates were cloſed upon them; they were environed by a band of guards; and after a ſhort [30] reſiſtance, in which Alleyn received a ſlight wound, they were ſeized as pri⯑ſoners of war. The ſlaughter without was great and dreadful: the people of the Baron inſpired with fury, were inſatiate for death; many were killed in the courts, and on the platform; many, in attempting to eſcape, were thrown from the ramparts; and many were deſtroyed by the ſudden raiſing of the bridge. A ſmall part, only, of the brave and adventurous band who had engaged in the cauſe of juſtice, and who were driven back from the walls, ſurvived to carry the dreadful tidings to the Counteſs. The fate of the Earl remained unknown. The conſternation among the friends of the ſlain is not to be deſcribed, and it was heightened by the unaccountable manner in which the victory had been obtained; for it was well known that Malcolm had never, but when war made it neceſſary, more [31] ſoldiers in his garriſon than feudal pomp demanded; yet on this occaſion, a number of armed men ruſhed from the receſſes of his caſtle, ſufficient to overpower the force of a whole clan. But they knew not the ſecret means of intelligence which the Baron poſſeſſed; the jealouſy of conſcience had armed him with apprehenſion for his ſafety; and for ſome years he had planted ſpies near the caſtle of Athlin, to obſerve all that paſſed within it, and to give him immediate intelligence of every warlike preparation. A tranſaction ſo ſtriking, and ſo public as that which had oc⯑curred on the day of the feſtival, when the whole people ſwore to avenge the murder of their Chief, it was not pro⯑bable would eſcape the vigilant eye of his mercenaries: the incident had been communicated to him with all the aggravations of fear and wonder, and had given him the ſignal for defence. [32] The accounts ſent him of the military preparations which were forming, con⯑vinced him that this defence would soon be called for; and, laughing at the idle tales which were told him of diſtant wars, he haſtened to ſtore his garriſon with arms and with men, and held him⯑ſelf in readineſs to receive the aſſailants. The Baron had conducted his plans with all that power of contrivance which the ſecrecy of the buſineſs demanded; and it was his deſign to ſuffer the enemy to mount his walls, and to put them to the ſword, when the purpoſe of this deep-laid ſtratagem had been nearly defeated by the drowſineſs of the cen⯑tinels who were poſted to give ſignal of their approach.

The fortitude of Matilda fainted under the preſſure of ſo heavy a cala⯑mity; ſhe was attacked with a violent illness, which had nearly terminated [33] her ſorrows and her life; and had ren⯑dered unavailing all the tender cares of her daughter. Theſe tender cares, how⯑ever, were not ineffectual; ſhe revived, and they aſſiſted to ſupport her in the ſevere hours of affliction, which the unknown fate of the Earl occasioned. Mary, who felt all the horrors of the late event, was ill qualified for the poſt of a comforter; but her generous heart, ſuſceptible of the deep ſufferings of Matilda, almoſt forgot its own diſ⯑treſs in the remembrance of her mo⯑ther's. Yet the idea of her brother, ſurrounded with the horrors of im⯑priſonment and death, would often obtrude itſelf on her imagination, with an emphaſis which almoſt over-came her reaſon. She had alſo a ſtrong degree of pity for the fate of the brave young Highlander who had aſſiſted, with a diſintereſtedneſs ſo no⯑ble, in the cauſe of her houſe; ſhe [34] wiſhed to learn his further deſtiny, and her heart often melted in com⯑paſſion at the picture which her fancy drew of his ſufferings.

CHAPTER III.

The Earl, after being loaded with fetters, was conducted to the chief priſon of the caſtle, and left alone to the bitter reflections of defeat and uncertain deſtiny; but misfortune, though it might ſhake, could not over-come his firmneſs; and hope had not yet entirely forſaken him. It is the peculiar attribute of great minds, to bear up with increaſing force againſt the ſhock of misfortune; with them the nerves of reſiſtance ſtrengthen with attack; and they may be ſaid to ſub⯑due adverſity with her own weapons.

Reflection, at length, afforded him time to examine his priſon: it was a ſquare room, which formed the ſummit of a tower built on the eaſt ſide of the caſtle, round which the bleak winds howled mournfully; the inſide of the [36] apartment was old and falling to decay: a ſmall mattraſs, which lay in one cor⯑ner of the room, a broken matted chair, and a tottering table, compoſed its fur⯑niture; two ſmall and ſtrongly grated windows, which admitted a ſufficient degree of light and air, afforded him on one ſide a view into an inner court, and on the other a dreary proſpect of the wild and barren Highlands.

Alleyn was conveyed through dark and winding paſſages to a diſtant part of the caſtle, where at length a ſmall door, barred with iron, opened, and diſcloſed to him an abode, whence light and hope were equally excluded. He ſhuddered as he entered, and the door was cloſed upon him.

The mind of the Baron, in the mean time, was agitated with all the direful paſſions of hate, revenge, and exulting pride. He racked imagination for the [37] invention of tortures equal to the force of his feelings; and he at length diſco⯑verod that the ſufferings of ſuſpenſe are ſuperior to thoſe of the moſt terrible evils, when once aſcertained, of which the contemplation gradually affords to ſtrong minds the means of endurance. He determined, therefore, that the Earl ſhould remain confined in the tower, ignorant of his future deſtiny; and in the mean while ſhould be allowed food only ſufficient to keep him ſenſible of his wretchedneſs.

Oſbert was immerſed in thought, when he heard the door of his priſon unbarred, and the Baron Malcolm ſtood before him. The heart of Oſbert ſwelled high with indignation, and de⯑fiance flaſhed in his eyes. "I am come," ſaid the inſulting victor, "to welcome the Earl of Athlin to my caſtle; and to ſhew that I can receive my friends with the hoſpitality they deſerve; but I am [38] yet undetermined what kind of feſtival I ſhall beſtow on his arrival."

"Weak tyrant," returned Oſbert, his countenance impreſſed with the firm dignity of virtue, "to inſult the van⯑quiſhed, is congenial to die cruel mean⯑neſs of the murderer; nor do I expect, that the man who ſlew the father, will ſpare the ſon; but know, that ſon is nerved againſt your wrath, and wel⯑comes all that your fears or your cruelty can impoſe."

"Raſh youth," replied the Baron, "your words are air; they fade from ſenſe, and ſoon your boaſted ſtrength ſhall ſink beneath my power. I go to meditate your deſtiny." With theſe words he quitted the priſon, enraged at the unbending virtue of the Earl.

The ſight of the Baron, rouſed in the ſoul of Oſbert, all thoſe oppoſite emo⯑tions [39] of furious indignation and tender pity, which the glowing image of his ſather could excite, and produced a moment of perfect miſery. The dread⯑ful energy of theſe ſenſations exaſpe⯑rated his brain almoſt to madneſs; the cool fortitude in which he had ſo lately gloried, diſappeared; and he was on the point of reſigning his virtue and his life, by means of a ſhort dagger, which he wore concealed under his veſt, when the ſoft notes of a lute ſurpriſed his attention. It was accompanied by a voice ſo enchantingly tender and me⯑lodious, that its ſounds fell on the heart of Oſbert, in balmy comfort: it ſeemed ſent by Heaven to arreſt his fate:—the ſtorm of paſſion was huſhed within him, and he diſſolved in kind tears of pity and contrition. The mournful tenderneſs of the air, declared the per⯑son from whom it came to be a ſufferer; and Oſbert ſuſpected it to proceed from a priſoner like himſelf. The muſic [40] ceaſed. Abſorbed in wonder, he went to the grates in queſt of the ſweet muſi⯑cian, but no one was to be ſeen; and he was uncertain whether the ſounds aroſe from within or from without the caſtle. Of the guard, who brought him his ſmall allowance of food, he enquired concerning what he had heard; but from him he could not obtain the information he ſought, and he was con⯑ſtrained to remain in a ſtate of ſuſ⯑penſe.

In the mean time the caſtle of Ath⯑lin, and its neighbourhood was over⯑whelmed with diſtreſs. The news of the Earl's impriſonment at length reached the ears of the Counteſs, and hope once more illumined her mind. She imme⯑diately ſent offers of immenſe ranſom to the Baron, for the reſtoration of her ſon, and the other priſoners; but the ferocity of his nature diſdained an in⯑complete triumph. Revenge ſubdued [41] his avarice; and the offers were rejected with the ſpurn of contempt. An addi⯑tional motive, however, operated in his mind, and confirmed his purpoſe. The beauty of Mary had been often reporte to him in terms which excited his curi⯑oſity; and an accidental view he once obtained of her, raiſed a paſſion in his ſoul, which the turbulence of his cha⯑racter would not ſuffer to be extin⯑guiſhed. Various were the ſchemes he had projected to obtain her, none of which had ever been executed; the poſſeſion of the Earl, was a circum⯑ſtance the moſt favourable to his wiſhes; and he reſolved to obtain Mary, as the future ranſom of her brother. He con⯑cealed, for the preſent, his purpoſe, that the tortures of anxiety and deſpair might operate on the mind of the Coun⯑tess, to grant him an eaſy conſent to the exchange, and to reſign the victim the wife of her enemy.

[42] The ſmall remains of the clan, un⯑ſubdued by misfortune, were eager to aſſemble; and, hazardous as was the enterprize, to attempt the reſcue of their Chief. The hope which this un⯑dertaking afforded, once more revived the Counteſs; but alas! a new ſource of ſorrow was now opened for her: the health of Mary viſibly declined; ſhe was ſilent and penſive; her tender frame was but too ſuſceptible of the ſufferings of her mind; and theſe ſuffer⯑ings were heightened by concealment. She was ordered amuſement and gen⯑tle exerciſe, as the beſt reſtoratives of peace and health. One day, as ſhe was ſeeking on horſeback theſe loſt trea⯑ſures, ſhe was tempted by the fine⯑neſs of the evening to prolong her ride beyond its uſual limits; the ſun was declining when ſhe entered a wood, whoſe awful glooms ſo well accorded with the penſive tone of her mind. The ſoft ſerenity of evening, and the ſtill [43] ſolemity of the ſcene, conſpired to lull her mind into a pleaſing forgetfulneſs of its troubles; from which ſhe was, ere long, awakened, by the approaching ſound of horſes' feet. The thickneſs of the ſoliage limited her view; but look⯑ing onward, ſhe thought ſhe perceived through the trees, a glittering of arms; ſhe turned her palfrey, and ſought the entrance of the wood. The clattering of hoofs advanced in the breeze; her heart miſgave her, and ſhe quickened her pace. Her fears were ſoon juſtified; ſhe looked back, and beheld three horſemen, armed and diſguiſed, ad⯑vancing with the ſpeed of purſuit. Almoſt fainting, ſhe flew on the wings of terror; all her efforts were vain; the villains came up; one ſeized her horſe, the others fell upon her two attendants: a ſtout ſcuffle enſued, but the ſtrength of her ſervants ſoon yielded to the weapons of their adverſaries; they were brought to the ground, dragged into the wood, and [44] there left bound to the trees. In the mean time, Mary, who had fainted in the arms of the villain who ſeized her, was borne away through the intricate mazes of the woods; and her terrors may be eaſily imagined, when ſhe revived, and found herſelf in the hands of unknown men. Her dreadful ſcreams, her tears, her ſupplications, were ineffectual; the wretches were deaf alike to pity and to enquiry; they preſerved an inſlexible ſilence, and ſhe ſaw herſelf conveying towards the mouth of a horrible cavern, when deſpair ſeized her mind, and ſhe loſt all ſigns of exiſtence: in this ſtate ſhe remained ſome time; but it is im⯑poſſible to deſcribe her ſituation, when ſhe uncloſed her eyes, and beheld Al⯑leyn, who was watching with the moſt trembling anxiety her return to life, and whoſe eyes, on ſeeing her revive, ſwam in joy and tenderneſs. Wonder, fearful joy, and the various ſhades of mingled emotions, paſſed in quick ſuc⯑ceſſion [45] over her countenance; her ſur⯑prize was increaſed, when ſhe obſerved her own ſervants ſtanding by, and could diſcover no one but friends. She ſcarcely dared to truſt her ſenſes, but the voice of Alleyn, tremulous with tenderneſs, diſſolved in a moment the illuſions of fear, and confirmed her in the ſurpriſing reality. When ſhe was ſufficiently recovered, they quitted this ſcene of gloom; they travelled on in a ſlow pace, and the ſhades of night were fallen long before they reached the caſtle; there diſtreſs and confuſion ap⯑peared. The Counteſs, alarmed with the moſt dreadful apprehenſions, had diſpatched her ſervants various ways in ſearch of her child, and her tranſports on again beholding her in ſafety, pre⯑vented her obſerving immediately that it was Alleyn who accompanied her. Joy, however, ſoon yielded to its equal wonder, when ſhe perceived him, and in the tumult of contending emotions, [46] ſhe ſcarce knew which firſt to interro⯑gate. When ſhe had been told the eſcape of her daughter, and by whom effected, ſhe prepared to hear with im⯑patient ſolicitude, news of her beloved ſon, and the means by which the brave young Highlander had eluded the vigi⯑lance of the Baron. Of the Earl, Al⯑leyn could only inform the Counteſs, that he was taken priſoner with himſelf, within the walls of the fortreſs, as they fought ſide by ſide; that he was con⯑ducted, unwounded, to a tower, ſituated on the eaſt angle of the caſtle, where he was ſtill confined. Himſelf had been impriſoned in a diſtant part of the pile, and had been able to collect no other particulars of the Earl's ſituation, than thoſe he had related. Of himſelf, he gave a brief relation of the following circumſtances:

After having lain ſome weeks in the horrible dungeon allotted him, his [47] mind involved in the gloom of deſpair, and filled with the momentary expecta⯑tion of death, deſperation furniſhed him with invention, and he concerted the following plan of eſcape:—He had ob⯑ſerved, that the guard who brought him his allowance of food, on quitting the dungeon, conſtantly ſounded his ſpear againſt: the pavement near the en⯑trance. This circumſtance excited his ſurprize and curioſity. A ray of hope beamed through the gloom of his dun⯑geon. He examined the ſpot, as well as the obſcurity of the place would per⯑mit; it was paved with flag ſtones like the other parts of the cell, and the paving was every where equally firm. He, however, became certain, that ſome means of eſcape was concealed beneath that part, for the guard was conſtant in examining it by ſtriking that ſpot, and treading more firmly on it; and this he endeavoured to do without being ob⯑ſerved. One day, immediately after [48] the departure of the guard, Alleyn ſet himſelf to unfaſten the pavement; this, with much patience and induſtry, he effected, by means of a ſmall knife which had eſcaped the ſearch of the ſoldiers. He found the earth beneath hard, and without any ſymtoms of being lately diſturbed; but after digging a few feet, he arrived at a trap door; he trembled with eagerneſs. It was now almoſt night, and he was overcome with wearineſs; he doubted whether he ſhould be able to penetrate through the door, and what other obſtructions were behind it, before the next day. He therefore, threw the earth again into the hole, and endeavoured to cloſe the pavement; with much difficulty, he trod the earth into the opening, but the pavement he was unable exactly to replace. It was too dark to examine the ſtones; and he found, that even if he ſhould be able to make them fit, the pavement could not be made firm. His mind and body [49] were now overcome, and he threw him⯑ſelf on the ground in an agony of de⯑ſpair. It was midnight, when the re⯑turn of his ſtrength and ſpirits produced another effort. He tore the earth up with haſty violence, cut round the lock of the trap door, and railing it, unwil⯑ling to heſitate or conſider, ſprung through the aperture. The vault was of conſiderable depth, and he was thrown down by the violence of the fall: an hollow echo, which ſeemed to murmur at a diſtance, convinced him that the place was of conſiderable ex⯑tent. He had no light to direct him, and was therefore, obliged to walk with his arms extended, in ſilent and fearful examination. After having wandered through the void a conſiderable time, he came to a wall, along which he groped with anxious care; it conducted him onward for a length of way; it turned; he followed, and his hand touched the cold iron work of a barred window. [50] He felt the gentle undulation of the air upon his face; and to him who had been ſo long confined among the damp va⯑pours of a dungeon, this was a moment of luxury. The air gave him ſtrength; and the means of eſcape, which now ſeemed preſented to him, renewed his courage. He ſet his foot againſt the wall, and graſping a bar with his hand, found it gradually yield to his ſtrength, and by ſucceſſive efforts, he entirely diſ⯑placed it. He attempted another, but it was more firmly fixed, and every effort to looſen it was ineffectual; he found that it was faſtened in a large ſtone of the wall, and that to remove this ſtone, was his only means of diſ⯑placing the bar; he ſet himſelf, there⯑fore, again to work with his knife, and with much patience, looſened the mor⯑tar ſufficiently to effect his purpoſe. After ſome hours, for the darkneſs made his labour tedious, and ſometimes inef⯑fectual, he had removed ſeveral of the [51] bars, and had made an opening almoſt ſufficient to permit his eſcape, when the dawn of light appeared; he now diſ⯑covered, with inexpreſſible anguiſh, that the grate opened into an inner court of the caſtle, and even while he heſitated, he could perceive ſoldiers deſcending ſlowly into the court, from the narrow ſtaircaſes which led to their apartments. His heart ſickened at the ſight. He reſted againſt the wall in a pauſe of deſpair, and was on the point of ſpring⯑ing into the court, to make a deſperate effort at eſcape, or die in the attempt, when he perceived by the increaſing light which fell acroſs the vault, a maſſy door in the oppoſite wall; he ran to⯑wards it, and endeavoured to open it; it was faſtened by a lock and ſeveral bolts. He ſtruck againſt it with his foot, and the hollow ſound which was returned, convinced him that there were vaults beyond; and by the direction of theſe [52] vaults, he was certain that they muſt extend to the outer walls of the caſtle; if he could gain theſe vaults, and pene⯑trate beyond them in the darkneſs of the enſuing night, it would be eaſy to leap the wall, and croſs the ditch; but it was impoſſible to cut away the lock, before the return of his guard, who re⯑gularly viſited the cell ſoon after the dawn of day. After ſome conſideration, therefore, he determined to ſecrete him⯑ſelf in a dark part of the vault, and there await the entrance of the guard, who on obſerving the deranged bars of the grate, would conclude, that he had eſcaped through the aperture. He had ſcarcely placed himſelf according to his plan, when he heard the door of the dungeon unbolted; this was inſtantly fol⯑lowed by a loud voice, which ſounded down the opening, and "Alleyn" was ſhouted in a tone of fright and conſter⯑nation. After repeating the call, a man jumped into the vault. Alleyn, though [53] himſelf concealed in darkneſs, could perceive, by the faint light which fell upon the ſpot, a ſoldier with a drawn ſword in his hand. He approached the grate with execrations, examined it, and proceeded to the door; it was faſt; he returned to the grate, and then pro⯑ceeded along the walls, tracing them with the point of his ſword. He at length approached the ſpot where Al⯑leyn was concealed, who felt the ſword ſtrike upon his arm, and inſtantly graſp⯑ing the hand which held it, the weapon fell to the ground. A ſhort ſcuffle en⯑ſued; Alleyn threw down his adverſary, and ſtanding over him, ſeized the ſword, and preſented it to his breaſt; the ſoldier called for mercy. Alleyn, always unwil⯑ling to take the life of another, and con⯑ſidering that if the ſoldier was ſlain, his comrades would certainly follow to the vault, returned him his ſword. "Take your life," ſaid he, "your death can avail me nothing;—take it, and if you [54] can, go tell Malcolm, that an innocent man has endeavoured to eſcape deſtruc⯑tion." The guard, ſtruck with his con⯑duct, aroſe from the ground in ſilence, he received his ſword, and followed Al⯑leyn to the trap door. They returned into the dungeon, where Alleyn was once more left alone. The ſoldier, un⯑determined how to act, went to find his comrades; on the way he met Malcolm, who, ever reſtleſs and vigilant, fre⯑quently walked the ramparts at an early hour. He enquired if all was well. The ſoldier, fearful of diſcovery, and unaccuſtomed to diſſemble, heſitated at the queſtion; and the ſtern air aſſumed by Malcolm, compelled him to relate what had happened. The Baron, with much harſhneſs, reprobated his neglect, and immediately followed him to the dungeon, where he loaded Alleyn with inſult. He examined the cell, deſcended into the vault, and returning to the dungeon, ſtood by, while a chain, which [55] had been fetched from a diſtant part of the caſtle, was fixed into the wall;—to this Alleyn was faſtened. "We will not long confine you thus," ſaid Mal⯑colm, as he quitted the cell, "a ſew days ſhall reſtore you to the liberty you are ſo fond of; but as a conqueror ought to have ſpectators of his triumph, you muſt wait till a number is collected ſufficient to witneſs the death of ſo great an hero." "I diſdain your inſults," returned Alleyn, "and am equally able to ſupport misfortune, and to deſpiſe a tyrant." Malcolm retired, enraged at the boldneſs of his priſoner, and utter⯑ing menaces on the careleſſneſs of the guard, who vainly endeavoured to juſ⯑tify himſelf. "His ſafety be upon your head," ſaid the Baron. The ſoldier was ſhocked, and turned away in ſullen ſilence. Dread of his priſoners eftect⯑ing an eſcape, now ſeized his mind; the words of Malcolm filled him with reſentment, while gratitude towards [56] Alleyn, for the life he had ſpared, ope⯑rated with theſe ſentiments, and he he⯑ſitated whether he ſhould obey the Ba⯑ron, or deliver Alleyn, and fly his op⯑preſſor. At noon, he carried him his cuſtomary food; Alleyn was not ſo loſt in miſery, but that he obſerved the gloom which hung upon his features; his heart foreboded impending evil: the ſoldier bore on his tongue the ſen⯑tence of death. He told Alleyn, that the Baron had appointed the following day for his execution; and his people were ordered to attend. Death, how⯑ever long contemplated, muſt he dread⯑ful when it arrives; this was no more than what Alleyn had expected, and on what he had brought his mind to gaze without terror; but his fortitude now ſunk before its immediate preſence, and every nerve of his frame thrilled with agony. "Be comforted," ſaid the ſol⯑dier, in a tone of pity, "I, too, am no ſtranger to miſery; and if you are wil⯑ling [57] to riſque the danger of double torture, I will attempt to releaſe both you and myſelf from the hands of a tyrant." At theſe words, Alleyn ſtarted from the ground in a tranſport of de⯑lightful wonder: "Tell me not of torture," cried he, "all tortures are equal if death is the end, and from death 1 may now eſcape; lead me but beyond theſe walls, and the ſmall poſ⯑ſeſſions I have, ſhall be your's for ever." "I want them not," replied the gene⯑rous ſoldier, "it is enough for me, that I ſave a fellow-creature from deſtruc⯑tion." Theſe words overpowered the heart of Alleyn, and tears of gratitude ſwelled in his eyes. Edric told him, that the door he had ſeen in the vault below, opened into a chain of vaults, which ſtretched beyond the wall of the caſtle, and communicated with a ſubterraneous way, anciently formed as a retreat from the fortreſs, and which terminated in the cavern of a foreſt at ſome diſtance. [58] If this door could be opened, their eſcape was almoſt certain. They con⯑ſulted on the meaſures neceſſary to be taken. The ſoldier gave Alleyn a knife larger than the one he had, and directed him to cut round the lock, which was all that with-held their paſ⯑ſage. Edric's office of centinel, was propitious to their ſcheme, and it was agreed that at midnight they ſhould deſcend the vaults. Edric, after hav⯑ing unfaſtened the chain, left the cell, and Alleyn ſet himſelf again to remove the pavement, which had been already re-placed by order of the Baron. The near proſpect of deliverance now glad⯑dened his ſpirits; his knife was better formed for his purpoſe; and he worked with alacrity and eaſe. He arrived at the trap door, and once more leaped into the vault. He applied himſelf to the lock of the door, which was extremely thick, and it was with difficulty he ſepa⯑rated them; with trembling hands he [59] the bolts, the door uncloſed, and diſco⯑vered to him the vaults. It was even⯑ing when he finiſhed his work: He was but juſt returned to the dungeon, and had thrown himſelf on the ground to reſt, when the ſound of a diſtant ſtep-caught his ear; he liſtened to its ad⯑vance with trembling eagerneſs. At length the door was unbolted; Alleyn breathleſs with expectation, ſtarted up, and beheld not his ſoldier, but another; the opening was again diſcovered, and all was now over. The ſoldier brought a pitcher of water, and caſting round the place a look, of ſullen ſcrutiny, de⯑parted in ſilence. The ſtretch of human endurance was now exceeded, and Al⯑leyn ſunk dawn in a ſtate of torpidity. On recovering, he found himſelf again enveloped in the horrors of darkneſs, ſilence, and deſpair. Yet amid all his ſufferings, he diſdained to doubt the in⯑tegrity of his ſoldier: we naturally re⯑coil from painful ſenſations, and it is [60] one of the moſt exquiſite tortures of a noble mind, to doubt the ſincerity of thoſe in whom it has confided. Alleyn concluded, that the converſation of the morning had been overheard, and that this guard had been ſent to examine the cell, and to watch his movements. He believed that Edric was now, by his own generoſity, involved in deſtruction; and in the energy of this thought, he forgot for a moment his own ſituation.

Midnight came, but Edric did not appear; his doubts were now con⯑firmed into certainty, and he reſigned himſelf to the horrid tranquillity of mute deſpair. He heard from a diſ⯑tance, the clock of the caſtle ſtrike one; it ſeemed to ſound the knell of death; it rouſed his benumbed ſenſes, and he roſe from the ground in an agony of acuteſt recollection. Suddenly he heard the ſteps of two perſons advancing down the avenue; he ſtarted, and liſ⯑tened. [61] Malcolm and murder, aroſe to his mind; he doubted not that the ſoldier had reported what he had ſeen in the evening, and that the perſons whom he now heard, were coming to execute the final orders of the Baron. They now drew near the dungeon, when ſud⯑denly he remembered the door in the vault. His ſenſes had been ſo ſtunned by the appearance of the ſtranger, and his mind ſo occupied with a feeling of deſpair, as to exclude every idea of eſcape; and in the energy of his ſuffer⯑ings he had forgot this laſt reſource; it now flaſhed like lightning upon his mind; he ſprung to the trap door, and his feet had ſcarcely touched the bot⯑tom of the vault, when he heard the bolts of the dungeon undraw; he had juſt reached the entrance of the inner vault, when a voice founded from above; he pauſed, and knew it to be Edric's; apprehenſion ſo entirely poſſeſſed his mind, that he heſitated whether he [62] ſhould diſcover himſelf, but a moment of recollection diſſipated every ignoble ſuſpicion of Edric's fidelity, and he an⯑ſwered the call. Immediately Edric deſcended, followed by the ſoldier whoſe former appearance had filled Al⯑leyn with deſpair, and whom Edric now introduced as his faithful friend and comrade, who like himſelf, was weary of the oppreſſion of Malcolm, and who had reſolved to fly with them, and eſcape his rigour. This was a mo⯑ment of happineſs too great for thought! Alleyn, in the confuſion of his joy, and in his impatience to ſeize the mo⯑ment of deliverance, ſcarcely heard the words of Edric. Edric having returned to faſten the door of the dungeon, to delay purſuit, and given Alleyn a ſword which he had brought for him, led the way through the vaults. The profound ſilence of the place, was interrupted only by the echoes of their footſteps, which running through the dreary [63] chaſms in confuſed whiſperings, filled their imaginations with terror. In tra⯑verſing theſe gloomy and deſolate re⯑ceſſes, they often pauſed to liſten, and often did their fears give them the diſ⯑tant ſounds of purſuit. On quitting the vaults, they entered an avenue, winding, and of conſiderable length, from whence branched ſeveral paſſages into the rock; it was cloſed by a low and narrow door, which opened upon a flight of ſteps, that led to the ſubterra⯑neous way under the ditch of the caſtle. Edric knew the intricacies of the place: they entered, and cloſing the door, be⯑gan to deſcend, when the lamp which Edric carried in his hand was blown out by the current of the wind, and they were left in total darkneſs. Their feelings may be more eaſily imagined than expreſſed; they had, however, no way but to proceed, and grope with cautious ſteps the dark abyſs. Having continued to deſcend for ſome time, [64] their feet reached the bottom, and they found themſelves once more on even ground; but Edric knew they had yet another flight to encounter, before they could gain the ſubterraneous paſſage under the foſſé, and for which it re⯑quired their utmoſt caution to ſearch. They were proceeding with flow and wary ſteps, when the foot of Alleyn ſtumbled upon ſomething which clat⯑tered like broken armour, and endea⯑vouring to throw it from him, he felt the weight reſiſt his effort: he ſtooped to diſcover what it was, and found in his graſp the cold hand of a dead per⯑ſon. Every nerve thrilled with horror at the touch, and he ſtarted back in an agony of terror. They remained for ſome time in ſilent diſmay, unable to return, yet fearful to proceed, when a faint light which ſeemed to iſſue from the bottom of the laſt: deſcent, gleamed upon the walls, and diſcovered to them the ſecond ſtaircaſe, and at their feet [65] the pale and disfigured corpſe of a man in armour, while at a diſtance they could diſtinguiſh the figures of men. At this ſight their hearts died within them, and they gave themſelves up for loſt. They doubted not but the men whom they ſaw were the murderers; that they belonged to the Baron; and were in ſearch of ſome fugitives from the caſtle. Their only chance of con⯑cealment was to remain where they were; but the light appeared to ad⯑vance, and the faces of the men to turn towards them. Winged with terror, they ſought the firſt aſcent, and flying up the ſteps, reached the door, which they endeavoured to open, that they might hide themſelves from purſuit among the intricacies of the rock; their efforts, however, were vain, for the door was faſtened by a ſpring lock, and the key was on the other ſide; com⯑pelled to give breath to their fears, they ventured to look back, and found them⯑ſelves [66] again in total darkneſs; they pauſed upon the ſteps, and liſtening, all was ſilent. They reſted here a conſi⯑derable time; no footſteps ſtartled them; no ray of light darted through the gloom; everything ſeemed huſhed in the ſilence of death: they reſolved once more to venture forward; they gained again the bottom of the firſt de⯑ſcent, and ſhuddering as they ap⯑proached the ſpot where they knew the corpſe was laid, they groped to avoid its horrid touch, when ſuddenly the light again appeared, and in the ſame place wnere they had firſt ſeen it. They ſtood petrified with deſpair. The light, however, moved ſlowly onward, and diſappeared in the windings of the ave⯑nue. After remaining a long time in ſilent ſuſpenſe, and finding no further obſtacle, they ventured to proceed. The light had diſcovered to them their ſitu⯑ation, and the ſtaircaſe, and they now moved with greater certainty. They [67] reached the bottom in ſafety, and with⯑out any fearful interruption; they liſ⯑tened, and again the ſilence of the place was undiſturbed. Edric knew they were now under the foſſé, their way was plain before them, and their hopes were renewed in the belief, that the light and the people they had ſeen, had taken a different direction, Ed⯑ric knowing there were various paſ⯑ſages branching from the main avenue which led to different openings in the rock. They now ſtepped on with ala⯑crity, the proſpect of deliverance was near, for Edric judged they were now not far from the cavern; an abrupt turning in the paſſage confirmed at once this ſuppoſition, and extinguiſhed the hope which had attended it; for the light of a lamp burſt ſuddenly upon them, and exhibited to their ſickening eyes, the figures of four men in an atti⯑tude of menace, with their ſwords pointed ready to receive them. Alleyn [68] drew his ſword and advanced, "We will die hardly," cried he. At the ſound of his voice, the weapons inſtantly dropped from the hands of his adverſa⯑ries, and they advanced to meet hin in a tranſport of joy. Alleyn recognized with aſtoniſhment, in the faces of the three ſtrangers, his faithful friends and followers; and Edric in that of the fourth, a fellow ſoldier. The ſame pur⯑poſe had aſſembled them all in the ſame ſpot. They quitted the cave to⯑gether; and Alleyn in the joyful expe⯑rience of unexpected deliverance, re⯑ſolved never more to admit deſpair. They concluded, that the body which they had paſſed in the avenue, was that of ſome perſon who had periſhed either by hunger or by the ſword in thoſe ſub⯑terranean labyrinths.

They marched in company till they came within a few miles of the caſtle of Athlin, when Alleyn made known his [69] deſign of collecting his friends, and joining the clan in an attempt to re⯑leaſe the Earl; Edric, and the other ſoldier, having ſolemnly inliſted in the cauſe, they parted; Alleyn and Edric purſuing the road to the caſtle, and the others ſtriking off to a different part of the country. Alleyn and Edric had not proceeded far, when the groans of the wounded ſervants of Matilda drew them to the wood, in which the preceding dreadful ſcene had been acted. The ſurprize of Alleyn was extreme, when he diſcovered the ſervants of the Earl in this ſituation; but ſurprize ſoon yielded to a more poignant ſenſation, when he heard that Mary had been car⯑ried off by armed men. He ſcarcely waited to releaſe the ſervants, but ſeiz⯑ing one of their horſes which was graz⯑ing near, inſtantly mounted, ordering the reſt to follow, and took the way which had been pointed as the courſe of the raviſhers. Fortunately it was the [70] right direction; and Alleyn and the ſoldier came up with them as they were haſtening to the mouth of that cavern, whoſe frightful aſpect had chilled the heart of Mary with a temporary death. Their endeavours to fly were vain; they were overtaken at the entrance; a ſharp conflict enſued, in which one of the ruffians was wounded and ſled; his com⯑rades ſeeing the ſervants of the Earl ap⯑proaching, relinquiſhed their prize, and eſcaped through the receſſes of the cave. The eyes of Alleyn were now fixed in horror on the lifeleſs form of Mary, who had remained inſenſible during the whole of the affray; he was exerting every effort for her recovery, when ſhe uncloſed her eyes, and joy once move illumined his ſoul.

During the recital of theſe particu⯑lars, which Alleyn delivered with a mo⯑deſt brevity, the mind of Mary had ſuf⯑fered a variety of emotions ſympathetic [71] to all the viciſſitudes of his ſituation. She endeavoured to conceal from herſelf the particular intereſt ſhe felt in his ad⯑ventures, but ſo unequal were her ef⯑forts to the ſtrength of her emotions, that when Alleyn related the ſcene of Dunbayne cavern, her cheek grew pale, and ſhe relapſed into a fainting fit. This circumſtance alarmed the penetra⯑tion of the Counteſs; but the known weakneſs of her daughter's frame ap⯑peared a probable cauſe of the diſorder, and repreſſed her firſt apprehenſion. It gave to Alleyn a mixed delight of hope and fear, ſuch as he had never known before; for the firſt time he dared to acknowledge to his own heart that he loved, and that heart for the firſt time thrilled with the hope of being loved again.

He received from the Counteſs, the warm over-flowings of a heart grateful for the preſervation of its child, and [72] from Mary a bluſh which ſpoke more than her tongue could utter. But the minds of all were involved in the ut⯑moſt perplexity concerning the rank and the identity of the author of the plan, nor could they diſcover any clue which would lead them through this in⯑tricate maze of wonder, to the villain who had fabricated ſo diabolical a ſcheme. Their ſuſpicions, at length, reſted upon the Baron Malcolm, and this ſuppoſition was confirmed by the appearance of the horſemen, who evi⯑dently acted only as the agents of ſupe⯑rior power. Their conjectures were indeed juſt. Malcolm was the author of the ſcheme. It had been planned, and he had given orders to his people to execute it long before the Earl fell into his hands. They had, however, found no opportunity of accompliſhing the deſign when the caſtle was ſurprized, and in the conſequent tumult of his [73] mind, the Baron had forgot to with⯑draw his orders.

Alleyn expreſſed his deſign of col⯑lecting the ſmall remnant of his friends, and uniting with the clan in attempting the reſcue of the Earl. "Noble youth," exclaimed the Counteſs, unable longer to repreſs her admiration, "how can I ever repay your generous ſervices! Am I then to receive both my children at your hands? Go—my clan are now col⯑lecting for a ſecond attempt upon the walls of Dunbayne,—go! lead them to conqueſt, and reſtore to me my ſon." The languid eyes of Mary re-kindled at theſe words, ſhe glowed with the hope of claſping once more to her bo⯑ſom her long loſt brother; but the ſuf⯑fuſions of hope were ſoon chaced by the chilly touch of fear, for it was Alleyn who was to lead the enterprize, and it was Alleyn who might fall in the at⯑tempt. Theſe contrary emotions un⯑veiled [74] to her at once the ſtate of her affections, and ſhe ſaw in the eye of fancy, the long train of inquietudes and ſorrows which were likely to enſue. She ſought to obliterate from her mind every remembrance of the paſt, and of the fatal knowledge which was now diſcloſed to her, but ſhe ſought in vain, for the monitor in her breaſt conſtantly preſented to her mind the image of Al⯑leyn, adorned with thoſe brave and man⯑ly virtues which had ſo eminently diſ⯑tinguiſhed his conduct; the inſignifi⯑cance of the peaſant was loſt in the no⯑bility of the character, and every effort at forgetfulneſs was baffled.

Alleyn paſſed that night at the caſtle, and the next morning, after taking leave of the Counteſs and her daughter, to whom his eyes bade a reſpectful and mournful adieu, he departed with Edric, for his father's cottage, impatient to acquaint the good old man with his [75] ſafety, and to rouſe to arms his ſlum⯑bering friends. The breath of love had now raiſed into flame thoſe ſparks of ambition which had ſo long been kindling in his breaſt; he was not only eager to avenge the cauſe of injured virtue, and to reſcue from mi⯑ſery and death, the ſon of the Chief whom he had been ever taught to reve⯑rence, but he panted to avenge the inſult offered to his miſtreſs, and to atchieve ſome deed of valour worthy her admiration and her thanks.

Alleyn found his father at break⯑faſt, with his niece at his ſide; his face was darkened with ſorrow, and he did not perceive Alleyn when he entered. The joy of the old man almoſt overcame him, when he be⯑held his ſon in ſafety, for he was the ſolace of his declining years; and Edric was welcomed with the heartineſs of an old friend.

CHAPTER IV.

MEANWHILE the Earl remained a ſolitary priſoner in the tower; uncertain fate was yet ſuſpended over him; he had, however, a magnanimity in his nature which baffled much of the cruel effort of the Baron. He had pre⯑pared his mind by habitual contempla⯑tion for the worſt, and although that worſt was death, he could now look to it even with ſerenity. Thoſe violent tranſports which had aſſailed him on ſight of the Baron, were, ſince he was no longer ſubject to his preſence, re⯑duced within their proper limits; yet he anxiouſly avoided dwelling on the memory of his father, left thoſe dread⯑ful ſenſations ſhould threaten him with returning torture. Whenever he per⯑mitted himſelf to think of the ſufferings of the Counteſs and his ſiſter, his heart [77] melted with a ſorrow that almoſt un⯑nerved him; much he wiſhed to know how they ſupported this trial, and much he wiſhed that he could convey to them intelligence of his ſtate. He endea⯑voured to abſtract his mind from his ſituation, and ſought to make himſelf artificial comforts even from the barren objects around him; his chief amuſe⯑ment was in obſerving the manners and cuſtoms of the birds of prey which lodged themſelves in the battlements of his tower, and the rapacity of their na⯑ture furniſhed him with too juſt a paral⯑lel to the habits of men.

As he was one day ſtanding at the grate which looked upon the caſtle, obſerving the progreſs of theſe birds, his ear caught the ſound of that ſweet lute whoſe notes had once ſaved him from destruction; it was accompanied by the ſame melodious voice he had formerly heard, and which now ſung [78] with impaſſioned tenderneſs the follow⯑ing air:

Loſt in ſurprize, Oſbert ſtood for ſome time looking down upon an inner court, whence the ſounds ſeemed to ariſe; after a few minutes he obſerved [79] a young lady enter from that ſide on which the tower aroſe, on her arm reſted an elder one, in whoſe face might be traced the lines of decaying beauty, but it was viſible from the melancholy which clouded her features, that the finger of affliction had there anticipated the ravages of time. She was dreſſed in the habit of a widow, and the black veil which ſhaded her forehead, and gave a fine expreſſion to her counte⯑tenance, devolved upon the ground in a length of train, and heightened the na⯑tural majeſty of her figure; ſhe moved with ſlow ſteps, and was ſupported by the young lady whoſe veil half diſcloſed a countenance where beauty was touched with ſorrow and inimitable expreſſion; the elegance of her form, and the dig⯑nity of her air, proclaimed her to be of diſtinguiſhed rank. On her arm was hung that lute, whoſe melody had juſt charmed the attention of the Earl, who was now fixed in wonder at what he [80] beheld, that was equalled only by his admiration. They retired through a gate on the oppoſite ſide of the court, and were ſeen no more. Oſbert fol⯑lowed them with his eyes, which for ſome time remained fixed upon the door through which they had diſap⯑peared, almoſt inſenſible of their de⯑parture. When he returned to himſelf, he diſcovered, as if for the firſt time, that he was in ſolitude. He conjectured that theſe ſtrangers were confined by the oppreſſive power of the Baron, and his eyes were ſuffuſed with tears of pity. When he conſidered that ſo much beau⯑ty and dignity were the unreſiſting vic⯑tims of a tyrant, his heart ſwelled high with indignation, his priſon became in⯑tolerable to him, and he longed to be⯑come at once the champion of virtue, and the deliverer of oppreſſed innocence. The character of Malcolm aroſe to his mind black with accumulated guilt, and aggravated the deteſtation with [81] which he had ever contemplated it: the hateful idea nerved his ſoul with a confidence of revenge. Of the guard, who entered, he enquired concerning the ſtrangers, but could obtain no poſi⯑tive anſwer; he came to impart other news; to prepare the Earl for death; for the morrow was appointed for his execution. He received the intelli⯑gence with the firm hardihood of indig⯑nant virtue, diſdaining to ſolicit, and diſdaining to repine; and his mind yet graſped the idea of revenge. He drove from his thoughts with precipitation, the tender idea of his mother and ſiſter; remembrances which would ſubdue his fortitude, without effecting any benefi⯑cial purpoſe. He was told of the eſcape of Alleyn; this intelligence gave him inexpreſſible pleaſure, and he knew this faithful youth would undertake to avenge his death.

When the news of Alleyn's flight [82] had reached the Baron, his ſoul was ſtung with rage, and he called for the guards of the dungeon; they were no where to be found; and after a long ſearch it was known that they were ſled with their priſoner: the flight of the other captives was alſo diſcovered. This circumſtance exaſperated the paſſion of Malcolm to the utmoſt, and he gave orders that the life of the remaining centinel ſhould be forfeited for the treachery of his comrades, and his own negligence; when recollecting the Earl, whom in the heat of his reſentment he had forgot, his heart exulted in the op⯑portunity he afforded of complete re⯑venge; and in the fullneſs of joy with which he pronounced his ſentence, he retracted the condemnation of the trem⯑bling guard. The moment after he had diſpatched the meſſenger with his re⯑ſolve to the Earl, his heart faultered from its purpoſe. Such is the alter⯑nate violence of evil paſſions, that they [83] never ſuffer their ſubjects to act with conſiſtency, but torn by conflicting energies, the gratification of one pro⯑penſity is deſtruction to the enjoyment of another; and the moment in which they imagine happineſs in their graſp, is to them the moment of diſappoint⯑ment. Thus it was with the Baron; his ſoul ſeemed to attain its full enjoy⯑ment in the contemplation of revenge, till the idea of Mary inflamed his heart with an oppoſite paſſion; his wiſhes had caught new ardor from diſappoint⯑ment, for he had heard that Mary had been once in the power of his emiſſaries; and perhaps the pain which recoils, upon the mind from every fruitleſs effort of wickedneſs, ſerved to encreaſe the energies of his deſires. He ſpurned the thought of relinquiſhing the purſuit, yet there appeared to he no method of obtaining its object but by ſacrificing his favourite paſſion; for he had little doubt of obtaining Mary, when it ſhould [84] be known that he reſolved not to grant the life of the Earl upon any other ran⯑ſom. The balance of theſe paſſions hung in his mind in ſuch nice equili⯑brium, that it was for ſome time uncer⯑tain which would preponderate; re⯑venge, at length, yielded to love; but he reſolved to preſerve the torture of expected death, by keeping the Earl ignorant of his reprieve till the laſt moment.

The Earl awaited death with the ſame ſtern fortitude with which he received its ſentence, and was led from the tower to the platform of the caſtle, ſilent and unmoved. He beheld the preparations for his execution, the inſtruments of death, the guards arranged in files, with an eye undaunted. The glare of exter⯑nals had no longer power over his ima⯑gination. He beheld every object with indifference, but that on which his eye now reſted; it was on the murderer, [85] who exhibited himſelf in all the pride of exulting conqueſt: he ſtarted at the ſight, and his ſoul ſhrunk back upon itſelf. Diſdaining, however, to appear diſconcerted, he endeavoured to reſume his dignity, when the remembrance of his mother, overwhelmed with ſorrow, ruſhed upon his mind, and quite un⯑manned him; the tears ſtarted in his eyes, and he ſunk ſenſeleſs on the ground.

On recovering, he found himſelf in his priſon, and he was informed that the Baron had granted him a reſpite. Mal⯑colm miſtaking the cauſe of diſorder in the Earl, thought he had ſtretched his ſufferings to their utmoſt limits; he therefore had ordered him to be recon⯑veyed to the tower.

A ſcene ſo ſtriking and ſo public as that which had juſt been performed at the caſtle of Dunbayne, was a ſubject of [86] diſcourſe to the whole country; it was ſoon reported to the Counteſs with a va⯑riety of additional circumſtances, among which it was affirmed that the Earl had been really executed. Overwhelmed with this intelligence, Matilda relapſed into her former diſorder. Sickneſs had rendered Mary leſs able to ſupport the ſhock, and to apply that comfort to the afflictions of her mother, which had once been ſo ſucceſsfully adminiſtered. The phyſician pronounced the malady of the Counteſs to be ſeated in the mind, and beyond the reach of human ſkill, when one day a letter was brought to her, the ſuperſcription of which was written in the hand of Oſbert; ſhe knew the characters, and burſting the ſeal, read that her ſon was yet alive, and did not deſpair of throwing himſelf once more at her feet. He requeſted that the remains of his clan might im⯑mediately attempt his releaſe. He de⯑ſcribed in what part of the caſtle his [87] priſon was ſituated, and thought that by the aſſiſtance of long ſcaling ladders and ropes, contrived in the manner he directed, he might be able to effect his eſcape through the grate. This letter was a reviving cordial to the Counteſs and to Mary.

Alleyn was indefatigable in collect⯑ing followers for the enterprize he had engaged in. On receiving intelligence of the ſafety of the Earl, he viſited the clan, and was ſtrenuous in exhorting them to immediate action. They re⯑quired little incitement to a cauſe in which every heart was ſo much inte⯑reſted, and for which every hand was already buſied in preparation. Theſe preparations were at length completed; Alleyn, at the head of his party, joined the aſſembled clan. The Counteſs for a ſecond time beheld from the ramparts the departure of her people upon the ſame hazardous enterprize; the preſent [88] ſcene revived in her mind a ſad remem⯑brance of the paſt; the ſame tender fears, and the ſame prayers for ſucceſs ſhe now gave to their departure; and when they faded in diſtance from her fight, ſhe returned into the caſtle diſ⯑ſolved in tears. The heart of Mary was torn by a complex ſorrow, and incapable of longer concealing from herſelf the intereſt ſhe took in the de⯑parture of Alleyn, her agitation became more apparent. The Counteſs in vain endeavoured to compoſe her mind. Mary, affected by her tender concern, and prompted by the natural ingenu⯑ouſneſs of her diſpoſition, longed to make her the confidant of her weakneſs, if weakneſs that can be termed which ariſes from gratitude, and from the ad⯑miration of great and generous qualities; but delicacy and timidity arreſted the half formed ſentence, and cloſed her lips in ſilence. Her health gradually declined under the ſecret agitation of [89] her mind; her phyſician knew her diſ⯑order to originate in ſuppreſſed ſorrow, and adviſed, as the beſt cordial, a confi⯑dential friend. Matilda now perceived the cauſe of her grief; her former paſſing obſervations recurred to her me⯑mory, and juſtified her diſcernment. She ſtrove by every ſoothing effort to win her to her confidence. Mary, oppreſſed by the idea of ungenerous concealment, reſolved at length to unveil her heart to a mother ſo tender of her happineſs. She told her all her ſentiments. The Counteſs ſuffered a diſtreſs almoſt equal to that of her daughter; her affectionate heart ſwelled with equal wiſhes for her happineſs; ſhe admired with warmeſt gratitude the noble and aſpiring vir⯑tues of the young Highlander; but the proud nobility of her ſoul repelled with quick vivacity every idea of union with a youth of ſuch ignoble birth: ſhe regarded the preſent attachment as the paſſing impreſſion of youthful fancy, [90] and believed that gentle reaſoning, aided by time and endeavour, would conquer the enthuſiaſm of love. Mary liſtened with attention to the reaſonings of the Counteſs; her judgment acknowledged their juſtneſs, while her heart regretted their force. She reſolved, however, to overcome an attachment which would produce ſo much diſtreſs to her family and to herſelf. Notwithſtanding her endeavours to exclude Alleyn from her thoughts, the generous and heroic qua⯑lities of his mind burſt upon her me⯑mory in all their ſplendor; ſhe could not but be conſcious that he loved her; ſhe ſaw the ſtruggles of his ſoul, and the delicacy of his paſſion, which made him ever retire in the moſt profound and reſpectful ſilence from its object. She ſolicited her mother to aſſiſt in ex⯑pelling the deſtructive image from her mind. The Counteſs exerted every ef⯑fort to amuſe her-to forgetfulneſs; every hour except thoſe which were given to [91] exerciſes neceſſary for her health, was devoted to the cultivation of her mind, and the improvement of her various accompliſhments. Theſe endeavours were not unſucceſsful; the Counteſs with joy obſerved the returning health and tranquillity of her daughter; and Mary almoſt believed ſhe had taught herſelf to forget. Theſe engagements ſerved alſo to beguile the tedious mo⯑ments which muſt intervene, ere news could arrive from Alleyn concerning the probable ſucceſs of the enterprize.

Miſery yet dwelt in the caſtle of Dunbayne; for there the virtues were captive, while the vices reigned deſpo⯑tic. The mind of the Baron, ardent and reſtleſs, knew no peace: torn by conflicting paſſions, he was himſelf the victim of their power.

The Earl knew that his life hung up⯑on the caprice of a tyrant; his mind [92] was nerved for the worſt; yet the letter which the compaſſion of one of his guards, at the riſque of his life, had un⯑dertaken to convey to the Counteſs, afforded him a faint hope that his peo⯑ple might yet effect his eſcape. In this expectation, he ſpent hour after hour at his grate, wiſhing with trembling anxiety to behold his clan advancing over the diſtant hills. Theſe hills be⯑came at length, in a ſituation ſo barren of real comforts, a ſource of ideal plea⯑ſure to him. He was always at the grate, and often in the fine evenings of ſummer, ſaw the ladies, whoſe appearance had ſo ſtrongly excited his admiration and pi⯑ty, walk on a terrace below the tower. One very fine evening, under the pleaſ⯑ing impreſſions of hope for himſelf, and compaſſion for them, his ſufferings for a time loſt their acuteneſs. He longed to awaken their ſympathy, and make known to them that they had a fellow-priſoner. The parting ſun trembled [93] on the tops of the mountains, and a ſofter ſhade fell upon the diſtant land⯑ſcape. The ſweet tranquillity of even⯑ing threw an air of tender melancholy over his mind; his ſorrows for a while were huſhed; and under the enthuſiaſm of the hour, he compoſed the following ſonnet, which, having committed it to paper, he the next evening dropped up⯑on the terrace.

He had the pleaſure to obſerve that the paper was taken up by the ladies, who immediately retired into the caſtle.

CHAPTER V.

ONE morning early, the Earl diſ⯑cerned a martial band emerging from the verge of the horizon; his heart welcomed his hopes, which were ſoon confirmed into certainty. It was his faithful people, led on by Alleyn. It was their deſign to ſurround and attack the caſtle; and though their numbers gave them but little hopes of conqueſt, they yet believed that in the tumult of the engagement they might pro⯑cure the deliverance of the Earl. With this view they advanced to the walls. The centinels had deſcried them at diſ⯑tance; the alarm was given; the trum⯑pets ſounded, and the walls of the caſtle were filled with men. The Baron was preſent, and directed the preparations. The ſecret purpoſe of his ſoul was fixed. The clan ſurrounded the foſſé, into [96] which they threw bundles of faggots, and gave the ſignal of attack. Scaling ladders were thrown up to the window of the tower. The Earl, invigorated with hope and joy, had by the force of his arm, almoſt wrenched from its faſ⯑tening, one of the iron bars of the grate; his foot was lifted to the ſtanchion, ready to aid him in eſcaping through the opening, when he was ſeized by the guards of the Baron, and conveyed pre⯑cipitately from the priſon. He was led, indignant and deſperate, to the lofty ramparts of the caſtle, from whence he beheld Alleyn and his clan, whoſe eager eyes were once more bleſſed with the ſight of their Chief;—they were bleſſed but for a moment; they beheld their Lord in chains, ſurrounded with guards, and with the inſtruments of death. Ani⯑mated, however, with a laſt hope, they renewed the attack with redoubled fury, when the trumpets of the Baron ſounded a parley, and they ſuſpended their arms. [97] The Baron appeared on the ramparts; Alleyn advanced to hear him. "The moment of attack," cried the Baron, "is the moment of death to your Chief. If you wiſh to preſerve his life, deſiſt from the aſſault,' and depart in peace; and bear this meſſage to the Counteſs, your miſtreſs:—the Baron Malcolm will accept no other ranſom for the life and the liberty of the Earl, than her beauteous daughter, whom he now ſues to become his wife. If ſhe accedes to theſe terms, the Earl is inſtantly libera⯑ted, —if ſhe refuſes,—he dies." The emotions of the Earl, and of Alleyn, on hearing theſe words, were inexpreſſible. The Earl ſpurned with haughty virtue, the baſe conceſſion. "Give me death," cried he with loud impatience; "the houſe of Athlin ſhall not be diſhonoured by alliance with a murderer: renew the attack my brave people; ſince you can⯑not ſave the life, revenge the death of your Chief; he dies contented, ſince his [98] death preſerves his family from diſho⯑nour." The guards inſtantly ſurrounded the Earl.

Alleyn, whoſe heart, torn by con⯑tending emotions, was yet true to the impulſe of honour, on obſerving this, inſtantly threw down his arms, refuſing to obey the commands of the Earl; a hoſtage for whoſe life he demanded, while he haſtened to the caſtle of Athlin with the conditions of the Baron. The clan, following the example of Alleyn, reſted on their arms, while a few pre⯑pared to depart with him on the em⯑baſſy. In vain were the remonſtrances and the commands of the Earl, his peo⯑ple loved him too well to obey them, and his heart was filled with anguiſh when he ſaw Alleyn depart from the walls.

The ſituation of Alleyn was highly pitiable; all the firm virtues of his ſoul [99] were called upon to ſupport it. He was commiſſioned on an embaſſy, the alter⯑nate conditions of which, would bring deſtruction on the woman he adored, or death to the friend whom he loved.

When the arrival of Alleyn was an⯑nounced to the Counteſs, impatient joy thrilled in her boſom; for ſhe had no doubt that he brought offers of accom⯑modation; and no ranſom was pre⯑ſented to her imagination, which ſhe would not willingly give for the resto⯑ration of her ſon. At the ſound of Al⯑leyn's voice, thoſe tumults which had began to ſubſide in the heart of Mary, were again revived, and ſhe awoke to the mournful certainty of hopeleſs en⯑deavour. Yet ſhe could not repreſs a ſtrong emotion of joy on again behold⯑ing him. The ſoft bluſh of her cheek ſhewed the colours of her mind, while in endeavouring to ſhade her feelings ſhe impelled them into ſtronger light.

[100] The agitations of Alleyn almoſt ſub⯑dued his ſtrength, when he entered the preſence of the Counteſs; and his vi⯑ſage, on which was impreſſed deep diſ⯑treſs, and the paleneſs of fear, betrayed the inward workings of his ſoul. Ma⯑tilda was inſtantly ſeized with appre⯑henſion for the ſafety of her ſon, and in a tremulous voice, enquired his fate. Alleyn told her he was well, pro⯑ceeding with tender caution to acquaint her with the buſineſs of his embaſſy, and with the ſcene to which he had lately been witneſs. The ſentence of the Baron fell like the ſtroke of death upon the heart of Mary, who fainted at the words. Alleyn flew to ſupport her. In endeavouring to revive her daugh⯑ter, the Counteſs was diverted for a time from the anguiſh which this intel⯑ligence muſt naturally impart. It was long ere Mary returned to life, and ſhe returned only to a ſenſe of wretched⯑neſs. The critical ſituation of Matilda [101] can ſcarcely be felt in its full extent. Torn by the conflict of oppoſite inte⯑reſts, her brain was the ſeat of tumult, and wild diſmay. Which ever way ſhe looked, deſtruction cloſed the view. The murderer of the huſband, now ſought to murder the happineſs of the daugh⯑ter. On the ſentence of the mother, hung the final fate of the ſon. In re⯑jecting theſe terms, ſhe would give him inſtant death; in accepting them, her conduct would be repugnant to the feelings of indignant virtue, and to the tender injured memory of her mur⯑dered Lord. She would deſtroy for ever the peace of her daughter, and the honour of her houſe. To effect his de⯑liverance by force of arms was uttterly impracticable, ſince the Baron had de⯑clared, that "the moment of attack ſhould be the moment of death to the Earl." Honour, humanity, parental tenderneſs, bade her ſave her ſon; yet by a ſtrange contrariety of intereſts, the [102] ſame virtues pleaded with a voice equal⯑ly powerful, for the reverſe of the ſen⯑tence. Hitherto hope had ſtill illu⯑mined her mind with a diſtant ray; ſhe now found herſelf ſuddenly involved in the darkneſs of deſpair, whoſe glooms were interrupted only by the gleams of horror which aroſe from the altar, on which was to be ſacrificed one of her beloved children. Her mind ſhrunk from the idea of uniting her daughter to the murderer of her father. The ferocious character of Malcolm was alone ſufficient to blight for ever the happineſs of the woman whoſe fate ſhould be connected with his. To give to the murderer the child of the mur⯑dered, was a thought too horrid to reſt upon. The Counteſs rejected with force the Baron's offer of exchange, when the bleeding figure of her be⯑loved ſon, pale and convulſed in death, ſtarted on her imagination, and ſtretched her brain almoſt to frenzy.

[103] Meanwhile Mary ſuffered a conflict equally dreadful. Nature had beſtowed on her a heart ſuſceptible of all the fine emotions of delicate paſſion; a heart which vibrated in uniſon with the ſweeteſt feelings of humanity; a mind, quick in perceiving the niceſt lines of moral rectitude, and ſtrenuous in en⯑deavouring to act up to its perceptions. Theſe giſts were unneceſſary to make her ſenſible of the wretchedneſs of her preſent ſituation; of which a common mind would have felt the miſery; they ſerved, however, to ſharpen the points of affliction, to encreaſe their force, and to diſcloſe in ſtronger light, the various horrors of her ſituation. Fraternal love and pity called loudly upon her to reſign herſelf into the power of the man, whom from the earlieſt dawn of perception, ſhe had contemplated with trembling averſion and horror. The memory of her murdered parent, every feeling dear to virtue, the tremulous, but forceful [104] voice of love awakened her heart, and each oppoſed with wild impetuoſity, every other ſentiment. Her ſoul ſhrunk back with terror from the idea of union with the Baron. Could ſhe bear to re⯑ceive in marriage, that hand which was ſtained with the blood of her father?—The polluted touch would freeze her heart in horror!—Could ſhe bear to paſs her life with the man, who had for ever blaſted the ſmiling days of him who gave her being?—With the man who would ſtand before her eyes a perpetual monument of miſery to herſelf, and of diſhonour to her family? whoſe chilling aſpect would repel every amiable and generous affection, and ſtrike them back upon her heart only to wound it? To cheriſh the love of the noble virtues, would be to cheriſh the remembrance of her dead father, and of her living lover. How wretched mud be her ſituation, when to obliterate from her memory the image of virtue, could alone afford [105] her a chance of obtaining a horrid tran⯑quillity; virtue, which is ſo dear to the human heart, that when her form for⯑ſakes us, we purſue her ſhadow. Where⯑ever in ſearch of comfort ſhe directed her aching ſight, Miſery's haggard countenance obtruded on her view. Here ſhe beheld herſelf entombed in the arms of the murderer;—there, the ſpec⯑tacle of her beloved brother, encircled with chains, and awaiting the ſtroke of death, aroſe to her imagination; the ſcene was too affecting; fancy gave her the horrors of reality. The reflection, that through her, he ſuffered, that ſhe yet might ſave him from deſtruction, broke with irreſiſtible force upon her mind, and inſtantly bore, away every op⯑poſing feeling. She reſolved, that ſince ſhe muſt be wretched, ſhe would be no⯑bly wretched; ſince miſery demanded one ſacrifice, ſhe would devote herſelf the victim.

[106] With theſe thoughts, ſhe entered the apartment of the Counteſs, whoſe con⯑currence was neceſſary to ratify her reſolves, and, having declared them, awaited in trembling expectation her deciſion. Matilda had ſuffered a diſtrac⯑tion of mind, which the nature of no former trial had occaſioned her. On the unfortunate death of a huſband ten⯑derly beloved, ſhe had ſuffered all the ſorrow which tenderneſs, and all the ſhock which the manner of his death could inſpire. The event, however, ſhocking as it was, did not hang upon circumſtances over which ſhe had an influence; it was decided by an higher power;—it was decided, and never could be recalled; ſhe had there no dreadful choice of horrors, no evil ratified by her own voice, to taint with deadly recol⯑lections her declining days. This choice, though forced upon her by the power of a tyrant, ſhe would ſtill conſi⯑der as in part her own, and the thought [107] that ſhe was compelled to doom to de⯑ſtruction one of her children, harrowed up her foul almoſt to frenzy.

Her mind at length exhauſted with exceſs of feeling, was now fallen into a ſtate of cold and ſilent deſpair; ſhe be came inſenſible to the objects around her, almoſt to the ſenſe of her own ſufferings, and the voice, and the propoſal of her daughter, ſcarcely awakened her powers of perception. "He ſhall live," ſaid Mary, in a voice broken and tender; "he ſhall live, I am ready to become the ſacrifice." Tears prevented her pro⯑ceeding. At the word "live," the Counteſs raiſed her eyes, and threw round her a look of wildneſs, which ſet⯑tling on the features of Mary, ſoftened into an expreſſion of ineffable tender⯑neſs, ſhe waved her head, and turned to the window. A few tears bedewed her cheek; they fell like the drops of Hea⯑ven upon the withered plant, reviving [108] and expanding its dying foliage; they were the firſt her eyes had known ſince the fatal news had reached her. Reco⯑vering herſelf a little, ſhe ſent for Al⯑leyn, who was ſtill in the caſtle. She wiſhed to conſult with him whether there was not yet a poſſibility of effect⯑ing the eſcape of the Earl. In afflicti⯑ons of whatever degree, where death has not already fixed the events in cer⯑tainty, the mind ſhoots almoſt beyond the ſphere of poſſibility in ſearch of hope, and ſeldom relinquiſhes the fond illuſion, till the ſtroke of reality diſſolves the enchantment. Thus it was with Matilda; after the grief produced by the firſt ſtroke of this diſaſter was ſome⯑what abated, ſhe was inclined to think that her ſituation might not prove ſo deſperate as ſhe imagined; and her heart was warmed by a remote hope, that there might yet be deviſed ſome method of procuring the eſcape of the Earl. Alleyn came; he came in the [109] trembling expectation of receiving the deciſion of the Counteſs, and in the in⯑tention of offering to engage in any en⯑terprize, however hazardous, for the enlargement of the Earl. He repelled with inſtant force, every idea of Mary's becoming the wife of Malcolm; the thought was too full of agony to be en⯑dured, and he threw the ſenſation from his heart as a poiſon which would deſtroy the pulſe of life. To preſerve Mary from a miſery ſo exquiſite, and to ſave the life of the Earl, he was willing to encounter any hazard; to meet death itſelf as an evil which appeared. leſs dreadful than either of the former. He came prepared with this reſolution, and it ſerved to ſupport that fortitude which affliction had diſturbed, though it could not ſubdue. When he came again to the Counteſs, his diſtreſs was heightened by the ſcene before him; he beheld her leaning on a ſofa, pale and ſilent; her unconſcious eyes were fixed on an op⯑poſite [110] window; her countenance was touched with a wildneſs expreſſive of the diſorder of her mind, and ſhe re⯑mained for ſome time inſenſible of his approach. Such is the fluctuation of a mind overcome by diſtreſs, that if for a moment a ray of hope chears its dark⯑neſs, it vaniſhes at the touch of recollec⯑tion. Mary was ſtanding near the Coun⯑teſs, whoſe hand ſhe held to her boſom. Her preſent ſorrow had heightened the natural penſiveneſs of her countenance, and ſhaded her features with an intereſt⯑ing langour, more enchanting than the vivacity of blooming health; her eyes ſought to avoid Alleyn, as an object dangerous to the reſolution ſhe had formed. Matilda remained abſorbed in thought. Mary wiſhed to repeat the purpoſe of her ſoul, but her voice trem⯑bled, and the half formed ſentence died away on her lips. Alleyn enquired the commands of the Counteſs. "I am ready," ſaid Mary, at length, in a low [111] and tremulous voice, "to give myſelf the victim to the Baron's revenge.—I will ſave my brother." At theſe words, the heart of Alleyn grew cold. Mary, overcome by the effort which they had occaſioned her, ſcarcely finiſhed the ſen⯑tence; her nerves ſhook, a miſt fell over her eye, and ſhe ſunk on the ſofa by which ſhe ſtood. Alleyn hung over the couch in ſilent agony, watching her return to life. By the aſſiſtance of thoſe about her, ſhe ſoon revived. Alleyn, in the joy which he felt at her recovery, forgot for a moment his ſituation, and preſſed with ardor her hand to his boſom. Mary, whoſe ſenſes were yet ſcarcely recollected, yielded unconſci⯑ouſly to the ſoftneſs of her heart, and betrayed its ſituation by a ſmile ſo ten⯑der as to thrill the breaſt of Alleyn with the ſweet certainty of being loved. Hi⯑therto his paſſion had been chilled by the deſpair which the vaſt ſuperiority of her birth occaſioned, and by the mo⯑deſty [112] which forbad him to imagine that he had merit ſufficient to arreſt the eye of the accompliſhed Mary. Perhaps, too, the diffidence natural to genuine love, might contribute to deceive him. It was not till this moment, that he ex⯑perienced that certainty which awaken⯑ed in his heart, a ſenſe of delight hither⯑to unknown to him. For a moment he forgot the diſtreſſes of the caſtle, and his own ſituation; every idea faded from his mind, but the one he had ſo lately acquired; and in that moment he ſeemed to taſte perfect felicity. Re⯑collection, however, with all its train of black dependencies ſoon returned, and plunged him in a miſery as poig⯑nant as the joy from which he was now precipitated.

The Counteſs was now ſufficiently compoſed to enter on the ſubject neareſt her heart. Alleyn caught with eager⯑neſs, her mention of attempting the [113] deliverance of the Earl, for the poſſi⯑bility of accompliſhing which, he de⯑clared himſelf willing to encounter any danger: he ſeconded ſo warmly the deſign, and ſpoke with ſuch flattering probability of ſucceſs, that the ſpirits of Matilda began once more to revive; yet ſhe trembled to encourage hopes which hung on ſuch perilous uncer⯑tainty. It was agreed, that Alleyn ſhould conſult with the moſt able and truſty of the clan, whom age or infir⯑mity had detained from battle, on the means moſt likely to enſure. ſucceſs, and then proceed immediately on the expedition: having firſt delivered to the Baron a meſſage from the Counteſs, requiring time for deliberation upon a choice ſo important, and importing that an anſwer ſhould be returned at the ex⯑piration of a fortnight.

Alleyn accordingly aſſembled thoſe whom he judged moſt worthy of the [114] council: various ſchemes were pro⯑poſed, none of which appeared likely to ſucceed; when it was recollected that the Earl might poſſibly have been re⯑moved from the tower to ſome new place of confinement, which it would be neceſſary firſt to diſcover, that the plan might be adapted to the ſituation. It was therefore concluded to ſuſpend further conſultation till Alleyn had ob⯑tained the requiſite information; and that in the mean time he ſhould deliver to Malcolm, the meſſage of the Coun⯑teſs: for theſe purpoſes Alleyn imme⯑diately ſet out for the caſtle.

CHAPTER VI.

THE caſtle of Dunbayne was ſtill the ſcene of triumph, and of wretchedneſs. Malcolm, exulting in his ſcheme, already beheld Mary at his feet, and the Earl retiring in an anguiſh more poignant than that of death. He was ſurprized that his invention had not before ſupplied him with this means of torture: for the firſt time he wel⯑comed love, as the inſtrument of his revenge; and the charms of Mary were heightened to his imagination by the ardent colours of this paſſion. He was confirmed in his reſolves, never to re⯑linquiſh the Earl, but on the conditions he had offered; and thus for ever would he preſerve the houſe of Athlin a monu⯑ment of his triumph.

Oſbert, for greater ſecurity, was con⯑veyed from the tower into a more cen⯑trical [116] part of the caſtle, to an apartment ſpacious but gloomy, whoſe gothic win⯑dows partly excluding light, threw a ſolemnity around, which chilled the heart alrnoſt to horror. He heeded not this; his heart was occupied with hor⯑rors of its own. He was now involved in a miſery more intricate, and more dreadful, than his imagination had yet painted. To die, was to him, who had ſo long contemplated the near approach of death, a familiar and tranſient evil; but to ſee, even in idea, his family in⯑volved in infamy, and in union; with the murderer, was the ſtroke which pierced his heart to its center. He feared that the cruel tenderneſs of the mother, would tempt Matilda to accept the offers of the Baron; and he ſcarcely doubted, that the noble Mary would reſign herſelf the price of his life. He would have written to the Counteſs to have forbidden her acceptance of the terms, and to have declared his fixed [117] reſolution to die, but that he had no means of conveying to her a letter; the ſoldier who had ſo generouſly under⯑taken the conveyance of his former one, having ſoon after diſappeared from his ſtation. The manly fortitude which had ſupported him through his former trials, did not deſert him in this hour of darkneſs; habituated ſo long to ſtrug⯑gle with oppoſing feelings, he had ac⯑quired the art of managing them; his mind attained a confidence in its pow⯑ers reſiſtance ſerved only to increaſe its ſtrength, and to confirm the magna⯑nimity of its nature.

Alleyn had now joined the clan, and was ardent in purſuit of the neceſſary intelligence. He learned that the Earl had been removed from the tower, but in what part of the caſtle he was now confined he could not diſcover; on this point all was vague conjecture. That he was alive, was only judged from the [118] policy of the Baron, whoſe ardent paſ⯑ſion for Mary, was now well under⯑ſtood. Alleyn employed every ſtrata⯑gem his invention could ſuggeſt, to diſ⯑cover the priſon of the Earl, but with⯑out ſucceſs: at length, compelled to deliver to Malcolm the meſſage of the Counteſs, he demanded, as a prelimi⯑nary, that the Earl ſhould be ſhewn to his people from the ramparts, that they might be certain he was ſtill alive. Al⯑leyn hoped that his appearance would lead to a diſcovery of the place of his impriſonment, purpoſing to obſerve nar⯑rowly the way by which he ſhould re⯑tire.

The Earl appeared in ſafety on the ramparts, amid the ſhouts and acclama⯑tions of his people; the Baron, frown⯑ing defiance, was ſeen at his ſide. Al⯑leyn advanced to the walls, and deli⯑vered the meſſage of Matilda. Oſbert ſtarted at its purpoſe; he foreſaw that [119] deliberation portended compliance:—ſtung with the thought, he ſwore aloud he never would ſurvive the infamy of the conceſſion; and addreſſing himſelf to Alleyn, commanded him inſtantly to return to the Counteſs, and bid her ſpurn the baſe compliance, as ſhe feared to ſacrifice both the children to the murderer of the father. At theſe words, a ſmile of haughty triumph marked the features of the Baron, and he turned from Oſbert in ſilent exultation. The Earl was led off by the guards. Alleyn endeavoured in vain to mark the way they took; the lofty walls ſoon con⯑cealed them from his view.

Alleyn now experienced how ſtrenu⯑ouſly a vigorous mind protects its fa⯑vourite hope; wayward circumſtances may ſhock, diſappointment may check it; but it riſes ſuperior to oppoſition, and traverſes the ſphere of poſſibility to accompliſh its purpoſe. Alleyn did not [120] yet deſpair, but he was perplexed in what manner to proceed.

In his way from the ramparts, Oſbert was ſurprized by the appearance of two ladies at a window near which he paſſed: the agitation of his mind did not prevent his recognizing them as the ſame he had obſerved from the grates of the tower, with ſuch lively admiration, and who had excited in his mind ſo much of pity and of curioſity. In the midſt of his diſtreſs, his thoughts had often dwelt on the ſweet graces of the younger, and had ſighed to obtain the ſtory of her ſorrows; for the melan⯑choly which hung upon her features proclaimed her to be unfortunate. They now ſtood obſerving Oſbert as he paſſed, and their eyes expreſſed the pity which his ſituation inſpired. He gazed ear⯑neſtly and mournfully upon them, and when he entered his priſon, again en⯑quired concerning them, but the ſame [121] inflexible ſilence was preſerved on the ſubject.

As the Earl ſat one day muſing in his priſon, his eyes involuntarily fixed upon a pannel in the oppoſite wainſcot; —he obſerved that it was differently formed from the reſt, and that its pro⯑jection was ſomewhat greater; a hope ſtarted into his mind, and he quitted his ſeat to examine it. He perceived that it was ſurrounded by a ſmall crack, and on puſhing it with his hands it ſhook under them. Certain that it was ſome⯑thing more than a pannel, he exerted all his ſtrength againſt it, but without producing any new effect. Having tried various means to move it without ſucceſs, he gave up the experiment, and returned to his ſeat melancholy and diſ⯑appointed. Several days paſſed with⯑out any further notice being taken of the wainſcot; unwilling, however, to relinquiſh a laſt hope he returned to [122] the examination, when in endeavouring to remove the pannel, his foot acci⯑dentally hit againſt one corner, and it ſuddenly flew open. It had been con⯑trived that a ſpring which was concealed within, and which faſtened the partition, ſhould receive its impulſe from the preſſure of a certain part of the pannel, which was now touched by the foot of the Earl. His joy on the diſcovery cannot be expreſſed. An apartment wide and forlorn, like that which formed his priſon, now lay before him; the windows, which were high and arched, were decorated with painted glaſs; the floor was paved with marble; and it ſeemed to be the deſerted remains of a place of worſhip. Oſbert traverſed, with heſitating ſteps, its dreary length, towards a pair of folding doors, large and of oak, which cloſed the apartment: theſe he opened; a gallery gloomy and vaſt, appeared beyond; the windows, which were in the ſame ſtyle of Gothic [123] architecture with the former, were ſhaded by thick ivy that almoſt ex⯑cluded the light. Oſbert ſtood at the entrance, uncertain whether to pro⯑ceed; he liſtened, but heard no foot⯑ſtep in his priſon, and determined to go on. The gallery terminated on the left in a large winding flair-caſe, old and apparently neglected, which led to a hall below; on the right was a door, low, and rather obſcure. Oſbert, ap⯑prehenſive of diſcovery, paſſed the ſtair⯑caſe, and opened the door, when a ſuite of noble apartments, magnificently fur⯑niſhed, was diſcloſed to his wondering eyes. He proceeded onward without perceiving any perſon, but having paſſed the ſecond room, heard the faint ſobs of a perſon weeping; he flood for a moment, undetermined whether to proceed, but an irreſiſtible curioſity im⯑pelled him forward, and he entered an apartment, in which were ſeated the beautiful ſtrangers, whoſe appearance [124] had ſo much intereſted his feelings. The elder of the ladies was diſſolved in tears, and a caſket and ſome papers lay open on a table beſide her. The younger was ſo intent upon a drawing, which ſhe ſeemed to be finiſhing, as not to obſerve the entrance of the Earl. The elder lady on perceiving him, aroſe in ſome confuſion, and the ſurprize in her eyes ſeemed to demand an explanation of ſo unaccountable a viſit. The Earl ſur⯑prized at what he beheld, ſtepped back with an intention of retiring; but recol⯑lecting that the intruſion demanded an apology, he returned. The grace with which he excuſed himſelf, confirmed the impreſſion which his figure had al⯑ready made on the mind of Laura, which was the name of the younger lady; who on looking up, diſcovered a countenance in which dignity and ſweet⯑neſs were happily blended. She ap⯑peared to be about twenty, her perſon was of the middle ſtature, extremely [125] delicate, and very elegantly formed. The bloom of her youth was ſhaded by a ſoft and penſive melancholy, which communicated an expreſſion to her fine blue eyes, extremely intereſting. Her features were partly concealed by the beautiful luxuriance of her auburn hair, which curling round her face, deſcended in treſſes on her boſom; every feminine grace played around her; and the ſimple dignity of her air declared the purity and the nobility of her mind. On perceiving the Earl, a faint bluſh animated her cheek, and ſhe involuntarily quitted the drawing upon which ſhe had been engaged.

If the former imperfect view he had caught of Laura had given an impreſ⯑ſion to the heart of Oſbert, it now re⯑ceived a ſtronger character from the op⯑portunity afforded him of contemplat⯑ing her beauty. He concluded that the Baron, attracted by her charms, had [126] entrapped her into his power, and de⯑tained her in the caſtle an unwilling priſoner. In this conjecture he was confirmed by the mournful caſt of her countenance, and by the myſtery which appeared to ſurround her. Fired by this idea, he melted in compaſſion for her ſufferings; which compaſſion was tinctured and encreaſed by the paſſion which now glowed in his heart. At that moment he forgot the danger of his preſent ſituation; he forgot even that he was a priſoner; and awake only to the wiſh of alleviating her ſorrows, he rejected cold and uſeleſs delicacy, and reſolved, if poſſible, to learn the cauſe of her misfortunes. Addreſſing himſelf to the Baroneſs, "if Madam," ſaid he, "I could by any means ſoften the af⯑fliction which I cannot affect not to per⯑ceive, and which has ſo warmly inte⯑reſted my feelings, I ſhould regard this as one of the moſt happy moments of my life; a life marked, alas! too ſtrong⯑ly [127] with miſery! but miſery has not been uſeleſs, ſince it has taught me ſympa⯑thy." The Baroneſs was no ſtranger to the character and the misfortunes of the Earl. Herſelf the victim of oppreſſion, ſhe knew how to commiſerate the ſuffer⯑ings of others. She had ever felt a tender compaſſion for the diſtreſſes of Oſbert, and did not now with-hold ſincere ex⯑preſſions of ſympathy, and of gratitude, for the intereſt which he felt in her ſor⯑row. She expreſſed her ſurprize at ſeeing him thus at liberty; but obſerving the chains which encircled his hands, ſhe ſhuddered, and gueſſed a part of the truth. He explained to her the diſco⯑very of the pannel, by which ciircum⯑ſtance he had found his way into that apartment. The idea of aiding him to eſcape, ruſhed upon the mind of the Baroneſs, but was repreſſed by the con⯑ſideration of her own confined ſituation; and ſhe was compelled with mournful reluctance; to reſign that thought which [128] reverence for the character of the late Earl, and compaſſion for the misfortunes of the preſent, had inſpired. She la⯑mented her inability to aſſiſt him, and informed him that herſelf and her daughter were alike priſoners with him⯑ſelf; that the walls of the caſtle were the limits of their liberty; and that they had ſuffered the preſſure of tyranny for fifteen years. The Earl expreſſed the indignation which he felt at this reci⯑tal, and ſolicited the Baroneſs to conſide in his integrity; and, if the relation would not be too painful to her, to ho⯑nour him ſo far as to acquaint him by what cruel means ſhe fell into the power of Malcolm. The Baroneſs, apprehen⯑ſive for his ſafety, reminded him of the riſk of diſcovery by a longer abſence from his priſon; and, thanking him again for the intereſt he took in her ſuf⯑ferings, aſſured him of her warmeſt wiſhes for his deliverance, and that if an opportunity ever offered, ſhe would [129] acquaint him with the ſad particulars or her ſtory. The eyes of Oſbert made known that gratitude which it was diffi⯑cult for his tongue to utter. Tremu⯑louſly he ſolicited the conſolation of ſometimes re-viſiting the apartments of the Baroneſs; a permiſſion which would give him ſome intervals of comfort amid the many hours of torment to which he was condemned. The Ba⯑roneſs, in compaſſion to his ſufferings, granted the requeſt. The Earl de⯑parted, gazing on Laura with eyes of mournful tenderneſs; yet he was pleaſed with what had paſſed, and retired to his priſon in one of thoſe peaceful inter⯑vals which are known even to the wretched. He found all quiet, and cloſing the pannel in ſafety, ſat down to conſider the paſt, and anticipate the fu⯑ture. He was flattered with hopes, that the diſcovery of the pannel might aid him to eſcape; the glooms of deſpond⯑ence which had lately enveloped his [130] mind, gradually diſappeared, and joy once more illumined his proſpects; but it was the ſunſhine of an April morn, deceitful and momentary. He recol⯑lected that the caſtle was beſet with guards, whoſe vigilance was inſured by the ſeverity of the Baron; he remem⯑bered that the ſtrangers, who had took ſo kind an intereſt in his fate, were pri⯑ſoners like himſelf; and that he had no generous ſoldier to teach him the ſecret windings of the caſtle, and to accompa⯑pany him in flight. His imagination was haunted by the image of Laura; vainly he ſtrove to diſguiſe from him⯑ſelf the truth; his heart conſtantly be⯑lied the ſophiſtry of his reaſonings. Un⯑warily he had drank the draught of love, and he was compelled to acknow⯑ledge the fatal indiſcretion. He could not, however, reſolve to throw from his heart the delicious poiſon; he could not reſolve to ſee her no more. The painful apprehenſion for his ſafety, [131] which his forbearing to renew the viſit he had ſo earneſtly ſolicited, would oc⯑caſion the Baroneſs; the apparent diſ⯑reſpect it would convey; the ardent curioſity with which he longed to ob⯑tain the hiſtory of her misfortunes; the lively intereſt he felt in learning the ſituation of Laura, with reſpect to the Baron; and the hope,—the wild hope, with which he deluded his reaſon, that he might be able to aſſiſt them, deter⯑mined him to repeat the viſit. Under theſe illuſions, the motive which princi⯑pally impelled him to the interview was concealed.

In the mean time Alleyn had re⯑turned to the caſtle of Athlin with the reſolutions of the Earl; whoſe reſolves ſerved only to aggravate the diſtreſs of its fair inhabitants. Alleyn, however, unwilling to cruſh a laſt hope, tenderly concealed from them the circumſtance of the Earl's removal from the tower; [132] ſilently and almoſt hopeleſsly meditating to diſcover his priſon; and admini⯑ſtered that comfort to the Counteſs and to Mary, which his own expectation would not ſuffer him to participate. He retired in haſte to the veterans whom he had before aſſembled, and acquaint⯑ed them with the removal of the Earl; which circumſtance muſt for the pre⯑ſent ſuſpend their conſultations. He left them, therefore, and inſtantly re⯑turned to the clan: there to proſecute his enquiries. Every poſſible exertion was made to obtain the neceſſary intel⯑ligence, but without ſucceſs. The moment in which the Baron would de⯑mand the anſwer of the Counteſs, was now faſt approaching, and every heart ſunk in deſpair, when one night the cen⯑tinels of the camp were alarmed by the approach of men, who hailed them in unknown voices; fearful of ſurprize, they ſurrounded the ſtrangers, and led them to Alleyn; to whom they related, [133] that they fled from the capricious tyran⯑ny of Malcolm, and ſought refuge in the camp of his enemy; whoſe misfor⯑tunes they bewailed, and in whoſe cauſe they enliſted. Rejoiced at the circum⯑ſtance, yet doubtful of its truth, Alleyn interrogated the ſoldiers concerning the priſon of the Earl. From them he learned, that Oſbert was confined in a part of the caſtle extremely difficult of acceſs; and that any plan of eſcape muſt be utterly impracticable without the aſſiſtance of one well acquainted with the various intricacies of the pile. An opportunity of ſucceſs was now pre⯑ſented, with which the moſt ſanguine hopes of Alleyn had never flattered him. He received from the ſoldiers ſtrong aſſurances of aſſiſtance; from them, likewiſe, he learned, that diſcon⯑tent reigned among the people of the Baron; who, impatient of the yoke of tyranny, only waited a favourable op⯑portunity to throw it off, and reſume [134] the rights of nature. That the vigilant ſuſpicions of Malcolm excited him to puniſh with the harſheſt ſeverity every appearance of inattention; that being condemned to ſuffer a very heavy pu⯑niſhment for a ſlight offence, they had eluded the impending miſery, and the future oppreſſion of their Chief, by deſertion.

Alleyn immediately convened a coun⯑cil, before whom the ſoldiers were brought; they repeated their former aſſertions; and one of the fugitives added, that he had a brother, whoſe place of guard over the perſon of the Earl on that night, had made it difficult to elude obſervation, and had prevented his eſcaping with them; that on the night of the morrow he ſtood guard at the gate of the leſſer draw-bridge, where the centinels were few; that he was himſelf willing to riſque the danger of converſing with him; and had litttle [135] doubt of gaining him to aſſiſt in the de⯑liverance of the Earl. At theſe words, the heart of Alleyn throbbed with joy. He promiſed large rewards to the brave ſoldier and to his brother, if they un⯑dertook the enterprize. His companion was well acquainted with the ſubter⯑raneous paſſages of the rock, and ex⯑preſſed himſelf deſirous of being uſeful. The hopes of Alleyn every inſtant grew ſtronger; and he vainly wiſhed at that moment to communicate to the Earl's unhappy family, the joy which dilated his heart.

The eve of the following day was fixed upon to commence their deſigns; when James ſhould endeavour to gain his brother to their purpoſe. Having adjuſted theſe matters, they retired to reſt for the remainder of the night; but ſleep had fled the eyes of Alleyn; anx⯑ious expectation filled his mind; and he ſaw in the waking viſions of fancy, [136] the meeting of the Earl with his family; he anticipated the thanks he ſhould re⯑ceive from the lovely Mary; and he ſighed at the recollection, that thanks were all for which he could ever dare to hope.

At length the dawn appeared, and waked the clan to hopes and proſpects far different from thoſe of the preceding morn. The hours hung heavily on the expectation of Alleyn, whoſe mind was filled with ſolicitude for the event of the meeting between the brothers. Night at length came to his wiſhes. The darkneſs was interrupted only by the faint light of the moon moving through the watry and broken clouds, which en⯑veloped the horizon. Tumultuous guſts of wind broke at intervals the ſilence of the hour. Alleyn watched the move⯑ments of the caſtle; he obſerved the lights gradually diſappear. The bell from the watch-tower chimed one; all [137] was ſtill within the walls; and James ventured forth to the draw-bridge. The draw-bridge divided in the center, and the half next the plains was down; he mounted it, and in a low yet firm voice, called on Edmund. No anſwer was re⯑turned; and he began to fear that his brother had already quitted the caſtle. He remained ſome time in ſilent ſuſ⯑penſe before he repeated the call, when he heard the gate of the draw-bridge gently unbarred, and Edmund appeared. He was ſurprized to ſee James, and bade him inſtantly fly the danger that ſurrounded him. The Baron, incenſed at the frequent deſertion of his ſoldiers, had ſent out people in purſuit, and had promiſed conſiderable rewards for the apprehenſion of the fugitives. James, undaunted by what he heard, kept his ground, reſolved to urge his purpoſe to the point. Happily, the centinels who ſtood guard with Edmund, overcome with the effect of a potion he had admi⯑niſtered [138] to favour his eſcape, were ſunk in ſleep, and the ſoldiers conducted their diſcourſe in a low voice, without inter⯑ruption.

Edmund was unwilling to defer his flight, and poſſeſſed not reſolution ſuffi⯑cient to encounter the hazard of the en⯑terprize, till the proffered reward con⯑ſoled his ſelf-denial, and rouſed his ſlumbering courage. He was well ac⯑quainted with the ſubterraneous avenues of the caſtle; the only remaining diffi⯑culty was that of deceiving the vigi⯑lance of his fellow-centinels, whoſe watchfulneſs made it impoſſible for the Earl to quit his priſon unperceived. The ſoldiers who were to mount guard with him on the following night, were ſtationed in a diſtant part of the caſtle, till the hour of their removal to the door of the priſon; it was, therefore, difficult to adminiſter to them that draught which had ſteeped in forget⯑fulneſs [139] the ſenſes of his preſent aſſociates. To confide to their integrity, and endea⯑vour to win them to his purpoſe, was certainly to give his life into their hands, and probably to aggravate the diſaſtrous fate of the Earl. This ſcheme was be⯑ſet too thick with dangers to be ha⯑zarded, and their invention could fur⯑niſh them with none more promiſing. It was, however, agreed, that on the following night, Edmund ſhould ſeize the moment of opportunity to impart to the Earl the deſigns of his friends, and to conſult on the means of accompliſh⯑ing them. Thus concluding, James returned in ſafety to the tent of Alleyn, where the moſt conſiderable of the clan were aſſembled, there awaiting with im⯑patient ſolicitude, his arrival. The hopes of Alleyn were ſomewhat chilled by the report of the ſoldier; from the vigilance which beſet the doors of the priſon, eſcape from thence appeared im⯑practicable. He was condemned, how⯑ever, [140] to linger in ſuſpenſe till the third night from the preſent, when the return of Edmund to his ſtation at the bridge would enable him again to commune with his brother. But Alleyn was unſuſ⯑picious of a circumſtance which would utterly have defeated his hopes, and whoſe conſequence threatened deſtruc⯑tion to all their ſchemes. A centinel on duty upon that part of the rampart which ſurmounted the draw-bridge, had been alarmed by hearing the gate unbar, and approaching the wall, had perceived a man ſtanding on the half of the bridge which was dropped, and in converſe with ſome perſon on the caſtle walls. He drew as near as the wall would per⯑mit, and endeavoured to liſten to their diſcourſe. The gloom of night pre⯑vented his recognizing the perſon on the bridge; but he could clearly diſtinguiſh the voice of Edmund, in that of the man to whom he addreſſd himſelf. Excited by new wonder, he gave all his [141] attention to diſcover the ſubject of their converſation. The diſtance occaſioned between the brothers by the ſuſpended half of the bridge, obliged them to ſpeak in a ſomewhat higher tone than they would otherwiſe have done; and the centinel gathered ſufficient from their diſcourſe, to learn that they were con⯑certing the reſcue of the Earl; that the night of Edmund's watch at the priſon, was to be the night of enterprize; and that ſome friends of the Earl were to await him in the environs of the caſtle. All this he carefully treaſured up, and the next morning communicated it to his comrades.

On the following evening the Earl, yielding to the impulſe of his heart, once more uncloſed his partition, and ſought the apartments of the Baroneſs. She received him with expreſſions of ſatisfaction; while the artleſs pleaſure which lighted up the countenance of [142] Laura, awakened the pulſe of rapture in that heart which had long throbbed only to miſery. The Earl reminded the Ba⯑roneſs of her former promiſe, which the deſire of exciting ſympathy in thoſe we eſteem, and the melancholy pleaſure which the heart finds in lingering in the ſcenes of former happineſs, had induced her to give. She endeavoured to com⯑poſe her ſpirits, which were agitated by the remembrance of paſt ſufferings, and gave him a relation of the following circumſtances.

CHAPTER VII.

LOUISA, Baroneſs Malcolm, was the deſcendant of an ancient and honourable houſe in Switzerland. Her father, the Marquis de St. Claire, inhe⯑rited all thoſe brave qualities and that ſtern virtue which had ſo eminently diſ⯑tinguiſhed his anceſtors. Early in life he loſt a wife whom he tenderly loved, and he ſeemed to derive his ſole conſo⯑lation from the education of the dear children ſhe had left behind. His ſon, whom he had brought up to the arms himſelf ſo honourably bore, fell before he reached his nineteenth year, in the ſervice of his country; an elder daugh⯑ter died in infancy; Louiſa was his ſole ſurviving child. His chateau was ſitu⯑ated in one of thoſe delightful vallies of the Swiſs cantons, in which the beauti⯑ful and the ſublime are ſo happily uni⯑ted; where the magnificent features of [144] the ſcenery are contraſted, and their ef⯑fect heightened by the blooming luxu⯑riance of woods and paſturage, by the gentle windings of the ſtream, and the peaceful aſpect of the cottage. The Marquis was now retired from the ſer⯑vice, for grey age had overtaken him. His reſidence was the reſort of foreign⯑ers of diſtinction, who attracted by the united talents of the ſoldier and the philoſopher, under his roof partook of the hoſpitality ſo characteriſtic of his country. Among the viſitors of this deſcription, was the late Baron Mal⯑colm, brother to the preſent Chief, who then travelled through Switzerland. The beauty of Louiſa, embelliſhed by the elegance of a mind highly culti⯑vated, touched his heart, and he ſoli⯑cited her hand in marriage. The manly ſenſe of the Baron, and the excellencies of his diſpoſition, had not paſſed unob⯑ſerved, or unapproved by the Marquis; while the graces of his perſon, and of [145] his mind, had anticipated for him in the heart of Louiſa, a pre-eminence over every other ſuitor. The Marquis had but one objection to the marriage; this was likewiſe the objection of Louiſa: neither the one nor the other could en⯑dure the idea of the diſtance which was to ſeparate them. Louiſa was to the Marquis the laſt prop of his declining years; the Marquis was to Louiſa the father and the friend to whom her heart had hitherto been ſolely devoted, and from whom it could not now be torn but with an anguiſh equal to its attach⯑ment. This remained an inſurmount⯑able obſtacle, till it was removed by the tenderneſs of the Baron, who entreated the Marquis to quit Switzerland, and reſide with his daughter in Scotland. The attachment of the Marquis to his natal land, and the pride of hereditary dominion, was too powe [...] [...] ſuffer him to acquieſce in the propoſal without much ſtruggle of contending feelings. [146] The deſire of ſecuring the happineſs of his child by a union with a character ſo excellent as the Baron's, and of ſeeing her ſettled before death ſhould deprive her of the protection of a father, at length ſubdued every other conſidera⯑tion, and he reſigned the hand of his daughter to the Baron Malcolm. The Marquis adjuſted his affairs, and con⯑ſigning his eſtates to the care of truſty agents, bade a laſt adieu to his beloved country;—that country, which during ſixty years, had been the principal ſcene of his happineſs, and of his re⯑grets. The courſe of years had not ob⯑literated from his heart the early affec⯑tions of his youth; he took a ſad fare⯑well of that grave which encloſed the reliques of his wife, from which it was not his leaſt effort to depart, and whi⯑ther he ordered that his remains ſhould be conveyed. Louiſa quitted Switzer⯑land with a concern ſcarcely leſs acute than that of her father; the poignancy [147] of which, however, was greatly ſoftened by the tender aſſiduities of her Lord, whoſe affectionate attentions hourly heightened her eſteem, and encreaſed her love.

They arrived at Scotland without any accident, where the Baron welcomed Louiſa as the miſtreſs of his domains. The Marquis de St. Claire had apart⯑ments in the cattle, where the evening of his days declined in peaceful hap⯑pineſs. Before his death he had the pleaſure of ſeeing his race renewed in the children of the Baroneſs, in a ſon who was called by the name of the Mar⯑quis, and in a daughter who now ſhares with her mother the ſorrows of confine⯑ment. On the death of the Marquis it was neceſſary for the Baron to viſit Switzerland, in order to take poſſeſſion of his eſtates, and to adjuſt ſome affairs which a long abſence had deranged. He attended the remains of the Marquis to [148] their laſt abode. The Baroneſs, deſirous of once more beholding her native coun⯑try, and anxious to pay a laſt reſpect to the memory of her father, entruſted her children to the care of a faithful old ſer⯑vant, whom ſhe had brought with her from the Vallois, and who had been the nurſe of her early childhood, and accom⯑panied the Baron to the continent. Having depoſited the remains of the Marquis according to his wiſh in the tomb of his wife, and arranged their affairs, they returned to Scotland, where the firſt intelligence they received on their arrival at the caſtle, was the death of their ſon, and of the old nurſe his at⯑tendant. The ſervant had died ſoon after their departure; the child only a fortnight before their return. This diſ⯑aſtrous event affected equally the Baron and his lady, who never ceaſed to con⯑demn herſelf for having entruſted her ſon to the care of ſervants. Time, how⯑ever, ſubdued the poignancy of this [149] affliction, but came fraught with another yet more acute; this was the death of the Baron, who in the pride of youth, conſtituting the felicity of his family, and of his people, was killed by a fall from his horſe, which he received in hunting. He left the Baroneſs and an only daughter to bewail with unceaſing ſorrow his loſs.

The paternal eſtates devolved of courſe to his only brother, the preſent Baron, whoſe character formed a mourn⯑ful and ſtriking contraſt to that of the deceaſed Lord. All his perſonal pro⯑perty, which was conſiderable, with the eſtates in Switzerland, he bequeathed to his beloved wife and daughter. The new Baron, immediately on the demiſe of his brother, took poſſeſſion of the caſtle, but allowed the Baroneſs, with a part of her ſuit, to remain its inhabi⯑tant till the expiration of the year. The Baroneſs abſorbed in grief, ſtill loved to [150] recall in the ſcenes of her late felicity, the image of her Lord, and to linger in his former haunts. This motive, toge⯑ther with the neceſſity of preparation for a journey to Switzerland, induced her to accept the offer of the Baron.

The memory of his brother had quickly faded from the mind of Mal⯑colm, whoſe attention appeared to be wholly occupied by ſchemes of ava⯑rice and ambition. His arrogance; and boundleſs love of power, em⯑broiled him with the neighbouring Chiefs, and engaged him in continual hoſtility. He ſeldom viſited the Ba⯑roneſs; when he did, his manner was cold, and even haughty. The Baroneſs, ſhocked to receive ſuch treatment from the brother of her deceaſed Lord, and reduced to feel herſelf an unwelcome gueſt in that caſtle which ſhe had been accuſtomed to conſider as her own, de⯑termined to ſet off for the continent im⯑mediately, [151] and ſeek in the ſolitudes of her native mountains, an aſylum from the frown of inſulting power. The con⯑traſt of character between the brothers drew many a ſigh of bitter recollection from her heart, and added weight to the ſorrows which already oppreſſed it. She gave orders, therefore, to her domeſtics, to prepare for immediate departure; but was ſoon after told that the Baron had forbad them to obey the command. Aſtoniſhed at this circumſtance, ſhe had not time to demand an explanation, ere a meſſage from Malcolm required a few moments private converſation. The meſſenger was followed almoſt inſtantly by the Baron, who entered the apart⯑ment with hurried ſteps, his counte⯑nance overſpread with the dark purpoſes of his ſoul. "I come, Madam," ſaid he, in a voice ſtern and determined, "to inform you, that you quit not this caſtle. The eſtates which you call yours, are mine; and think not that I ſhall [152] neglect to proſecute my claim. The frequent and ill-timed generoſities of my brother, have diminiſhed the value of thoſe lands which are mine by inhe⯑ritance; and I have, therefore, an indiſ⯑penſable right to re-pay myſelf from thoſe eſtates which he acquired with you. In point of juſtice, he poſſeſſed not the right of deviſing theſe eſtates, and I ſhall not ſuffer myſelf to be de⯑ceived by the evaſions of the law; re⯑ſign, therefore, the will, which remains only a record of unjuſt withes, and inef⯑fectual claims. When the receipts from your eſtates have ſatisfied my demands, they ſhall again be yours. The apart⯑ments you now inhabit ſhall remain your own; but beyond the wall of this caſtle you ſhall not paſs; for I ſhall not, by ſuffering your departure, afford you an opportunity of conteſting thoſe rights which I can enforce without oppo⯑ſition."

[153] Overcome with aſtoniſhment and dread, the Baroneſs was for ſome time deprived of all power of reply. At length, rouſed by the ſpirit of indigna⯑tion; "I am too well informed, my Lord," ſaid ſhe, "of my juſt claims to the lands in queſtion; and know alſo too well the value of that integrity which is now no more, to credit your bold aſſertions; they ſerve only to un⯑veil to me the darkneſs of a character, cruel and rapacious; whoſe boundleſs avarice trampling on the barriers of juſ⯑tice and humanity, ſeizes on the right of the defenceleſs widow, and on the portion of the unreſiſting orphan. This, my Lord, you are permitted to do; they have no means of reſiſtance; but think not to impoſe on me by a ſophiſti⯑cal aſſertion of right, or to gloſs the vil⯑lainy of your conduct with the colours of juſtice; the artifice is beneath the deſperate force of your character, and is not ſufficiently ſpecious to deceive the [154] diſcernment of virtue. From being your priſoner I have no means of eſcap⯑ing; but never, my Lord, will I reſign into your hands that will which is the efficient bond of my rights, and the laſt ſad record of the affection of my de⯑parted Lord." Grief cloſed her lips. The Baron denouncing vengeance on her reſiſtance, his features inflamed with rage, quitted the apartment. The Ba⯑roneſs was left to lament with deepning anguiſh, the ſtroke which had deprived her of a beloved huſband; and reflection gave her the wretchedneſs of her ſitua⯑ation in yet more lively colours. She was now a ſtranger in a foreign land, deprived by him of whom ſhe had a right to demand protection, of all her poſſeſſions; a priſoner in his caſtle, without one friend to vindicate her cauſe, and far remote from any means of appeal to the laws of the country. She wept over the youthful Laura, and while the preſſed her with mournful [155] fondneſs to her boſom, ſhe was con⯑firmed in her reſolve never to relinquish that will, by which alone the rights of her injured child could ever be aſcer⯑tained.

The Baron, bold in iniquity, obtained by forged powers, the revenues of the foreign eſtates; and by this means, ef⯑fectually kept the Baroneſs in his power, and deprived her of her laſt reſource. Secure in the poſſeſſion of the eſtates, and of the Baroneſs, he no longer re⯑garded the will as an object of import⯑ance; and as ſhe did not attempt any means of eſcape, or the recovery of her rights, he ſuffered her to remain un⯑diſturbed, and in quiet poſſeſſion of the will.

The Baroneſs now paſſed her days in unvaried ſorrow, except in thoſe inter⯑vals when ſhe forced her mind from its melancholy ſubject, and devoted herſelf [156] to the education of her daughter. The artleſs efforts of Laura, to aſſuage the ſorrows of her mother, only fixed them in her heart in deeper impreſſion, ſince they gave to her mind in ſtronger tints, the cruelty and oppreſſion to which her tender years were condemned. The progreſs which ſhe made in muſic and drawing, and in the lighter ſubjects of literature, while it pleaſed the Baroneſs, who was her ſole inſtructreſs, brought with it the bitter apprehenſion, that theſe accompliſhments would probably be buried in the obſcurity of a priſon; ſtill however, they were not uſeleſs, ſince they ſerved at preſent to cheat af⯑fliction of many a weary moment, and would in future delude the melancholy hours of ſolitude. Laura was particu⯑larly fond of the lute, which ſhe touched with exquiſite ſenſibility, and whoſe ten⯑der notes were ſo ſweetly in uniſon with the chords of ſorrow, and with thoſe plaintive tones with which ſhe loved to [157] accompany it. While ſhe ſung, the Baroneſs would ſit abſorbed in recollec⯑tion, the tears faſt falling from her eyes, and ſhe might be ſaid to taſte in thoſe moments the luxury of woe.

Malcolm, ſtung with a ſenſe of guilt, avoided the preſence of his injured cap⯑tive, and ſought an aſylum from con⯑ſcience in the buſy ſcenes of war.

Eighteen years had now elapſed ſince the death of the Baron, and the confine⯑ment of Louiſa. Time had blunted the point of affliction, though it ſtill re⯑tained its venom; but ſhe ſeldom dared to hope for that which for eighteen years had been with-held. She derived her only conſolation from the improvement and the tender ſympathy of her daugh⯑ter, who endeavoured by every ſoothing attention to alleviate the ſorrows of her parent.

[158] It was at this period that the Baroneſs communicated to the Earl the ſtory of her calamities.

The Earl liſtened with deep attention to the recital. His ſoul burned with indignation againſt the Baron, while his heart gave to the ſufferings of the fair mourners, all that ſympathy could aſk. Yet he was relieved from a very painful ſenſation, when he learned that the beauty of Laura had not influenced the conduct of the Baron. Her op⯑preſſed ſituation ſtruck upon his heart the fineſt touch of pity; and the paſſion which her beauty and her ſimplicity had inſpired, was ſtrengthened and me⯑liorated by her misfortunes. The fate of his father, and the idea of his own injuries, ruſhed upon his mind; and, combining with the ſufferings of the victims now before him, rouſed in his ſoul a ſtorm of indignation, little inferior [159] to that he had ſuffered in his firſt inter⯑view with the Baron. Every conſider⯑ation ſunk before the impulſe of a juſt revenge; his mind, occupied with the hateful image of the murderer alone, was hardened againſt danger, and in the firſt energies of his reſentment he would have ruſhed to the apartment of Malcolm, and ſtriking the ſword of juſtice in his heart, have delivered the earth from a monſter, and have reſigned himſelf the willing ſacrifice of the ac⯑tion. "Shall the monſter live?" cried he, riſing from his ſeat. His ſtep was hurried, and his countenance was ſtamped with a ſtern virtue. The Ba⯑roneſs was alarmed, and following him to the door of her apartment, which he had half opened, conjured him to pauſe for a moment on the dangers that ſurrounded him. The voice of reaſon in the accents of the Baroneſs, interrupted the hurried tumult of his [160] ſoul; the illuſions of paſſion diſap⯑peared; he recollected that he was ig⯑norant of the apartment of the Baron, and that he had no weapon to aſſiſt his purpoſe; and he found himſelf as a traveller on enchanted ground, when the wand of the magician ſuddenly diſſolves the airy ſcene, and leaves him environed with the horrors of ſolitude and of darkneſs.

The Earl returned to his ſeat hopeleſs and dejected, and loſt to every thing but to the bitterneſs of diſappointment. He forgot where he was, and the lateneſs of the hour, till reminded by the Baroneſs of the dangers of a longer ſtay, when he mournfully bad her good night; and advancing to Laura with timid reſpect, preſſed her hand tenderly to his lips, and retired to his priſon.

CHAPTER VIII.

HE had now opened the partition, and was entering the room, when by the faint gleam which the fire threw acroſs the apartment, he perceived indiſ⯑tinctly the figure of a man, and in the ſame inſtant heard the ſound of ap⯑proaching armour. Surprize and horror thrilled through every nerve; he re⯑mained fixed to the ſpot, and for ſome moments heſitated whether to retire. A fearful ſilence enſued; the perſon whom he thought he had ſeen, diſappeared in the darkneſs of the room; the noiſe of armour was heard no more; and he began to think that the figure he had ſeen, and the ſound he had heard, were the phantoms of a ſick imagination, which the agitation of his ſpirits, the ſolemnity of the hour, and the wide de⯑solation of the place had conjured up. [162] The low ſounds of an unknown voice now ſtarted upon his ear; it ſeemed to be almoſt cloſe beſide him; he ſprung onward, and his hand graſped the ſteely coldneſs of armour, while the arm it encloſed ſtruggled to get free. "Speak! what wretch art thou?" cried Oſbert, when a ſudden blaze of light from the fire diſcovered to him a ſoldier of the Baron. His agitation for ſome time prevented his obſerving that there was more of alarm than of deſign expreſſed in the countenance of the man; but the apprehenſion of the Earl was quickly loſt in aſtoniſhment, when he beheld the guard at his feet. It was Edmund who had entered the priſon under pre⯑tence of carrying fuel to the fire, but ſecretly for the purpoſe of conferring with Oſbert. When the Earl under⯑ſtood he came from Alleyn, his boſom glowed with gratitude towards the ge⯑nerous youth, whoſe ſteady and active zeal had never relaxed ſince the hour in [163] which he firſt engaged in his cauſe. The tranſport of his heart may be eaſily imagined, when he learned the ſchemes that were planning for his deliverance. The circumſtance which had nearly de⯑feated the warm hopes of his friends, was by him diſregarded, ſince the knowledge of the ſecret door opened to him, with the aſſiſtance of a guide through the intricacies of the caſtle, a certain means of eſcape. Edmund was well acquainted with all theſe. The Earl told him of the diſcovery of the falſe pannel; bade him return to Alleyn with the joyful intelligence, and on his next night of watch prepare to aid him in eſcape. Ed⯑mund knew well the apartments which Oſbert deſcribed, and the great ſtair⯑caſe which led into a part of the caſtle that had long been totally forſaken, and from whence it was eaſy to paſs unob⯑ſerved into the vaults which communi⯑cated [164] with the ſubterraneous paſſages in the rock.

Alleyn heard the report of James with a warm and generous joy, which impelled him to haſten immediately to the caſtle of Athlin, and diſpel the ſorrows that in⯑habited there; but the conſideration that his ſudden abſence from the camp might create ſuſpicion, and invite dis⯑covery, checked the impulſe; and he yielded with reluctance to the neceſſity which condemned the Counteſs and Mary to the horrors of a lengthened ſuſpenſe.

The Counteſs, meanwhile, whoſe de⯑ſigns, ſtrengthened by the ſteady deter⯑mination of Mary, were unſhaken by the meſſage of the Earl, which ſhe conſidered as only the effect of a momentary im⯑pulſe, watched the gradual departure of thoſe days which led to that which enve⯑loped the fate of her children, with ago⯑ny [165] and fainting hope. She received no news from the camp; no words of com⯑fort from Alleyn; and ſhe ſaw the confi⯑dence which had nouriſhed her exiſtence ſlowly ſinking in deſpair. Mary ſought to administer that comfort to the afflic⯑tions of her mother, which her own equally demanded; ſhe ſtrove by the fortitude with which ſhe endeavoured to reſign herſelf, to ſoften the aſperity of the ſufferings which threatened the Counteſs; and ſhe contemplated the approaching ſtorm with the determined coolneſs of a mind aſpiring to virtue as the chief good. But ſhe ſedulouſly ſought to exclude Alleyn from her mind; his diſintereſted and noble con⯑duct excited emotions dangerous to her fortitude, and which rendered yet more poignant the tortures of the approaching ſacrifice.

Anxious to inform the Baroneſs of his approaching deliverance, to aſſure [166] her of his beſt ſervices, to bid adieu to Laura, and to ſeize the laſt opportunity he might ever poſſeſs of diſcloſing to her his admiration and his love, die Earl re⯑viſited the apartments of the Baroneſs. She felt a lively pleaſure on the proſpect of his eſcape; and Laura, in the joy which animated her on hearing this in⯑telligence, forgot the ſorrows of her own ſituation; forgot that of which her heart ſoon reminded her—that Oſbert was leaving the place of her confinement, and that she ſhould probably ſee him no more. This thought caſt a ſudden ſhade over her features, and from the enlivening expreſſion of joy, they re⯑ſumed their wonted melancholy. Oſbert marked the momentary change, and his heart ſpoke to him the occaſion. "My cup of joy is dashed with bitterneſs," said he, "for amid the happineſs of ap⯑proaching deliverance, I quit not my priſon without ſome pangs of keen re⯑gret;—pangs which it were probably [167] uſeleſs to make known, yet which my feelings will not ſuffer me at this mo⯑ment to conceal. Within theſe walls, from whence I fly with eagerneſs, I leave a heart fraught with the moſt ten⯑der paſſion;—a heart, which while it beats with life, muſt ever unite the image of Laura with the fondneſs of love. Could I hope that ſhe were not inſenſible to my attachment I ſhould de⯑part in peace, and would defy the obſta⯑cles which bid me deſpair. Were I even certain that ſhe would repel my love with cold indifference, I would yet if ſhe accept my ſervices, effect her reſcue or give my life the forfeiture." Laura was ſilent; ſhe wiſhed to ſpeak her gratitude, yet feared to tell her love; but the ſoft timidity of her eye, and the tender glow of her cheek, revealed the ſecret that trembled on her lips. The Baroneſs obſerved her confuſion, and thanking the Earl for the noble ſervice he offered, declined accepting it; ſhe [168] beſought him to involve no further the peace of his family and of himſelf, by attempting an enterprize ſo crowded with dangers, and which might proba⯑bly coſt him his life. The arguments of the Baroneſs fell forceleſs when op⯑poſed to the feelings of the Earl; ſo warmly he urged his ſuit, and dwelt ſo forcibly on his approaching departure, that the Baroneſs ceaſed to oppoſe, and the ſilence of Laura yielded acqui⯑eſcence. After a tender farewell, with many earneſt wiſhes for his ſafety, the Earl quitted the apartment elated with hope. But the Baron had been in⯑formed of his projected eſcape, and had ſtudied the means of counteracting it. The centinel had communicated his diſcovery to ſome of his comrades, who without virtue or courage ſufficient to quit the ſervice of the Baron, were de⯑ſirous of obtaining his favour, and failed not to ſeize on an opportunity ſo flat⯑tering as the preſent, to accomplish [169] their purpoſe. They communicated to their Chief the intelligence they had received.

Malcolm, careful to conceal his know⯑ledge of the ſcheme, from a deſign to entrap thoſe of the clan who were to meet the Earl, had ſuffered Edmund to return to his ſtation at the priſon, where he had placed the informers as ſecret guards, and had taken ſuch other pre⯑cautions as were neceſſary to intercept their flight, ſhould they elude the vigi⯑lance of the ſoldiers, and likewiſe to ſe⯑cure thoſe of his people who ſhould be drawn toward the caſtle in expectation of their Chief. Having done this, he prided himſelf in ſecurity, and in the certainty of exulting over his enemies, thus entangled in their own ſtratagem.

After many weary moments of impa⯑tience to Alleyn, and of expectation to the Earl, the night at length arrived on [170] which hung the event of all their hopes. It was agreed that Alleyn, with a choſen few, ſhould await the arrival of the Earl in the cavern where terminated the ſubterraneous avenue. Alleyn parted from James with extreme agitation, and returned to his tent to compoſe his mind.

It was now the dead of night; pro⯑found ſleep reigned through the caſtle of Dunbayne, when Edmund gently unbolted the priſon door, and hailed the Earl. He ſprung forward, and inſtantly uncloſed the pannel, which they faſ⯑tened after them to prevent diſcovery, and paſſing with fearful ſteps the cold and ſilent apartments, deſcended the great ſtair-caſe into the hall, whoſe wide and dark deſolation was rendered viſible only by the dim light of the taper which Edmund carried in his hand, and whoſe vaulted ceiling re⯑echoed their ſteps. After various wind⯑ings [171] they deſcended into the vaults; in paſſing their dreary length they often pauſed in fearful ſilence, liſtening to the hollow blaſts which burſt ſuddenly through the paſſages, and which ſeemed to bear in the ſound the footſteps of purſuit. At length they reached the extremity of the vaults, where Edmund ſearched for a trap-door which lay al⯑most concealed in the dirt and darkneſs; after ſome time they found, and with difficulty raiſed it, for it was long ſince it had been opened; and it was beſides heavy with iron work. They entered, and letting the door fall after them, deſcended a narrow ſlight of ſteps which conducted them to a winding paſſage cloſed by a door that opened in⯑to the main avenue whence Alleyn had before made his eſcape. Having gained this, they ſtepped on with confidence, for they were now not far from the ca⯑vern where Alleyn and his companions were awaiting their arrival. The heart [172] of Alleyn now ſwelled with joy, for he perceived a gleam of diſtant light break upon the walls of the avenue, and at the ſame time thought he heard the faint ſound of approaching footſteps. Im⯑patient to throw himſelf at the feet of the Earl, he entered the avenue. The light grew ſtronger upon the walls; but a point of rock whoſe projection cauſed a winding in the paſſage, concealed from his view the perſon his eyes ſo eagerly ſought. The ſound of ſteps was now faſt approaching, and Alleyn gaining the rock, ſuddenly turned upon three ſoldiers of the Baron. They inſtantly ſeized him their priſoner. Aſtoniſh⯑ment for a while overcome every other ſenſation; but as they led him along, the horrid reverſe of the moment ſtruck upon his heart with all its conſequences, and he had no doubt that the Earl had been ſeized and carried back to his pri⯑ſon. As he marched along abſorbed in this reflection, a light appeared at [173] ſome diſtance, from a door that opened upon the avenue, and diſcovered the figures of two men, who on perceiving the party, retreated with precipitation, and cloſed the door after them. Alleyn knew the Earl in the perſon of one of them. Two of the ſoldiers quitting Alleyn, purſued the fugitives, and quickly diſappeared through a door. Alleyn finding himſelf alone with the guard, ſeized the moment of opportu⯑nity, and made a deſperate effort to re⯑gain his ſword. He ſucceeded; and in the ſuddenneſs of the attack, obtained alſo the weapon of his adverſary, who, unarmed, fell at his feet, and called for mercy. Alleyn gave him his life. The ſoldier, grateful for the gift, and fearful of the Baron's vengeance, deſired to fly with him, and enliſt in his ſervice. They quitted the ſubterraneous way to⯑gether. On entering the cavern, Alleyn found it vacated by his friends, who on hearing the claſh of armour, and the [174] loud and menacing voices of the ſol⯑diers, underſtood his fate, and appre⯑henſive of numbers, had fled to avoid a ſimilar diſaſter. Alleyn returned to his tent, ſhocked with diſappointment, and loſt in deſpair. Every effort which he had made for the deliverance of the Earl, had proved unſucceſsful; and this ſcheme, on which was ſuſpended his laſt hope, had been defeated at the very moment in which he exulted in its com⯑pletion. He threw himſelf on the ground, and loſt in bitter thought, ob⯑ſerved not the curtain of his tent un⯑draw, till recalled by a ſudden noiſe, he looked up, and beheld the Earl. Ter⯑ror fixed him to the ſpot, and for a mo⯑ment he involuntarily acknowledged the traditionary viſions of his nation. The well-known voice of Oſbert, however, awakened him to truth, and the ardor with which he embraced his knees, immediately convinced him that he claſped reality.

[175] The ſoldiers, in the eagerneſs of pur⯑ſuit, had miſtaken the door by which Oſbert had retired, and had entered one below it, which after engaging them in a fruitleſs ſearch through various intri⯑cate paſſages, had conducted them to a remote part of the caſtle, from whence after much perplexity and loſs of time, they were at length extricated. The Earl, who had retreated on ſight of the ſoldiers, had fled in the mean time to regain the trap-door; but the united ſtrength of himſelf and of Edmund was in vain exerted to open it. Compelled to encounter the approaching evil, the Earl took the ſword of his companion, reſolving to meet the approach of his adverſaries, and to effect his deliver⯑ance or yield his life and his misfor⯑tunes to the attempt. With this deſign he advanced deliberately along the paſ⯑ſage, and arriving at the door, ſtopped to diſcover the motions of his purſuers: all was profoundly ſilent. After re⯑maining [176] ſome time in this ſituation, he opened the door, and examining the avenue with a firm yet anxious eye as far as the light of his taper threw its beams, diſcovered no human being. He proceeded with cautious firmneſs towards the cavern, every inſtant ex⯑pecting the ſoldiers to ſtart ſuddenly upon him from ſome dark receſs.—With aſtoniſhment he reached the cave without interruption; and unable to ac⯑count for his unexpected deliverance, haſtened with Edmund to join his faith⯑ful people.

The ſoldiers who watched the priſon, being ignorant of any other way by which the Earl could eſcape, than the door which they guarded, had ſuffered Edmund to enter the apartment without fear. It was ſome time before they diſcovered their error; ſurprized at the length of his ſtay, they opened the door of the priſon, which to their utter aſto⯑niſhment, [177] they found empty. The grates were examined; they remained as uſual; every corner was explored; but the falſe pannel remained unknown; and having finiſhed their examination without diſcovering any viſible means by which the Earl had quitted the pri⯑ſon, they were ſeized with terror, con⯑cluding it to be the work of a ſuper⯑natural power, and immediately alarmed the caſtle. The Baron, rouſed by the tumult, was informed of the fact, and dubious of the integrity of his guards, aſcended to the apartment; which hav⯑ing himſelf examined without diſcover⯑ing any means of eſcape, he no longer heſitated to pronounce the centinels ac⯑ceſſary to the Earl's enlargement. The unfeigned terror which they exhibited was miſtaken for artifice, and their ſuppoſed treachery was admitted and puniſhed in the ſame moment. They were thrown into the dungeon of the caſtle. Soldiers were immediately diſ⯑patched in purſuit, but the time [178] which had elapſed ere the guards had entered the priſon, had given the Earl an opportunity of eſcape. When the certainty of this was communicated to the Baron, every paſſion whoſe ſingle force is miſery, united in his breaſt to torture him; and his brain exaſperated almoſt to madneſs, gave him only dire⯑ful images of revenge.

The Baroneſs and Laura awakened by the tumult, had been filled with appre⯑henſion for the Earl, till they were in⯑formed of the cauſe of the general con⯑fuſion; and hope and dubious joy were ere long confirmed into certainty, for they were told of the fruitleſs ſearch of the purſuers.

It was now the laſt day of the term in which the Counteſs had ſtipulated to return her anſwer; ſhe had yet heard nothing from Alleyn; for Alleyn had been buſied in ſchemes, of the event of [179] which he could ſend no account, for their ſucceſs had been yet undetermined. Every hope of the Earl's deliverance was now expired, and in the anguiſh of her heart, the Counteſs prepared to give that anſwer which would ſend the devoted Mary to the arms of the murderer.

Mary, who aſſumed a fortitude not her own, ſtrove to abate the rigor of her mother's ſufferings, but vainly ſtrove; they were of a nature which defied con⯑ſolation. She wrote the fatal agree⯑ment, but delayed till the laſt moment delivering it into the hands of the meſ⯑ſenger. It was neceſſary, however, that the Baron ſhould receive it on the fol⯑lowing morn, leſt the impatience of re⯑venge ſhould urge him to ſeize on the life of the Earl as the forfeiture of delay. She ſent, therefore, for the meſſenger, who was a veteran of the clan, and with extreme agitation delivered to him her anſwer; grief interrupted her voice; ſhe was unable to ſpeak to him; and he was [180] awaiting her orders, when the door of the apartment was thrown open, and the Earl, followed by Alleyn, threw himſelf at her feet. A faint ſcream was uttered by the Counteſs, and ſhe ſunk, in her chair. Mary not daring to truſt herſelf with the delightful viſion, endea⯑voured to reſtrain the tide of joy which hurried to her heart, and threatened to overwhelm her.

The caſtle of Athlin refounded with tumultuous joy on this happy event; the courts were filled with thoſe of the clan who had been diſabled from attend⯑ing the field, and whom the report of the Earl's return, which had circulated with aſtoniſhing rapidity, had brought thither. The hall re-echoed with voices; and the people could ſcarcely be re⯑ſtrained from ruſhing into the preſence of their Chief, to congratulate him on his eſcape.

[181] When the firſt tranſports of the meet⯑ing were ſubſided, the Earl preſented Alleyn to his family as his friend and deliverer; whoſe ſteady attachment he could never forget, and whoſe zealous ſervices he could never repay. The cheek of Mary glowed with pleaſure and gratitude at this tribute to the worth of Alleyn; and the ſmiling approation of her eyes rewarded him for his noble deeds. The Counteſs received him as the deliverer of both her children, and related to Oſbert the adventure in the wood. The Earl embraced Alleyn, who received the united ac⯑knowledgements of the family with unaffected modeſty. Oſbert heſitated not to pronounce the Baron the author of the plot; his heart ſwelled to avenge the repeated injuries of his family, and he ſecretly reſolved to challenge his enemy to ſingle combat. To renew the ſiege he conſidered as a vain project; and this challenge, though a very ina⯑dequate mode of revenge, was the only [182] honourable one that remained for him. He forbore to mention his deſign to the Counteſs, well knowing that her tender⯑neſs would oppoſe the meaſure, and throw difficulties in his way which would embaraſs, without preventing his purpoſe. He mentioned the mis⯑fortunes of the Baroneſs, and the love⯑lineſs of her daughter, and excited the eſteem and the commiſſeration of his hearers.

The clamours of the people to be⯑hold their Lord, now aroſe to the apartment of the Counteſs, and he de⯑ſcended into the hall, accompanied by Alleyn, to gratify their zeal. An uni⯑verſal ſhout of joy reſounded through the walls on his appearance. A noble pleaſure glowed on the countenance of the Earl at ſight of his faithful peo⯑ple; and in the delight of that moment his heart bore teſtimony to the ſuperior advantages of an equitable government. [183] The Earl impatient to teſtify his grati⯑tude, introduced Alleyn to the clan as his friend and deliverer, and immedi⯑ately preſented his father with a lot of land, where he might end his days in peace and plenty. Old Alleyn thanked the Earl for his offered kindneſs, but declined accepting it; alledging, that he was attached to his old cottage, and that he had already ſufficient for the comforts of his age.

On the following morning a meſſen⯑ger was privately diſpatched to the Ba⯑ron, with the challenge of the Earl. The challenge was couched in terms of haughty indignation, and expreſſed that nothing but the failure of all other means could have urged him to the condeſcenſion of meeting the aſſaſſin of his father, on terms of equal combat.

Happineſs was once more reſtored to Athlin. The Counteſs, in the unex⯑pected [184] preſervation of her children, ſeemed to be alive only to joy. The Earl was now for a time ſecure in the boſom of his family, and though his impatience to avenge the injuries of thoſe moſt dear to him, and to ſnatch from the hand of oppreſſion, the fair ſufferers at Dunbayne, would not allow him to be tranquil, yet he aſſumed a gaiety unknown to his heart, and the days were ſpent in feſtivals and joy.

CHAPTER IX.

IT was at this period, that one ſtormy evening, the Counteſs was ſitting with her family in a room, the windows of which looked upon the ſea. The winds burſt in ſudden ſqualls over the deep, and daſhed the foaming waves againſt the rocks with inconceivable fury. The ſpray, notwithstanding the high ſituation of the caſtle, flew up with violence againſt the windows. The Earl went out upon the terrace beneath to contemplate the ſtorm. The moon ſhone faintly by intervals, through bro⯑ken clouds upon the waters, illumining the white foam which burſt around, and enlightening the ſcene ſufficiently to ren⯑der it viſible. The ſurges broke on the diſtant ſhores in deep reſounding mur⯑murs, and the ſolemn pauſes between the ſtormy guſts filled the mind with [186] enthuſiaſtic awe. As the Earl ſtood wrapt in the ſublimity of the ſcene, the moon ſuddenly emerging from a heavy cloud, ſhewed him at ſome diſtance, a veſſel driven by the fury of the blaſt to⯑wards the coaſt. He preſently heard the ſignals of diſtreſs; and ſoon after ſhrieks of terror, and a confuſed uproar of voices were borne on the wind. He haſtened from the terrace to order his people to go out with boats to the aſſiſt⯑ance of the crew, for he doubted not that the veſſel was wrecked; but the ſea ran ſo high as to make the adventure impracticable. The ſound of voices ceaſed, and he concluded the wretched mariners were loſt, when the ſcreams of diſtreſs again ſtruck his ear, and again were loſt in the tumult of the ſtorm; in a moment after the veſſel ſtruck upon the rock beneath the caſtle; an univer⯑ſal ſhriek enſued. The Earl, with his people, haſtened to the aſſiſtance of the crew; the fury of the guſt was now [187] abated, and the Earl jumping into a boat with Alleyn and ſome others, rowed to the ſhip, where they reſcued a part of the drowning people. They were conducted to the caſtle, and every com⯑fort was liberally adminiſtered to them. Among thoſe whom the Earl had re⯑ceived into his boat, was a ſtranger, whoſe dignified aſpect and manners be⯑ſpoke him to be of rank; he had ſeve⯑ral people belonging to him, but they were foreigners, and ignorant of the language of the country. He thanked his deliverer with a noble frankneſs that charmed him. In the hall they were met by the Counteſs and her daughter, who received the ſtranger with the warm welcome which compaſſion for his ſitu⯑ation had inſpired. He was conducted to the ſupper room, where the magnifi⯑cence of the board exhibited only the uſual hoſpitality of his hoſt. The ſtran⯑ger ſpoke Engliſh fluently, and diſ⯑played in his converſation a manly and [188] vigorous mind, acquainted with the ſciences, and with life; and the caſt of his obſervations ſeemed to characterize the benevolence of his heart. The Earl was ſo much pleaſed with his gueſt, that he preſſed him to remain at his caſtle till another veſſel could be pro⯑cured; his gueſt equally pleaſed with the Earl, and a ſtranger to the country, accepted the invitation.

New diſtreſs now broke upon the peace of Athlin; ſeveral days had ex⯑pired, and the meſſenger who had been ſent to Malcolm, did not appear. It was almoſt evident that the Baron, diſ⯑appointed and enraged at the eſcape of his priſoner, and eager for a ſacrifice, had ſeized this man as the ſubject of a paltry revenge. The Earl, however, reſolved to wait a few days, and watch the event.

The ſtruggles of latent tenderneſs [189] and aſſumed indifference, baniſhed tran⯑quillity from the boſom of Mary, and pierced it with many ſorrows. The friendship and honours beſtowed by the Earl on Alleyn, who now reſided ſolely at the caſtle, touched her heart with a ſweet pride; but alas! theſe diſtincti⯑ons ſerved only to confirm her admira⯑tion of that worth which had already attached her affections, and afforded him opportunities of exhibiting in brighter colours the various excellen⯑cies of a heart noble and expanſive, and of a mind whoſe native elegance melio⯑rated and adorned the bold vigour of its flights. The langour of melancholy, notwithſtanding the efforts of Mary, would at intervals ſteal from beneath the diſguiſe of cheerfulneſs, and diffuſe over her beautiful features an expreſſion ex⯑tremely interesting. The ſtranger was not inſenſible to its charms, and it ſerved to heighten the admiration with which he had firſt beheld her into ſome⯑thing [190] more tender and more powerful. The modeſt dignity with which ſhe de⯑livered her ſentiments, which breathed the pureſt delicacy and benevolence, touched his heart, and he felt an intereſt concerning her which he had never be⯑fore experienced.

Alleyn, whoſe heart amid the anxieties and tumults of the paſt ſcenes, had ſtill ſighed to the image of Mary;—that image which fancy had pictured in all the charms of the original, and whoſe glowing tints were yet softened and ren⯑dered more intereſting by the ſhade of melancholy with which abſence and a hopeleſs paſſion had ſurrounded them, found amid the leiſure of peace, and the frequent opportunities which were afforded him of beholding the ob⯑ject of his attachment, his ſighs re⯑double, and the glooms of ſorrow thick⯑en. In the preſence of Mary, a ſoft ſadneſs clouded his brow; he endea⯑voured [191] to aſſume a cheerfulneſs foreign to his heart; but endeavoured in vain. Mary perceived the change in his manners; and the obſervation did not contribute to enliven her own. The Earl, too, obſerved that Alleyn had loſt much of his wonted ſpirits, and bantered him on the change, but thought not of his ſiſter.

Alleyn wiſhed to quit a place ſo de⯑ſtructive to his peace as the caſtle of Athlin; he formed repeated reſolutions of withdrawing himſelf from thoſe walls which held him in a ſort of faſcination, and rendered ineffectual every half-formed wiſh, and every weak endea⯑vour. When he could no longer be⯑hold Mary, he would frequently retire to the terrace, which was overlooked by the windows of her apartment, and ſpend half the night in traverſing with ſilent mournful ſteps, that ſpot which afforded him the melancholy pleaſure of being near the object of his love.

[192] Matilda wiſhed to queſtion Alleyn concerning ſome circumſtances of the late events, and for this purpoſe or⯑dered him one day to attend her in her cloſet. As he paſſed the outer apart⯑ment of the Counteſs, he perceived ſomething lying near the door through which ſhe had before gone, and examin⯑ing it, diſcovered a bracelet, to which was attached a miniature of Mary. His heart beat quick at the ſight; the temptation was too powerful to be re⯑ſiſted; he concealed it in his boſom, and paſſed on. On quitting the cloſet, he ſought with breathleſs impatience, a ſpot where he might contemplate at leiſure that precious portrait which chance had ſo kindly thrown in his way. He drew it trembling from his boſom, and beheld again that countenance whoſe ſweet ex⯑preſſion had touched his heart with all the delightful agonies of love. As he preſſed it with impaſſioned tenderneſs to his lips, the tear of rapture trembled [193] in his eye, and the romantic ardor of the moment was ſcarcely heightened by the actual preſence of the beloved object, whoſe light ſtep now ſtole upon his ear, and half turning, he beheld not the picture, but the reality!—Surprized!—Confuſed!—The picture fell from his hand. Mary, who had accidentally ſtrolled to that ſpot, on obſerving the agitation of Alleyn, was retiring, when he, in whoſe heart had been awakened every tender ſenſation, loſing in the temptation of the moment the fear of diſdain, and forgetting the reſolution which he had formed of eternal ſilence, threw himſelf at her feet, and preſſed her hand to his trembling lips. His tongue would have told her that he loved, but his emotion, and the repul⯑ſive look of Mary, prevented him. She inſtantly diſengaged herſelf with an air of offended dignity, and caſting on him a look of mingled anger and concern, withdrew in ſilence. Alleyn remained [194] fixed to the ſpot; his eyes purſuing her retiring ſteps, inſenſible to every feeling but love and deſpair. So abſorbed was he in the tranſition of the moment, that he almoſt doubted whether a viſionary illuſion had not croſſed his ſight to blaſt his only remaining comfort—the con⯑ſciouſneſs of deſerving, and of poſſeſſing the eſteem of her he loved. He left the place with anguiſh in his heart, and in the perturbation of his mind for⯑got the picture.

Mary had obſerved her mother's bracelet fall from his hand, and was no longer in perplexity concerning her mi⯑niature; but in the confuſion which his behaviour occ [...]ſioned her, ſhe forgot to demand it of him. The Counteſs had miſſed it almoſt immediately after his departure from the cloſet, and had caused a ſearch to be made, which proving fruitleſs, her ſuſpicions wavered upon him. The Earl, who ſoon after [195] paſſed the ſpot whence Alleyn had juſt departed, found the miniature. It was not long ere Alleyn recollected the treaſure he had dropped, and returned in ſearch of it. Inſtead of the picture, he found the Earl: a conſcious bluſh croſſed his cheek; the confuſion of his countenance informed Oſbert of a part of the truth; who, anxious to know by what means he had obtained it, pre⯑ſented him the picture, and demanded if he knew it. The ſoul of Alleyn knew not to diſſemble; he acknow⯑ledged that he had found, and concealed it; prompted by that paſſion, the con⯑feſſion of which, no other circumſtance than the preſent could have wrung from his heart. The Earl liſtened to him with a mixture of concern and pity; but hereditary pride chilled the warm feelings of friendſhip and of gratitude, and extinguiſhed the faint ſpark of hope which the diſcovery had kindled in the boſom of Alleyn. "Fear not, my [196] Lord," ſaid he, "the degradation of your houſe from one who would ſacri⯑fice his life in its defence; never more ſhall the paſſion which glows in my heart eſcape from my lips. I will re⯑tire from the ſpot where I have buried my tranquillity." "No," replied the Earl, "you ſhall remain here; I can confide in your honour. O! that the only reward which is adequate to your worth and to your ſervices, ſhould be impoſſible for me to beſtow." His voice faultered, and he turned away to conceal his emotion, with a ſuffering little inferior to that of Alleyn.

The diſcovery which Mary had made, did not contribute to reſtore peace to her mind. Every circumſtance con⯑ſpired to aſſure her of that ardent paſſion which filled the boſom of him whom all her endeavours could not teach her to forget; and this conviction ſerved only [197] to heighten her malady, and conſe⯑quently her wretchedneſs.

The intereſt which the ſtranger diſ⯑covered, and the attention he paid to Mary, had not paſſed unobſerved by Alleyn. Love pointed to him the pas⯑ſion which was riſing in his heart, and whiſpered that the vows of his rival would be propitious. The words of Oſbert confirmed him in the torturing apprehenſion; for though his humble birth had never ſuffered him to hope, yet he thought he diſcovered in the ſpeech of the Earl, ſomething more than mere hereditary pride.

The ſtranger had contemplated the lovely form of Mary with increaſing admiration ſince the firſt hour he beheld her; this admiration was now confirmed into love;—and he re⯑ſolved to acquaint the Earl with his birth, and with his paſſion. For this [198] purpoſe, he one morning drew him aſide to the terrace of the caſtle, where they could converſe without interrup⯑tion; and pointing to the ocean, over which he had ſo lately been borne, thanked the Earl, who had thus ſoftened the horrors of ſhipwreck, and the deſo⯑lation of a foreign land, by the kind⯑neſs of his hoſpitality. He informed him that he was a native of Switzer⯑land, where he poſſeſſed considerable eſtates, from which he bore the title of Count de Santmorin; that enquiry of much moment to his intereſts had brought him to Scotland, to a neigh⯑bouring port of which he was bound, when the diſaſter from which he had been ſo happily reſcued, arreſted the progreſs of his deſigns. He then related to the Earl, that his voyage was under⯑taken upon a report of the death of ſome relations, at whoſe demiſe conſiderable eſtates in Switzerland became his inhe⯑ritance. That the income of theſe eſtates [199] had been hitherto received upon the authority of powers, which, if the report was true, were become invalid.

The Earl liſtened to this narrative in ſilent aſtoniſhment, and enquired with much emotion, the name of the Count's relations. "The Baroneſs Malcolm," returned he. The Earl claſped his hands in extaſy. The Count, ſurprized at his agitation, began to fear that the Earl was diſagreeably interested in the welfare of his adverſaries, and regretted that he had diſcloſed the affair, till he obſerved the pleaſure which was diffuſed through his features. Oſbert explained the cauſe of his emotion, by relating his know⯑ledge of the Baroneſs; in the progreſs of whoſe ſtory, the character of Mal⯑colm was ſufficiently elucidated. He diſcovered the cauſe of his hatred to⯑wards the Baron, and the hiſtory of his impriſonment; and alſo confided to his honour the ſecret of his challenge.

[200] The indignation of the Count was ſtrongly excited; he was, however, prevailed on by Oſbert to forego any immediate effort of revenge, awaiting for a while the movements of Malcolm.

The Count was ſo abſorbed in won⯑der and in new ſenſations, that he had almoſt forgot the chief object of the in⯑terview. Recollecting himſelf, he diſ⯑covered his paſſion, and requeſted per⯑miſſion of the Earl to throw himſelf at the feet of Mary. The Earl liſtened to the declaration with a mixture of plea⯑ſure and concern; the remembrance of Alleyn ſaddened his mind; but the wiſh of an equal connection, made him wel⯑come the offers of the Count, whoſe alli⯑ance, he told him, would do honour to the firſt nobility of his nation. If he ſound the ſentiments of his ſiſter in ſympathy with his own on this point, he would welcome him to his family with the affection of a brother; but he [201] wiſhed to diſcover the ſituation of her heart, ere his noble friend diſcloſed to her his prepoſſeſſion.

The Earl, on his return to the caſtle, enquired for Mary, whom he found in the apartment of her mother. He opened to them the hiſtory of the Count; his relationſhip with the Baroneſs Mal⯑colm, with the object of his expedition; and cloſed the narrative with diſcover⯑ing the attachment of his friend to Mary, and his offers of alliance with his family. Mary grew pale at this decla⯑ration; there was a pang in her heart which would not ſuffer her to ſpeak; ſhe threw her eyes on the ground, and burſt into tears. The Earl took her hand tenderly in his; "my beloved ſiſter," ſaid he, "knows me too well to doubt my affection, or to ſuppoſe I can wiſh to influence her upon a ſubject ſo material to her future happineſs, and where her heart ought to be the princi⯑pal [202] directreſs. Do me the juſtice to be⯑lieve, that I make known to you the offers of the Count as a friend, not as a director. He is a man, who from the ſhort period of our acquaintance, I have judged to be deſerving of particular eſteem. His mind appears to be noble; his heart expanſive; his rank is equal with your own; and he loves you with an attachment warm and ſincere. But with all theſe advantages, I would not have my ſiſter give herſelf to the man who does not meet an intereſt in her heart to plead his cauſe."

The gentle ſoul of Mary ſwelled with gratitude towards her brother; ſhe would have thanked him for the ten⯑derneſs of theſe ſentiments, but a variety of emotions were ſtruggling at her heart, and ſtopped her utterance; tears, and a ſmile ſoftly clouded with ſorrow, were all ſhe could give him in reply. He could not but perceive that ſome ſe⯑cret [203] cauſe of grief preyed upon her mind, and he ſolicited to know, and to remove it. "My dear brother will believe the gratitude which his kind⯑neſs—." She would have finiſhed the ſentence, but the words died away upon her lips, and ſhe threw herſelf on the boſom of her mother, concealing her diſtreſs, and wept in ſilence. The Counteſs too well underſtood the grief of her daughter; ſhe had witneſſed the ſecret ſtruggles of her heart, which all her endeavours were not able to eraſe, and which rendered the offers of the Count diſguſting, and dreadful to her imagination. Matilda knew how to feel for her ſufferings, but the affection of the mother extended her views be⯑yond the preſent temporary evil, to the future welfare of her child; and in the long perſpective of ſucceeding years, ſhe beheld her united to the Count, whoſe character diffuſed happineſs, and the mild dignity of virtue to all around him; [204] ſhe received the thanks of Mary for her gentle guidance to the good ſhe poſ⯑ſeſſed; the artleſs looks of the little ones around her, ſmiled their thanks; and the luxury of that ſcene recalled the memory of times for ever paſſed, and mingled with the tear of rapture, the ſigh of fond regret. The ſureſt method of eraſing that affection which threat⯑ened ſerious evil to the peace of her child if ſuffered to continue, and to ſecure her permanent felicity, was to unite her to the Count; whoſe amiable diſpoſitions would ſoon win her affecti⯑ons, and obliterate from her heart every improper remembrance of Alleyn. She determined, therefore, to employ argu⯑ment and gentle perſuaſion, to guide her to her purpoſe. She knew the mind of Mary to be delicate and candid; eaſy of conviction, and firm to purſue what her judgment approved; and ſhe did not deſpair of ſucceeding.

[205] The Earl ſtill preſſed to know the cauſe of that emotion which afflicted her. "I am unworthy of your ſoli⯑citude," ſaid Mary, "I cannot teach my heart to ſubmit." "To ſubmit!—Can you ſuppoſe your friends can wiſh your heart to ſubmit on a point ſo material to its happineſs, to ought that is repugnant to its feelings? If the offers of the Count are diſpleaſing to you, tell me ſo; and I will return him his anſwer. Believe that my firſt wiſh is to ſee you happy." "Generous Oſbert! How can I repay the goodneſs of ſuch a brother! I would accept in gratitude the hand of the Count, did not my feel⯑ings aſſure me I ſhould be miſerable. I admire his character, and eſteem his goodneſs; but alas!—why ſhould I conceal it from you?—My heart is another's—is another's, whoſe noble deeds have won its involuntary regards; one who is yet unconſcious of my diſ⯑tinction, and who ſhall for ever remain [206] in ignorance of it." The idea of Alleyn flaſhed into the mind of the Earl, and he no longer doubted to whom her heart was engaged. "My own ſenti⯑ments," ſaid he, "ſufficiently inform me of the object of your admiration. You do well to remember the dignity of your ſex and of your rank; though I muſt lament with you, that worth like Alleyn's is not impowered by fortune to take its ſtandard with nobility." At Alleyn's name, the bluſhes of Mary con⯑firmed Oſbert in his diſcovery. "My child," ſaid the Counteſs, "will not reſign her tranquillity to a vain and ignoble attachment. She may eſteem merit wherever it is found, but ſhe will remember the duty which ſhe owes to her family and to herſelf, in contracting an alliance which is to ſupport or dimi⯑niſh the ancient conſequence of her houſe. The offers of a man endowed with ſo much apparent excellence as the Count, and whoſe birth is equal to [207] your own, affords a proſpect too pro⯑miſing of felicity, to be haſtily re⯑jected. We will hereafter converſe more largely on this ſubject." "Ne⯑ver ſhall you have reaſon to bluſh for your daughter," ſaid Mary, with a modeſt pride; "but pardon me, Madam, if I entreat that we no more renew a ſubject ſo painful to my fee⯑lings, and which cannot be productive of good;—for never will I give my hand where my heart does not ac⯑company it." This was not a time to preſs the topic; the Counteſs for the preſent deſiſted, and the Earl left the apartment with an heart divided be⯑tween pity and diſappointment. Hope, however, whiſpered to his wiſhes, that Mary might in time be induced to admit the addreſſes of the Count, and he de⯑termined not wholly to deſtroy his hopes.

CHAPTER X.

THE Count was walking on the ramparts of the caſtle, involved in thought, when Oſbert approached; whoſe lingering ſtep and diſappointed air, ſpoke to his heart the rejection of his ſuit. He told the Count that Mary did not at preſent feel for him thoſe ſentiments of affection which would juſtify her in accepting his propoſals. This information, though it ſhocked the hopes of the Count, did not entirely deſtroy them; for he yet believed that time and aſſiduity might befriend his wiſhes. While theſe Noblemen were leaning on the walls of the caſtle, en⯑gaged in earneſt converſation, they ob⯑ſerved on a diſtant hill a cloud emerging from the verge of the horizon, whoſe duſky hue glittered with ſudden light; [209] in an inſtant they deſcried the glance of arms, and a troop of armed men poured in long ſucceſſion over the hill, and hurried down its ſide to the plains be⯑low. The Earl thought he recognized the clan of the Baron. It was the Baron himſelf who now advanced at the head of his people, in ſearch of that revenge which had been hitherto denied him; and who, determined on conqueſt, had brought with him an hoſt which he thought more than ſufficient to over⯑whelm the caſtle of his enemy.

The meſſenger who had been ſent with the challenge, had been detained a priſoner by Malcolm; who, in the mean time, had haſtened his preparations to ſurprize the caſtle of Athlin. The de⯑tention of his ſervant had awakened the ſuſpicions of the Earl, and he had taken precautions to guard againſt the deſigns of his enemy. He had ſum⯑moned his clan to hold themſelves in [210] readineſs for a ſudden attack, and had prepared his caſtle for the worſt emer⯑gency. He now ſent a meſſenger to the clan with ſuch orders as he judged expedient, arranged his plans within the walls, and took his ſtation on the ram⯑parts to obſerve the movements of his enemy. The Count, clad in arms, ſtood by his ſide. Alleyn was poſted with a party within the great gate of the caſtle.

The Baron advanced with his people, and quickly ſurrounded the walls. With⯑in all was ſilent; the caſtle ſeemed to repoſe in ſecurity; and the Baron, certain of victory, congratulated himſelf on the ſucceſſ of the enterprize, when obſerv⯑ing the Earl, whoſe perſon was concealed in armour, he called to him to ſurrender himſelf and his Chief to the arms of Malcolm. The Earl anſwered the ſum⯑mons with an arrow from his bow, which, miſſing the Baron, pierced one of [211] his attendants. The archers who had been planted behind the walls, now diſcovered themſelves, and diſcharged a ſhower of arrows; at the ſame time every part of the caſtle appeared thronged with the ſoldiers of the Earl, who hurled on the heads of the aſtonished beſiegers, launces and other miſſil weapons with unceaſing rapidity. The alarum bell now rung out the ſignal to that part of the clan without the walls, and they immedi⯑ately poured upon the enemy, who, confounded by this unexpected attack, had ſcarcely time to defend themſelves. The clang of arms reſounded through the air, with the ſhouts of the victors and the groans of the dying. The fear of the Baron, which had principally operated on the minds of his people, was now overcome by ſurprize, and the fear of death; and on the firſt repulſe, they deſerted from the ranks in great numbers, and fled to the diſtant hills. In vain the Baron endeavoured to rally [212] his ſoldiers, and keep them to the charge; they yielded to a ſtronger im⯑pulſe than the menaces of their Chief, who was now left with leſs than half his numbers at the foot of the walls. The Baron, to whom cowardice was un⯑known, diſdaining to retreat, continued the attack. At length the gates of the caſtle were thrown open, and a party iſſued upon the aſſailants, headed by the Earl and the Count, who divided in queſt of Malcolm. The Count ſought in vain, and the ſearch of Oſbert was equally fruitleſs; their adverſary was no where to be found. Oſbert, appre⯑henſive of his gaining admittance to the caſtle by ſtratagem, was returning in haſte to the gates, when he received the ſtroke of a ſword upon his ſhoulder; his armour had broke the force of the blow, and the wound it had given was ſlight. He turned his ſword, and facing his enemy, diſcovered a ſoldier of Mal⯑colm's, who attacked him with a deſpe⯑rate [213] courage. The encounter was fu⯑rious and long; dexterity and equal valour ſeemed to animate both the com⯑batants. Alleyn, who obſerved from his poſt the danger of the Earl, flew in⯑ſtantly to his aſſiſtance; but the criſis of the ſcene was paſt ere he arrived; the weapon of Oſbert had pierced the ſide of his adverſary, and he fell to the ground. The Earl diſarmed him, and holding over him his ſword, bade him aſk his life. "I have no life to aſk," ſaid Malcolm, whoſe fainting voice the Earl now diſcovered, "if I had, 'tis death only I would accept from you. O! curſed!—." He would have finiſhed the ſentence, but his wound flowed apace, and he fainted with loſs of blood. The Earl threw down his ſword, and calling a party of his people, he committed to them the care of the Baron, and ordered them to proceed and ſeize the caſtle of Dunbayne. Under⯑ſtanding their Chief was mortally [214] wounded, the remains of Malcolm's army had fled from the walls. The peo⯑ple of the Earl proceeded without inter⯑ruption, and took poſſeſſion of the caſtle without oppoſition.

The wounds of the Baron were examined when he reached Dunbayne, and a dubious ſentence of the event was pronounced. His countenance marked the powerful workings of his mind, which ſeemed labouring with an unknown evil; he threw his eyes eagerly round the apartment, as if in ſearch of ſome object which was not preſent. After ſeveral attempts to ſpeak, "Flatter me not," ſaid he, "with hopes of life; it is flitting faſt away; but while I have breath to ſpeak, let me ſee the Baroneſs." She came, and hanging over his couch in ſilent horror, received his words. "I have injured you, Madam, I fear beyond reparation. In theſe laſt few moments let me endea⯑vour to relieve my conſcience by diſco⯑vering [215] to you my guilt and my re⯑morſe." The Baroneſs ſtarted, ſearful of the coming ſentence. "You had a ſon." "What of my ſon?" "You had a ſon whom my boundleſs ambition doomed to exile from his parents and his heritage, and who I cauſed you to believe had died in your abſence." "Where is my child?" exclaimed the Baroneſs. "I know not," reſumed Malcolm, "I committed him to the care of a man and woman who then lived on a remote part of my lands, but a few years after they diſappeared, and I have never heard of them ſince. The boy paſſed for a foundling whom I had ſaved from periſhing. One ſervant only I entruſted with the ſecret; the reſt were impoſed upon. Thus far I tell you, Madam, to prompt you to enqui⯑ry, and to aſſuage the agonies of a bleed⯑ing conſcience. I have other deeds —." The Baroneſs could hear no more; she was carried inſenſible ſrom [216] the apartment. Laura, ſhocked at her condition, was informed of its cauſe, and filial tenderneſs watched over her with unwearied attention.

In the mean time the Earl, on quit⯑ting Malcolm, had returned immediate⯑ly to the caſtle, and was the firſt meſſen⯑ger of that event which would probably avenge the memory of his father, and terminate the diſtreſſes of his family. The ſight of Oſbert, and the news he brought, revived the Counteſs and Ma⯑ry, who had retired during the aſſault into an inner apartment of the caſtle for greater ſecurity, and who had ſuffered during that period all the terrors which their ſituation could inſpire. They were ſoon after joined by the Count and by Alleyn, whoſe conduct did not paſs unnoticed by the Earl. The cheek of Mary glowed at the relation of this New inſtance of his worth; and it was Alleyn's ſweet reward to obſerve [217] her emotion. There was a ſentiment in the heart of Oſbert which ſtruggled againſt the pride of birth; he wiſhed to reward the ſervices and the noble ſpirit of the youth, with the virtues of Mary; but the authority of early prejudice ſilenced the grateful impulſe, and ſwept from his heart the characters of truth.

The Earl, accompanied by the Count, now haſtened to the caſtle of Dunbayne, to cheer the Baroneſs and her daughter with their preſence. As they approached the caſtle, the ſtillneſs and deſolation of the ſcene beſpoke the ſituation of its lord; his people were entirely diſperſed, a few only of his centinels wandered before the eaſtern gate; who, having made no oppoſition, were ſuffered by the Earl's people to remain. Few of the Baron's people were to be ſeen; thoſe few were unarmed, and appeared the effigies of fallen greatneſs. As the Earl croſſed the platform, the remem⯑brance of the paſt crowded upon his [218] mind. The agonies which he had there ſuffered,—the image of death which glared upon his ſight, aggravated by the bitter and ignominious circum⯑ſtances which attended his fate; the figure of Malcolm, mighty in injuſtice, and cruel in power; whoſe counte⯑nance, ſmiling horribly in triumphant revenge, ſent to his heart the ſtroke of anguiſh;—each circumſtance of tor⯑ture aroſe to his imagination in the glowing colours of truth; he ſhuddered as he paſſed; and the contraſt of the preſent ſcene touched his heart with the moſt affecting ſentiments. He ſaw the innate and active power of juſtice, which pervades all the circumſtances even of this lifelike vital principle, and ſhines through the obſcurity of human acti⯑ons to the virtuous, the pure ray of Heaven;—to the guilty, the deſtruc⯑tive glare of lightning.

On enquiring for the Baroneſs, they [219] were told ſhe was in the apartment of Malcolm, whoſe moment of diſſolution was now approaching. The name of the Count was delivered to the Baroneſs, and overheard by the Baron, who deſired to ſee him. Louiſa went out to receive her noble relation with all the joy which a meeting ſo deſirable and ſo un-looked for, could inſpire. On ſeeing Oſbert, her tears flowed faſt; and ſhe thanked him for his generous care, in a manner that declared a deep ſenſe of his ſervices. Leaving him, ſhe conducted the Count to Malcolm, who lay on his couch ſurrounded with the ſtillneſs and horrors of death. He raiſed his languid head, and diſcovered a countenance wild and terrific, whoſe ghaſtly aſpect was overſpread with the paleneſs of death. The beauteous Laura, overcome by the ſcene, hung like a drooping lilly over his couch, dropping faſt her tears. "My lord," ſaid Malcolm, in a low tone, "you ſee before you a wretch, [220] anxious to relieve the agony of a guilty mind. My vices have deſtroyed the peace of this lady,—have robbed her of a ſon—but ſhe will diſcloſe to you the ſecret guilt, which I have now no time to tell. I have for ſome years received, as you now well know, the income of thoſe foreign lands which are her due; as a ſmall reparation for the injuries ſhe has ſuſtained, I bequeath to her all the poſſeſſions which I lawfully inherit, and reſign her into your protection. To aſk oblivion of the paſt of you, Madam, and of you, my Lord, is what I dare not do; yet it would be ſome conſolation to my departing ſpirit, to be aſſured of your forgiveneſs." The Baroneſs was too much affected to reply but by a look of aſſent; the Count aſſured him of forgiveneſs, and beſought him to com⯑poſe his mind for his approaching fate. "Compoſure, my Lord, is not for me; my life has been marked with vice, and my death with the bitterneſs of fruitleſs [221] remorſe. I have underſtood virtue, but I have loved vice. I do not now lament that I am puniſhed, but that I have de⯑ſerved puniſhment." The Baron ſunk on his couch, and in a few moments af⯑ter expired in a ſtrong ſigh. Thus ter⯑minated the life of a man, whoſe un⯑derſtanding might have reached the hap⯑pineſs of virtue, but whoſe actions diſ⯑played the features of vice.

From this melancholy ſcene, the Ba⯑roneſs, with the Count and Laura, re⯑tired to her apartment, where the Earl awaited their return with anxious ſoli⯑citude. The ſternneſs of juſtice for a moment relaxed when he heard of Mal⯑colm's death; his heart would have ſighed with compaſſion, had not the re⯑membrance of his father croſſed his mind, and checked the impulſe. "I can now, Madam," ſaid he, addreſſing the Baroneſs, "reſtore you a part of thoſe poſſeſſions which were once your [222] Lord's, and which ought to have been the inheritance of your ſon; this caſtle from henceforth is your's; I reſign it to its lawful owner." The Baroneſs was overcome with the remembrance of his ſervices, and could ſcarcely thank him but with her tears. The ſervant whom the Baron had mentioned as the confi⯑dant of his iniquities, was ſent for, and interrogated concerning the infant he had charge of. From him, however, little comfort was received; for he could only tell, that he had conveyed the child, by the orders of his maſter, to a cottage on the furtheſt borders of his eſtates, where he had delivered it to the care of a woman, who there lived with her huſband. Theſe people received at the ſame time, a ſum of money for its ſupport, with a promiſe of future ſup⯑plies. That for ſome years he had been punctual in the payment of the ſums entruſted to him by the Baron, but at length he yielded to the temptation of [223] with-holding them for his own uſe; and on enquiring for the people ſome years after, he found they were gone from the place. The conditions of the Ba⯑roneſs's pardon to the man, depended on his endeavours to repair the injury he had promoted, by a ſtrict ſearch for the people to whom he had committed her child. She now conſulted with her friends on the beſt means to be purſued in this buſineſs, and immediately ſent off meſſengers to different parts of the country to gather information.

The Baroneſs was now releaſed from oppreſſion and impriſonment; ſhe was re-inſtated in her ancient poſſeſſions, to which were added all the hereditary lands of Malcolm, together with his perſonal fortune: ſhe was ſurrounded by thoſe whom ſhe moſt loved, and in the midſt of a people who loved her; yet the conſequence of the Baron's guilt had left in her heart one drop of [224] gall which embittered each ſource of happineſs, and made her life melancholy and painful.

The Count was now her viſitor; ſhe was much conſoled by his preſence; and Laura's hours were often enlivened by the converſation of the Earl, to whom her heart was tenderly attached, and whoſe frequent viſits to the caſtle, were devoted to love and her.

The felicity of Matilda now appeared as perfect and as permanent as is conſiſt⯑ent with the nature of ſublunary beings. Juſtice was done to the memory of her Lord, and her beloved ſon was ſpared to bleſs the evening of her days. The father of Laura had ever been friendly to the houſe of Athlin, and her delicacy felt no repugnance to the union which Oſbert ſolicited. But her happineſs, whatever it might appear, was incom⯑plete; ſhe ſaw the ſettled melancholy of [225] Mary, for love ſtill corroded her heart, and notwithſtanding her efforts, ſhaded her aſpect. The Counteſs wiſhed to produce thoſe nuptials with the Count, which ſhe thought would re-eſtabliſh the peace of her child, and inſure her future felicity. She omitted no oppor⯑tunity of preſſing his ſuit, which ſhe managed with a delicacy that rendered it leſs painful to Mary; whoſe words, however, were few in reply, and who could ſeldom bear the ſubject to be long continued. Her ſettled averſion to the addreſſes of the Count, at length baffled the expectations of Matilda, and ſhewed her the fallacy of her efforts. She thought it improper to ſuffer the Count any longer to nouriſh in his heart a vain hope; and ſhe reluctantly commiſſioned the Earl to undeceive him on this point.

With the Baroneſs, month after month ſtill elapſed in fruitleſs ſearch of [226] her ſon; the people with whom he had been placed were no where to be found, and no track was diſcovered which might lead to the truth. The diſtreſs of the Baroneſs can only be imagined; ſhe reſigned herſelf in calm deſpair to mourn in ſilence, the eaſy confidence which had entruſted her child to the care of thoſe who had betrayed him. Though happineſs was denied her, ſhe was un⯑willing to with-hold it from thoſe whom it awaited; and at length yielded to the entreaties of the Earl, and became his advocate with Laura, for the nup⯑tials which were to unite their fate.

The Earl introduced the Counteſs and Mary to the caſtle of Dunbayne. Similarity of ſentiment and diſpoſition united Matilda and the Baroneſs in a laſting friendſhip. Mary and Laura were not leſs pleaſed with each other. The dejection of the Count at ſight of Mary, declared the ardor of his paſſion, [227] and would have awakened in her breaſt ſomething more than compaſſion, had not her heart been pre-occupied. Al⯑leyn, who could think of Mary only, wandered through the caſtle of Athlin a ſolitary being, who fondly haunts the ſpot where his happineſs lies buried. His prudence formed reſolutions which his paſſion as quickly broke; and cheat⯑ed by love, though followed by deſpair, he delayed his departure from day to day, and the illuſion of yeſterday conti⯑nued to be the illuſion of the morrow. The Earl, attached to his virtues, and grateful for his ſervices, would have beſtowed on him every honour but that alone which could give him happineſs, and which his pride would have ſuffered him to accept. Yet the honours which he refuſed—he refuſed with a grace ſo modeſt, as to conciliate kindneſs rather than wound generoſity.

In a gallery on the North ſide of the [228] caſtle, which was filled with pictures of the family, hung a portrait of Mary. She was drawn in the dreſs which ſhe wore on the day of the feſtival, when ſhe was led by the Earl into the hall, and preſented as the partner of Alleyn. The likeneſs was ſtriking, and expreſ⯑ſive of all the winning grace of the ori⯑ginal. As often as Alleyn could ſteal from obſervation, he retired to this gal⯑lery to contemplate the portrait of her who was ever preſent to his imagina⯑tion: here he could breathe that ſigh which her preſence reſtrained, and ſhed thoſe tears which her preſence forbade to flow. As he ſtood one day in this place, wrapt in melancholy muſing, his ear was ſtruck with the notes of sweet muſic; they ſeemed to iſſue from the bottom of the gallery. The inſtrument was touched with an exquiſite expreſſi⯑on, and in a voice whoſe tones floated on the air in ſoft undulations; he diſtin⯑guiſhed the following words, which he [229] remembered to be an ode compoſed by the Earl, and preſented to Mary, who had ſet it to muſic the day before.

Entranced in the ſweet ſounds, he had proceeded ſome ſteps down the gallery, when the muſic ceaſed. He ſtopped. After a ſhort pauſe it re⯑turned, and as he advanced he diſtin⯑guiſhed theſe words, ſung in a low voice mournfully ſweet:

[231] The voice was broken, and loſt in ſobs; the chords of the lute were wildly ſtruck: and in a few moments ſilence enſued. He ſtepped on towards the ſpot whence the ſounds had proceeded, and through a door which was left open, he diſcovered Mary hanging over her lute diſſolved in tears. He ſtood for ſome moments abſorbed in mute admi⯑ration, and unobſerved by Mary, who was loſt in her tears, till a ſigh which eſcaped him, recalled her to reality; ſhe raiſed her eyes, and beheld the object of her ſecret ſorrows. She aroſe in con⯑fuſion; the bluſh on her cheek betrayed her heart; ſhe was retiring in haſte from Alleyn, who remained at the entrance of the room the ſtatue of deſpair, when ſhe was intercepted by the Earl, who entered by the door ſhe was opening; her eyes were red with weeping; he glanced on her a look of ſurprize and diſpleaſure, and paſſed on to the gallery followed by Alleyn, who was now awak⯑ened [232] from his trance. "From you, Alleyn," ſaid the Earl, in a tone of diſ⯑pleaſure, "I expected other conduct; on your word I relied, and your word has deceived me." "Hear me, my Lord," returned the youth, "your confidence I have never abuſed; hear me." "I have now no time for parley," replied Oſbert, "my moments are pre⯑cious; ſome future hour of leiſure may ſuffice." So ſaying, he walked away with an abrupt haughtineſs, which touched the ſoul of Alleyn, who diſ⯑dained to purſue him with further ex⯑planation. He was now completely wretched. The ſame accident which had unveiled to him the heart of Mary, and the full extent of that happineſs which fate with-held, confirmed him in deſpair. The ſame accident had ex⯑poſed the delicacy of her he loved to a cruel ſhock, and had ſubjected his ho⯑nour to ſuſpicion; and to a ſevere re⯑buke from him, by whom it was his [233] pride to be reſpected, and for whoſe ſafety he had ſuffered impriſonment, and encountered death.

Mary had quitted the cloſet diſtreſſed and perplexed. She perceived the miſ⯑take of the Earl, and it ſhocked her. She wiſhed to undeceive him, but he was gone to the caſtle of Dunbayne, to pay one of thoſe viſits which were ſoon to conclude in the nuptials, and whence he did not return till evening. The ſcene which he had witneſſed in the morning, involved him in a tumult of diſtreſs. He conſidered the mutual paſ⯑ſion which filled the boſom of his ſiſter and Alleyn; he had ſurprized them in a ſolitary apartment; he had obſerved the tender and melancholy air of Alleyn, and the tears and confuſion of Mary; and he at firſt did not heſitate to believe that the interview had been appointed. In the heat of his diſpleaſure he had reject⯑ed the explanation of Alleyn with a [234] haughty reſentment, which the late ſcene alone could have excited, and which the deluſion it had occaſioned alone could excuſe. Cooler conſideration, however, brought to his mind the delicacy and the amiable pride of Mary, and the integrity of Alleyn; and he accuſed himſelf of a too haſty deciſion. The zealous ſervices of Alleyn came to his heart; he repented that he had treated him ſo rigorouſly; and on his return enquired for him, that he might hear an explanation, and that he might ſoften the aſperity of his for⯑mer behaviour.

CHAPTER XI.

ALLEYN was no where to be found. The Earl went himſelf in queſt of him, but without ſucceſs. As he returned from the terrace, chagrined and diſappointed, he obſerved two per⯑ſons croſs the platform at ſome diſtance before him; and he could perceive by the dim moon-light which fell upon the ſpot, that they were not of the caſtle. He called to them; no anſwer was re⯑turned; but at the ſound of his voice they quickened their pace, and almoſt inſtantly diſappeared in the darkneſs of the ramparts. Surprized at this phoe⯑nomenon, the Earl followed with haſty ſteps, and endeavoured to purſue the way they had taken. He walked on ſilently, but there was no ſound to di⯑rect [236] his ſteps. When he came to the extremity of the rampart, which formed the North angle of the caſtle, he ſtopped to examine the ſpot, and to liſten if any thing was ſtirring. No perſon was to be ſeen, and all was huſhed. After he had ſtood ſome time ſurveying the rampart, he heard the low reſtrained voice of a perſon unknown, but the diſtance pre⯑vented his diſtinguiſhing the ſubject of the converſation. The voice ſeemed to approach the place where he ſtood. He drew his ſword, and watched in ſilence their motions. They continued to ad⯑vance, till ſuddenly ſtopping, they turned, and took a long ſurvey of the fabric. Their diſcourſe was conducted in a low tone; but the Earl could diſ⯑cover by the vehemence of their geſture, and the caution of their ſteps, that they were upon ſome deſign dangerous to the peace of the caſtle. Having finiſhed their examination, they turned again to⯑wards the place where the Earl ſtill re⯑mained; [237] the ſhade of a high turret con⯑cealed him from their view, and they continued to approach till they arrived within a ſhort ſpace of him, when they turned through a ruined arch-way of the caſtle, and were loſt in the dark re⯑ceſſes of the pile. Aſtoniſhed at what he had ſeen, Oſbert haſtened to the caſtle, whence he diſpatched ſome of his peo⯑ple in ſearch of the unknown fugitives; he accompanied ſome of his domeſtics to the ſpot where they had laſt diſap⯑peared. They entered the arch-way, which led to a decayed part of the caſ⯑tle; they followed over broken pave⯑ment the remains of a paſſage, which was cloſed by a low obſcure door almoſt concealed from ſight by the thick ivy which overſhadowed it. On opening this door, they deſcended a flight of ſteps which led under the pile, ſo ex⯑tremely narrow and broken as to make the deſcent both difficult and dangerous. The powerful damps of long pent-up [238] vapours extinguiſhed their light, and the Earl and his attendants were com⯑pelled to remain in utter darkneſs while one of them went round to the habitable part of the caſtle to relume the lamp. While they awaited in ſilence the return of light, a ſhort breathing was diſtinctly heard at intervals, near the place where they ſtood. The ſervants ſhook with fear, and the Earl was not wholly unmoved. They remained en⯑tirely ſilent, liſtening its return, when a ſound of footſteps ſlowly ſtealing through the vault, ſtartled them. The Earl demanded who paſſed;—he was anſwered only by the deep echoes of his voice. They claſhed their ſwords and had advanced, when the ſteps haſtily retired before them. The Earl ruſhed forward, purſuing the ſound, till over⯑taking the perſon who fled, he ſeized him; a ſhort ſcuffle enſued; the ſtrength of Oſbert was too powerful for his anta⯑goniſt, who was nearly overcome, when [239] the point of a ſword from an unknown hand pierced his ſide, he relinquiſh⯑ed his graſp, and fell to the ground. His domeſtics, whom the activity of their maſter had outran, now came up; but the aſſaſſins, whoever they were, had accomplished their eſcape, for the ſound of their ſteps was quickly loſt in the diſtance of the vaults. They endea⯑voured to raiſe the Earl, who lay ſpeech⯑leſs on the ground; but they knew not how to convey him from that place of horror, for they were yet in total dark⯑neſs, and unacquainted with the place. In this ſituation, every moment of delay appeared an age. Some of them tried to grope their way to the entrance, but their efforts were defeated by the dark⯑neſs, and the ruinous ſituation of the place. The light at length appeared, and diſcovered the Earl inſenſible, and weltering in his blood. He was con⯑veyed into the caſtle, where the horror of the Counteſs on ſeeing him borne in⯑to [240] the hall, may be eaſily imagined. By the help of proper applications he was reſtored to life; his wound was ex⯑amined, and found to be dangerous; and he was carried to bed in a ſtate which gave very faint hopes of recovery. The aſtoniſhment of the Counteſs on hearing the adventure, was equalled only by her diſtreſs. All her conjectures concern⯑ing the deſigns and the identity of the aſſaſſin, were vague and uncertain. She knew not on whom to fix the ſtigma; nor could diſcover any means by which to penetrate this myſterious affair. The people who had remained in the vaults to purſue the ſearch, now returned to Matilda. Every receſs of the caſtle, and every part of the ramparts had been explored, yet no one could be found; and the myſtery of the proceeding was heightened by the manner in which the men had effected their eſcape.

Mary watched over her brother in [241] ſilent anguiſh, yet ſhe ſtrove to conceal her diſtreſs, that ſhe might encourage the Counteſs to hope. The Counteſs endeavoured to reſign herſelf to the event with a kind of deſperate fortitude. There is a certain point of miſery, be⯑yond which the mind becomes callous, and acquires a ſort of artificial calm. Exceſs of miſery may be ſaid to blaſt the vital powers of feeling, and by a natural conſequence conſumes its own principle. Thus it was with Matilda: a long ſucceſſion of trials had reduced her to a ſtate of horrid tranquillity, which followed the firſt ſhock of the preſent event. It was not ſo with Lau⯑ra; young in misfortune, and gay in hope, ſhe ſaw happineſs fade from her graſp with a warmth of feeling un⯑touched by the chill of diſappointment. When the news of the Earl's ſituation reached her, ſhe was overcome with affliction, and pined in ſilent anguiſh. The Count haſtened to Oſbert, but grief [242] fat heavy at his heart, and he had no power to offer to others the comfort which he wanted himſelf.

A fever, which was the conſequence of his wounds, added to the danger of the Earl, and to the deſpair of his fam⯑ily. During this period, Alleyn had not been ſeen at the caſtle; and his ab⯑ſence at this time, raiſed in Mary a va⯑riety of diſtreſſing apprehenſions. Of⯑bert enquired for him, and wiſhed to ſee him. The ſervant who had been ſent to his father's cottage, brought word that it was ſome days ſince he had been there, and that nobody knew whither he was gone. The ſurprize was univerſal, but the effect it produced was various and oppoſite. A collection of ſtrange and concomitant circumſtances, now forced a ſuſpicion on the mind of the Counteſs, which her heart, and her remembrance of the former conduct of Alleyn, at [243] once condemned. She had heard of what paſſed between the Earl and him in the gallery; his immediate abſence; the event which followed, and his ſubſe⯑quent flight, formed a chain of evidence which compelled her with the utmoſt reluctance, to believe him concerned in the affair which had once more involved her houſe in miſery. Mary had too much confidence in her knowledge of his character, to admit a ſuſpicion of this nature. She rejected with inſtant diſdain, the idea of uniting Alleyn with diſhonour; and that he ſhould be guilty of an action ſo baſe as the preſent, ſoared beyond all the bounds of poſſibility. Yet ſhe felt a ſtrange ſolicitude concern⯑ing him, and apprehenſions for his ſafe⯑ty tormented her inceſſantly. The an⯑guiſh in which he had quitted the apart⯑ment, her brother's injurious treatment, and his conſequent abſence, all conſpired to make her fear that deſpair had driven [244] him to commit ſome act of violence on himſelf.

The Earl, in the delirium of the fever, raved continually of Laura and of Alleyn; they were the ſole ſubjects of his ramblings. Seizing one day the hand of Mary, who fat mournfully by his bed-ſide, and looking for ſome time penſively in her face, "weep not, my Laura," ſaid he, "Malcolm, nor all the powers on earth ſhall tear you from me; his walls—his guards—what are they? I'll wreſt you from his hold or periſh. I have a friend whoſe valour will do much for us;—a friend—O! name him not; theſe are ſtrange times; beware of truſting. I could have given him my very life—but not—I will not name him." Then ſtarting to the other ſide of the bed, and looking earneſtly towards the door with an ex⯑preſſion of ſorrow not to be deſcribed, [245] "not all the miſeries which my worſt enemy has heaped upon me; not all the horrors of impriſonment and death, have ever touched my ſoul with a ſting ſo ſharp as thy unfaithfulneſs." Mary was ſo much ſhocked by this ſcene, that ſhe left the room, and retired to her own apartment to indulge the agony of grief it occaſioned.

The ſituation of the Earl grew daily more alarming; and the fever, which had not yet reached its criſis, kept the hopes and fears of his family ſuſpended. In one of his lucid intervals, addreſſing himſelf to the Counteſs in the moſt pathetic manner, he requeſted, that as death might probably ſoon ſeparate him for ever from her he moſt loved, he might ſee Laura once again before he died. She came, and weeping over him, a ſcene of anguiſh enſued too poignant for deſcrip⯑tion. He gave her his laſt vows; ſhe [246] took of him a laſt look; and with a breaking heart tearing herſelf away, was carried to Dunbayne in a ſtate of danger little inferior to his.

The agitation he had ſuffered during this interview, cauſed a return of phren⯑zy more violent than any fit he had yet ſuffered; exhauſted by it, he at length ſunk into a ſleep, which continued with⯑out interruption for near four and twenty hours. During this time his repoſe was quiet and profound, and afforded the Counteſs and Mary, who watched over him alternately, the conſolations of hope. When he awoke he was per⯑fectly ſenſible, and in a very altered ſtate from that he had been in a few hours before. The criſis of the diſor⯑der was now paſt, and from that time it rapidly declined till he was reſtored to perfect health.

[247] The joy of Laura, whoſe health gra⯑dually returned with returning peace, and that of his family, was ſuch as the merits of the Earl deſerved. This joy, however, ſuffered a ſhort interruption from the Count of Santmorin, who, en⯑tering one morning, the apartment of the Baroneſs, with letters in his hand, came to acquaint her that he had juſt received news of the death of a diſtant relation, who had bequeathed him ſome eſtates of value, to which it was neceſ⯑ſary he ſhould immediately lay claim; and that he was, therefore, obliged, how⯑ever reluctantly, to ſet off for Switzer⯑land without delay. Though the Ba⯑roneſs rejoiced with all his friends, at his good fortune, ſhe regretted with them, the neceſſity of his abrupt depar⯑ture. He took leave of them, and par⯑ticularly of Mary, for whom his paſſion was ſtill the ſame, with much emotion; and it was ſome time ere the ſpace he [248] had left in their ſociety was filled up, and ere they reſumed their wonted cheerfulneſs.

Preparations were now making for the approaching nuptials, and the day of their celebration was at length fixed. The ceremony was to be performed in a chapel belonging to the caſtle of Dunbayne, by the chaplain of the Ba⯑roneſs. Mary only was to attend as bride-maid; and the Counteſs alſo, with the Baroneſs, was to be preſent. The abſence of the Count was uni⯑verſally regretted; for from his hand, the Earl was to have received his bride. The office was now to be ſupplied by a neighbouring Laird, whom the fa⯑mily of the Baroneſs had long eſteemed. At the earneſt requeſt of Laura, Mary conſented to ſpend the night preceding the day of marriage, at the caſtle of Dunbayne. The day ſo long and ſo [249] anxiouſly expected by the Earl, at length arrived. The morning was ex⯑tremely fine, and the joy which glowed in his heart gave additional ſplendor to the ſcene around him. He ſet off, accompanied by the Counteſs, for the caſtle of Dunbayne. He anticipated the joy with which he ſhould ſoon re⯑trace the way he then travelled, with Laura by his ſide, whom death alone could then ſeparate from him. On their arrival they were received by the Baroneſs, who enquired for Mary; and the Counteſs and Oſbert were thrown into the utmoſt conſternation, when they learned that ſhe had not been ſeen at the caſtle. The nuptials were again deferred; the caſtle was a ſcene of univerſal confuſion. The Earl re⯑turned home inſtantly to diſpatch his people in ſearch of Mary. On en⯑quiry, he learned that the ſervants who had attended her, had not been [250] heard of ſince their departure with their lady. Still more alarmed by this intelligence, he rode himſelf in purſuit, yet not knowing which courſe to take. Several days were employed in a fruitleſs ſearch; no footſtep of her flight could be traced.

CHAPTER XII.

MARY, in the mean time, ſuffered all the terror which her ſituation could excite. On her way to Dun⯑bayne, ſhe had been overtaken by a party of armed men, who ſeized her bri⯑dle, and after engaging her ſervants in a feigned reſiſtance, carried her off ſenſeleſs. On recovering, ſhe found her⯑ſelf travelling through a foreſt, whoſe glooms were deepened by the ſhades of night. The moon, which was now up, glancing through the trees, ſerved to ſhew the dreary aſpect of the place, and the number of men who ſurrounded her; and ſhe was ſeized with a terror that al⯑moſt deprived her of reaſon. They travelled all night, during which a pro⯑found ſilence was obſerved. At the dawn of day ſhe found herſelf on the [252] ſkirts of a heath, to whoſe wide deſola⯑tion her eye could diſcover no limits. Before they entered on the waſte, they halted at the entrance of a cave, formed in a rock, which was overhung with pine and fir; where, ſpreading their breakfaſt on the graſs, they offered re⯑freſhments to Mary, whoſe mind was too much diſtracted to ſuffer her to par⯑take of them. She implored them in the moſt moving accents, to tell her from whom they came, and whither they were carrying her; but they were in⯑ſenſible to her tears and her entreaties, and ſhe was compelled to await in ſilent terror, the extremity of her fate. They purſued their journey over the wilds, and towards the cloſe of day approached the ruins of an abbey, whoſe broken arches and lonely towers aroſe in gloomy grandeur through the obſcurity of evening. It ſtood the ſolitary inha⯑bitant of the waſtes,—a monument of mortality and of ancient ſuperſtititton, [253] and the frowning majeſty of its aſpect ſeemed to command ſilence and vene⯑ration. The chilly dews fell thick, and Mary fatigued in body, and haraſſed in mind, lay almoſt expiring on her horſe, when they ſtopped under an arch of the ruin. She was not ſo ill as to be inſenſible to the objects around her; the awful ſolitude of the place, and the ſolemn aſpect of the fabric, whoſe effect was heightened by the falling glooms of evening, chilled her heart with hor⯑ror; and when they took her from the horſe, ſhe ſhrieked in the agonies of a laſt deſpair. They bore her over looſe ſtones to a part of the building, which had been formerly the cloiſters of the abbey, but which was now fallen to decay, and overgrown with ivy. There was, however, at the extremity of theſe cloiſters a nook, which had withſtood with hardier ſtrength the ravages of time; the roof was here entire, and the ſhattered ſtanchions of the caſements [254] ſtill remained. Hither they carried Mary, and laid her almoſt lifeleſs on the graſſy pavement, while ſome of the ruf⯑fians haſtened to light a fire of the heath and ſticks they could pick up. They took out their proviſions, and placed themſelves round the fire, where they had not long been ſeated, when the ſound of diſtant thunder foretold an approaching ſtorm. A violent ſtorm, accompanied with peals which ſhook the pile, came on. They were ſhel⯑tered from the heavineſs of the rain; but the long and vivid flaſhes of light⯑ning which glanced through the caſe⯑ments, alarmed them all. The ſhrieks of Mary were loud and continued; and the fears of the ruffians did not pre⯑vent their uttering dreadful impreca⯑tions at her diſtreſs. One of them, in the fury of his reſentment, ſwore ſhe ſhould be gagged; and ſeizing her re⯑ſiſtleſs hands to execute the purpoſe, her cries redoubled. The ſervants who [255] had betrayed her, were not yet ſo en⯑tirely loſt to the feelings of humanity, as to ſtand regardleſs of her preſent diſ⯑treſs; though they could not reſiſt the temptations of a bribe, they were un⯑willing their lady ſhould be loaded with unneceſſary miſery. They oppoſed the ruffians; a diſpute enſued; and the violence of the conteſt aroſe ſo high, that they determined to fight for the deciſion. Amid the peals of thunder, the oaths and execrations of the com⯑batants, added terror to the ſcene. The ſtrength of the ruffians were ſuperior to that of their opponents; and Mary be⯑holding victory deciding againſt herſelf, uttered a loud ſcream, when the atten⯑tion of the whole party was ſurprized by the ſound of a footſtep in the cloiſter. Immediately after, a man ruſhed into the place, and drawing his ſword, de⯑manded the cauſe of the tumult. Mary, who lay almoſt expiring on the ground, now raiſed her eyes; but what were [256] her ſenſations, when ſhe raiſed them to Alleyn!—who now ſtood before her petrified with horror! Before he could fly to her aſſiſtance, the attacks of the ruffians obliged him to defend himſelf; he parried their blows for ſome time, but he muſt inevitably have yielded to the force of numbers, had not the trampling of feet, which faſt approach⯑ed, called off for a moment their atten⯑tion. In an inſtant the place was filled with men. The aſtoniſhment of Alleyn, was, if poſſible, now encreaſed; for the Earl, followed by a party, now en⯑tered. The Earl, when he perceived Alleyn, ſtood at the entrance, aghaſt! —But reſuming his firmneſs, he bade him defend himſelf. The loud voice of Oſbert re-called Mary, and obſerving their menacing attitudes, ſhe collected juſt ſtrength ſufficient to throw herſelf between them. Alleyn dropped his ſword, and raiſed her from the ground; when the Earl rudely puſhed him away, [257] and ſnatched her to his heart. "Hear me, Oſbert," was all ſhe could ſay. "Declare who brought her hither," ſaid the Earl ſternly to Alleyn. "I know not," replied he, "you muſt aſk thoſe men whom your people have ſe⯑cured. If my life is hateful to you, ſtrike! and ſpare me the anguiſh of de⯑fending it againſt the brother of Mary." The Earl heſitated in ſurprize, and the generoſity of Alleyn called a bluſh into his face. He was going to have replied, but was interrupted by ſome of his men, who had been engaged in a ſharp conteſt with the ruffians, two of whom they had ſecured, and now brought to their lord; the reſt were fled. In the perſon of one of them, the Earl diſ⯑covered his own ſervant, who ſinking in his preſence with conſcious guilt, fell on his knees imploring mercy. "Wretch," ſaid the Earl, ſeizing him, and holding his ſword over his head, "declare by whoſe authority you have acted, and all [258] you know of the affair;—remember your life depends on the truth of your aſſertions. "I'll tell the truth, my lord," replied the trembling wretch, "and nothing elſe, as I hope for mercy. About three weeks ago,—no, it is not ſo much; about a fortnight ago, when I was ſent on a meſſage to the lady Mal⯑colm, the Count de Santmorin's gentle⯑man —" "The Count de Sant⯑morin!" re-echoed the whole company. "But proceed," ſaid Oſbert. "The Count de Santmorin's gentleman called me into a private room, where he told me to wait of his maſter who would soon be there." "Be quick," ſaid the Earl, "proceed to facts." "I will, my lord; the Count came, and ſaid to me, "Robert, I have obſerved you, and I think you can be faithful,"—he ſaid ſo, my lord,—God forgive me!" "Well—well, proceed." "Where was I?"—"Oh!" he ſaid, "I think you can be faithful."—"Good God! this [259] is beyond endurance; you triſle, ralcal, with my patience, to give your aſſoci⯑ates time for eſcape; be brief, or you die." "I will, my lord, as I hope for life. He took from his pocket a hand⯑ful of gold, which he gave me;—'can you be ſecret, Robert?' ſaid he,—yes, my lord Count, ſaid I, God forgive me! —'Then obſerve what I ſay to you. You often attend your young lady in her rides to Dunbayne."—"What, then it was the Count de Santmorin, who commiſſioned you to undertake this ſcheme!" "Not me only, my lord." "Anſwer my queſtion; was the Count the author of this plot?" "He was, my lord." "And where is he?" ſaid Oſbert, in a ſtern voice. "I know not, my lord." "You know not! Wretch! remember—your life." "I know not, as I am a living creature. He em⯑barked, as you know, my lord, not far from the caſsttle of Dunbayne, and we were travelling to a diſtant part of the [260] coaſt to meet him, when we were all to have ſet ſail for Switzerland." "You cannot be ignorant of the place of your deſtination," ſaid the Earl, turning to the other priſoner; "where is your em⯑ployer?" "That is not for me to tell," ſaid he, in a ſullen tone. "Reveal the truth," ſaid the Earl, "turning towards him the point of his ſword" "or we will find a way to make you." "The place where we were to meet the Count, had no name." "You know the way to it." "I do." "Then lead me thi⯑ther." "Never!" "Never! Your life ſhall anſwer the refuſal," ſaid Oſbert, pointing the ſword to his breaſt. "Strike!" ſaid the Count, throwing off the cloak which had concealed him; "ſtrike! and rid me of a being which paſſion has made hateful to me;—ſtrike!—and make the firſt moment of my entering this place, the laſt of my guilt." A faint ſcream was uttered by Mary; the ſmall remains of her ſtrength [261] forſook her, and ſhe ſunk on the pave⯑ment. The Earl ſtarted a few ſteps back, and ſtood ſuſpended in wonder. The looks of the whole group defy deſcription. "Take a ſword," ſaid the Earl, recovering himſelf, "and defend your life." "Never, my lord, never! Though I have been hurried by the force of paſſion, to rob you of a ſiſter, I will not aggravate my guilt by the murder of the brother. Your life has already been once endangered through my means, though not by my deſign; Heaven knows the anguiſh which that accident coſt me. The impetuoſity of paſſion impelled me onward with irre⯑ſiſtible fury; it urged me to violate the ſacred duties of gratitude—of friend⯑ſhip —and of humanity. To live in ſhame, and in the conſciouſneſs of guilt, is a living death. With your ſword do juſtice to yourſelf and virtue; and ſpare me the miſery of long comparing what I am, with what I was." "Away— [262] you trifle," ſaid the Earl, "defend yourſelf." The Count repeated his re⯑fuſal. "And you, villain," ſaid Oſbert, turning to the man who had confeſſed the plot, "your pretended ignorance of the preſence of the Count; your per⯑fidy ſhall be rewarded." "As I now plead for mercy, my lord, I knew not he was here." "The fellow ſpeaks truth," ſaid the Count, "he was igno⯑rant of the place where he was to meet me. I was approaching this ſpot to diſcover myſelf to the dear object of my paſſion, when your people ſurprized and took me." Mary confirmed the teſti⯑mony of the Count, by declaring that ſhe had not till that moment ſeen him ſince ſhe quitted the caſtle of Dunbayne. She pleaded for his life, and alſo for the ſervants, who had oppoſed the cruelty of their comrades. "I am no aſſaſſin," ſaid the Earl, "let the Count take a ſword, and fight me on equal terms." —"Shall virtue be reduced to an [263] equality with vice?" ſaid the Count, "No, my lord,—plunge your ſword in my heart, and expiate my guilt." The Earl ſtill urged him to defence; and the Count ſtill perſiſted in refuſal. Touched by the recollection of paſt friendſhip, and grieved that a ſoul like the Count's ſhould ever be under the dominion of vice, Oſbert threw down his ſword, and overcome with a ſort of tenderneſs—" Go, my lord, your perſon is ſafe; and if it is neceſſary to your peace,—ſtretching forth his hand,—take my forgiveneſs." The Count, overcome by his generoſity, and by a ſenſe of his own unworthineſs, ſhrunk back: "Forbear, my lord, to wound by your goodneſs, a mind alrea⯑dy too ſenſible of its own debaſement; nor excite by your generoſity, a remorſe too keen to be endured. Your re⯑proaches I can bear,—your vengeance I ſolicit,—but your kindneſs inflicts a torture too exquiſite for my ſoul." "Never, my Lord," continued he, the [264] big tear ſwelling in his eye,—"never more ſhall your friendſhip be polluted by my unworthineſs. Since you will not ſatisfy juſtice, by taking my life, I go to loſe it in the obſcurity of diſtant regions. Yet, ere I go, ſuffer me to make one laſt requeſt to you, and to that dear lady whom I have thus injured, and on whom my eyes now gaze for the laſt time,—ſuffer me to hope that you will blot from your memory the exiſt⯑ence of Santmorin." He concluded the ſentence with a groan, which vibrated upon the hearts of all preſent; and without waiting for a reply, hurried from the ſcene. The Earl had turned away his head in pity, and when he again looked round to reply, perceived that the Count was departed; he fol⯑lowed his ſteps through the cloiſter,—he called—but he was gone.

Alleyn had obſerved the Count with a mixture of pity and admiration; and [265] he ſighed for the weakneſs of human nature. "How," ſaid the Earl, return⯑ing eagerly to Alleyn,—"how can I rccompenſe you for my injurious ſuſpi⯑cions, and my injurious treatment?—How can you forgive, or I forget my injuſtice? But the myſtery of this affair, and the doubtful appearance of circum⯑ſtances, muſt ſpeak for me." "O! let us talk no more of this, my lord," replied Alleyn, with emotion; "let us only rejoice at the ſafety of our dear lady, and offer her the comfort ſhe is ſo much in want of." The fire was re⯑kindled, and the Earl's ſervants laid before him ſome wine, and other provi⯑ſions. Mary, who had not taſted any food ſince ſhe left the caſtle, now took ſome wine; it revived her, and enabled her to take other nouriſhment. She en⯑quired, what happy circumſtance had enabled the Earl to trace her route. "Ever ſince I diſcovered your ſlight," ſaid he, "I have been in purſuit of you. [266] Chance directed me over theſe wilds, when I was driven by the ſtorm to ſeek ſhelter among theſe ruins. The light, and an uproar of voices, drew me to the cloiſter, where, to my unutter⯑able aſtoniſhment, I diſcovered you and Alleyn: Spare me the remembrance of what followed." Mary wiſhed to en⯑quire what brought Alleyn to the place, but delicacy kept her ſilent. Oſbert, however, whoſe anxiety for his ſiſter, had hitherto allowed him to attend only to her, now relieved her from the pain of lengthened ſuſpenſe. "By what ſtrange accident was you brought hi⯑ther?" ſaid he to Alleyn, "and what motive has induced you ſo long to ab⯑ſent yourſelf from thn caſtle?" At the laſt queſtion, Alleyn bluſhed, and an involuntary ſigh eſcaped him. Mary underſtood the bluſh and the ſigh, and awaited his reply in trembling emotion. "I fled, my lord, from your diſplea⯑ſure, and to tear myſelf from an object [267] too dangerous, alas! for my peace. I ſought to wear away in abſence, a paſ⯑ſion which muſt ever be hopeleſs, but which I now perceive, is interwoven with my exiſtence.—But forgive, my lord, the intrusion of a ſubject which is painful to us all. With ſome money, and a few proviſions, I left my father's cottage; and ſince that time, have wan⯑dered over the country a forlorn and miſerable being, paſſing my nights in the huts which chance threw in my way, and deſigning to travel onward, and to enliſt myſelf in the ſervice of my coun⯑try. Night overtook me on theſe waſtes, and as I walked on comfortleſs and be⯑wildered, I was alarmed by diſtant cries of diſtreſs. I quickened my pace; but the ſound which ſhould have directed my ſteps was ceaſed, and a chilling ſilence enſued. As I ſtood muſing, and uncertain which courſe to take, I ob⯑ſerved a feeble light break through the gloom; I endeavoured to follow its [268] rays; it led me to theſe ruins, whoſe ſolemn appearance ſtruck with a mo⯑mentary dread. A confuſed murmur of voices from within, ſtruck my ear; as I ſtood heſitating whether to enter, I again heard thoſe ſhrieks which had alarmed me. I followed the ſound; it led me to the entrance of the cloiſter, at the extremity of which I diſcovered a party of men engaged in fight; I drew my ſword and ruſhed forward; and the ſenſations which I felt, on perceiving the lady Mary, cannot be expreſſed!" "Still, —ſtill Heaven deſtines you the deliverer of Mary!" ſaid the Earl, gratitude ſwelling in his eyes; "O! that I could remove that obſtacle which with-holds you from your juſt reward!" A reſpon⯑ſive ſigh ſtole from Alleyn, and he re⯑mained ſilent. Never was the ſtruggle of oppoſing feelings more violent, than that which now agitated the boſom of the Earl. The worth of Alleyn aroſe more conſpicuouſly bright from every [269] ſhade with which misfortune veiled it. His noble and diſintereſted enthuſiaſm in the cauſe of juſtice, had attached him to the Earl, and had engaged him in a courſe of enterprizes and of dangers, which it required valour to undertake, and ſkill and perſeverance to perform; and which had produced ſervices, for which no adequate reward could be found. He had reſcued the Earl from captivity and death; and had twice pre⯑ſerved Mary in dangers. All theſe cir⯑cumſtances aroſe in ſtrong reflection to the mind of Oſbert; but the darkneſs of prejudice and ancient pride, oppoſed their influence, and weakened their effect.

The joy which Mary felt on ſeeing Alleyn in ſafety, and ſtill worthy of the eſteem ſhe had ever bore him, was daſhed by the bitterneſs of reflection; and reflection imparted a melancholy which added to the langour of illneſs. [270] At the dawn of day they quitted the ab⯑bey, and ſet forward on their return to the caſtle; the Earl inſiſting upon Al⯑leyn's accompanying them. On the way, the minds of the party were variouſly and ſilently engaged. The Earl rumi⯑nated on the conduct of Alleyn, and the late ſcene. Mary dwelt chiefly on the vir⯑tues of her lover, and on the dangers ſhe had eſcaped; and Alleyn muſed on his defeated purpoſes, and anticipated fu⯑ture trials. The Earl's thoughts, how⯑ever, were not ſo wholly occupied, as to prevent his queſtioning the ſervant who had been employed by the Count, con⯑cerning the further particulars of his ſcheme. The words of the Count, import⯑ing that he had once already endangered his life, had not eſcaped the notice of the Earl; though they were uttered in a moment of too much diſtraction to ſuf⯑fer him to demand an explanation. He now enquired of the man, concerning the myſterious ſcene of the vaults.

[271] "You, I ſuppoſe, are not ignorant who were the perſons from whom I received my wound." "I, my lord, had no concern in that affair; wicked as I am, I could not raiſe my hands againſt your life." "But you know who did." "I —I—ye—yes, my lord, I was after⯑wards told.—But they did not mean to hurt your lordſhip." "Not mean to hurt me!—What then were their de⯑ſigns, and who were the people?" "That accident happened long before the Count ever ſpoke to me of his pur⯑poſe. Indeed, my lord, I had no hand in it; and Heaven knows how I grieved for your lordſhip; and—" "Well —well, inform me, who were the per⯑ſons in the vaults, and what were their deſign." "I was told by a fellow ſer⯑vant; but he made me promiſe to be ſecret; but it is proper your lordſhip ſhould know all; and I hope your lordſhip will forgive me for having liſtened to it.—'Robert,' ſaid he, as [272] we were talking one day of what had happened;—'Robert,' ſaid he, 'there is more in this matter than you, or any body thinks; but it is not for me to tell all I know.' With that, I begged he would tell me what he knew; but he ſtill kept refuſing. I promiſed him faithfully I would not tell; and ſo at laſt he told me—'Why, there is my lord Count there, he is in love with our young lady; and to be ſure as ſweet a lady ſhe is, as ever eyes looked upon; but ſhe don't like him; and ſo finding himſelf refuſed, he is determined to marry her at any rate; and means ſome night to get into the caſtle, and carry her off.' "What, then!—was it the Count who wounded me?—Be quick in your relation." "No, my lord, it was not the Count himſelf—but two of his people, whom he had ſent to examine the caſtle; and particularly the windows of my young lady's apart⯑ment, from whence he deſigned to have [273] carried her, when every thing was ready for execution. Theſe men were let within the walls through a way under ground, which leads into the vaults, by my fellow ſervant, as I afterwards was told; and they eſcaped through the ſame way. Their meeting with your lordſhip was accidental, and they fought only in ſelf-defence; for they had no orders to attack any body." "And who is the villain that connived at this ſcheme?" "It was my fellow ſervant, who fled with the Count's people, whom he himſelf let within the ramparts. Forgive me, my lord; but I did not dare tell; he threatened my life, if I betrayed the ſecret."

After a journey of fatigue, and un⯑pleaſant reflections, they arrived on the ſecond morning at the caſtle of Athlin. The Counteſs, during the abſence of her ſon, had endured a ſtate of dreadful ſuſpenſe The Baroneſs, in her friend⯑ship, [274] had endeavoured to ſoothe her diſtreſs, by her conſtant preſence; ſhe was engaged in this amiable office, when the trampling of horſes in the court, reached the ears of Matilda. "It is my ſon," ſaid ſhe, riſing from her chair;—"it is my ſon; he brings me life or death!" She ſaid no more, but ruſhed into the hall, and in a mo⯑ment after claſped her almoſt expiring daughter to her boſom. The tranſport of the ſcene repelled utterrance; ſobs and tears were all that could be given. The general joy, however, was ſuddenly interrupted by the Baroneſs, who had followed Matilda into the hall; and who now fell ſenſeleſs to the ground; delight yielded to ſurprize, and to the buſineſs of aſſiſting the object of it. On recovering, the Baroneſs looked wildly round her;—"Was it a viſion that I ſaw, or a reality?" The whole com⯑pany moved their eyes round the hall, but could diſcover nothing extraordi⯑nary. [275] "It was himſelf; his very air, his features; that benign countenance which I have ſo often contemplated in imagination!" Her eyes ſtiil ſeemed in ſearch of ſome ideal object; and they began to doubt whether a ſudden phrenzy had not ſeized her brain. "Ah! again! ſaid ſhe, and inſtantly relapſed. Their eyes were now turned towards the door, on which ſhe had gazed; it was Alleyn who entered, with water which he had fetched for the Counteſs, and on whom the attention of all preſent was now centered. He approached, ignorant of what had hap⯑pened; and his ſurprize was great, when the Baroneſs reviving, fixed her eyes mournfully upon him, and aſked him to uncover his arm.—"It is,—it is my Philip!" ſaid ſhe, with ſtrong emotion; I have, indeed, found my long loſt child; that ſtrawberry on his arm, confirms the deciſion. Send for the man who calls himſelf your father, [276] and for my ſervant Patrick." The ſen⯑ſations of the mother and the ſon may be more eaſily conceived than deſcribed; thoſe of Mary were little inferior to theirs; and the whole company awaited with trembling eagerneſs the arrival of the two perſons whoſe teſtimony was to decide this intereſting affair. They came. "This young man you call your ſon?" ſaid the Baroneſs. "I do, an' pleaſe your ladyſhip," he replied, with a degree of confuſion which belied his words. When Patrick came, his inſtant ſurprize on ſeeing the old man, declared the truth. "Do you know this perſon?" ſaid the Baroneſs to Patrick. "Yes, my lady, I know him too well; it was to him I gave your inſant ſon." The old man ſtarted with ſurprize—"Is that youth the ſon of your ladyſhip?" "Yes!" "Then God forgive me for having thus long detained him from you! but I was ig⯑norant of his birth, and received him [277] into my cottage as a foundling, ſuc⯑coured by lord Malcolm's compaſſion." The whole company crowded round them. Alleyn fell at the feet of his mother, and bathed her hand with his tears.—"Gracious God! for what haſt thou reſerved me!" He could ſay no more. The Baroneſs raiſed him, and again preſſed him in tranſport to her heart. It was ſome time before either of them could ſpeak; and all preſent were too much affected to interrupt the ſilence. At length, the Baroneſs pre⯑ſented Laura to her brother. "Such a mother! and have I ſuch a ſiſter!" ſaid he. Laura wept ſilently upon his neck the joy of her heart. The Earl was the firſt who recovered compoſure ſufficient to congratulate Alleyn; and embracing him—O! happy moment, when I can indeed embrace you as my brother! The whole company now poured forth their joy and their con⯑gratulations;—all but Mary, whoſe [278] emotions almoſt overcame her, and were too powerful for utterance.

The company now adjourned to the drawing-room; and Mary withdrew to take that repoſe ſhe ſo much required. She was ſufficiently recovered in a few hours to join her friends in the ban⯑quetting-room.

After the tranſports of the ſcene were ſubſided—"I have yet much to hope, and much to fear," ſaid Philip Mal⯑colm, who was yet Alleyn in every thing but in name. "You, madam," addreſſing the Baroneſs,—"you will willingly become my advocate with her whom I have ſo long and ſo ardently loved." "May I hope," continued he, taking tenderly the hand of Mary, who ſtood trembling by,—"that you have not been inſenſible to my long attach⯑ment, and that you will confirm the happineſs which is now offered me?" [279] A ſmile of ineffable ſweetneſs broke through the melancholy which had long clouded her features, and which even the preſent diſcovery had not been able entirely to diſſipate, and her eye gave the conſent which her tongue refuſed to utter.

The converſation, for the remainder of the day, was occupied by the ſubject of the diſcovery, and with a recital of Mary's adventure. It was determined, that on the morrow the marriage of the Earl ſhould be concluded.

On this happy diſcovery, the Earl ordered the gates of the caſtle to be thrown open; mirth and feſtivity re⯑ſounded through the walls, and the evening cloſed in univerſal rejoicings.

On the following morn, the chapel of the caſtle was decorated for the mar⯑riage of the Earl; who, with Laura, came attended by Philip, now Baron Malcolm, by Mary, and the whole fa⯑mily. When they approached the al⯑tar, the Earl addreſſing himſelf to his [280] bride,—"Now, my Laura," ſaid he, "we may celebrate thoſe nuptials which have twice been ſo painfully interrupt⯑ed, and which are to crown me with felicity. This day ſhall unite our fami⯑lies in a double marriage, and reward the worth of my friend. It is now ſeen, that thoſe virtues which ſtimulated him to proſecute for another the cauſe of juſtice, myſteriouſly urged him to the recovery of his rights. Virtue may for a time be purſued by misfortune,—and juſtice be obſcured by the tranſient triumphs of vice,—but the power whoſe peculiar attributes they are, clears away the clouds of error, and even in this world eſtabliſhes his THRONE OF JUSTICE."

The Earl ſtepped forward, and join⯑ing the hands of Philip and Mary,—"Surely, ſaid he, this is a moment of perfect happineſs!—I can now reward thoſe virtues which I have ever loved; and thoſe ſervices to which every gift muſt be inadequate, but this I now beſtow.