A Sicilian romance. By Anne Radcliffe, authoress of The romance of a forest, The mysteries of Udolpho, and The castle of Athlin and Dubayne.

A SICILIAN ROMANCE.

ON the northern shore of Sicily are still to be seen the magnificent remains of a castle, which formerly be|longed to the noble house of Mazzini. It stands in the centre of a small bay, and upon a gentle acclivity, which▪ on one side, slopes towards the sea, and on the other rises into an eminence crowned by dark woods. The situation i•• admirably beautiful and pic|turesque, and the ruins have an air of ancient grandeur▪ which, contrasted with the present solitude of the scene, impresses the traveller with awe and curiosity. During my travels abroad I visited this spot. As I walked over the loose fragments of stone, which lay scattered through the immense area of the fabrick, and surveyed the sublimity and grandeur of the ruins, I recurred, by a natural association of ideas, to the times when these walls stood proudly in their original splendour, when the halls were the scenes of hospital|ity, and festive magnificence, and when they resounded with the voices of those whom death had long since swept from the earth. "Thus, said I," shall the present generation—he who now sinks in misery—and he who now swims in pleasure, alike pass away and be forgotten." My heart swelled with the reflexion; and, as I returned from the scene with a sigh, I fixed

my eyes upon a friar, whose venerable figure, gently bending towards the earth, formed no uninteresting object in the picture. He observed my emotion; and, as my eye met his, shook his head and pointed to the ruin. "These walls," said he, "were once the seat of luxury and vice. They exhibited a singular in|stance of the retribution of Heaven, and were from that period forsaken, and abandoned to decay." His words excited my curiosity, and I inquired further con|cerning their meaning.

"A solemn history belongs to this castle," said he, "which is too long and intricate for me to relate. It is, however, contained in a manuscript in our library, of which, I could, perhaps, procure you a sight. A brother of our order, a descendant of the noble house of Mazzini, collected and recorded the most striking in|cidents relating to his family, and the history thus formed, he left as a legacy to our convent. If you please, we will walk thither."

I accompanied him to the convent, and the friar in|troduced me to his superior, a man of an intelligent mind and benevolent heart, with whom I passed some hours in interesting conversation. I believe my senti|ments pleased him; for by his indulgence, I was per|mitted to take abstracts of the history before me, which, with some further particulars obtained in conversation with the abate, I have arranged in the following pages.

CHAPTER I.

TOWARDS the close of the sixteenth century, this castle was in the possession of Ferdinand, fifth mar|quis of Mazzini, and was for some years the principal residence of his family. He was a man of a voluptuous and imperious character. To his first wife, he marri|ed Louisa Bernini, second daughter of the count della Salario, a lady yet more distinguished for the sweet|ness of her manners and the gentleness of her disposi|tion, than for her beauty. She brought the marquis one son and two daughters, who lost their amiable mo|ther in early childhood. The arrogant and impetuous character of the marquis, operated powerfully upon the mild and susceptible nature of his lady; and it was by many persons believed, that his unkindness and neglect put a period to her life However this might be, he soon afterwards married Maria de Vellorno, a young lady eminently beautiful, but of a character very op|posite to that of her predecessor. She was a woman of infinite art, devoted to pleasure and of an unconquera|ble spirit. The marquis, whose heart was dead to pa|ternal tenderness, and whose present lady was too vola|tile to attend to domestic concerns, committed the edu|cation of his daughters to the care of a lady, completely qualified for the undertaking, and who was distantly related to the late marchioness.

He quitted Mazzini soon after his second marriage, for the gaieties and splendour of Naples, whither his son accompanied him. Though naturally of a haugh|ty and overbearing disposition, he was governed by his wife. His passions were vehement, and she had the address to bend them to her own purpose; and so well

to conceal her influence, that he thought himself most independent when he was most enslaved. He paid an annual visit to the castle of Mazzini; but the marchi|oness seldom attended him, and he staid only to give such general directions concerning the education of his daughters, as his pride, rather than his affection, seem|ed to dictate.

Emilia, the elder, inherited much of her mother's disposition. She had a mild and sweet temper, united with a clear and comprehensive mind. Her younger sister, Julia, was of a more lively cast. An extreme sensibility subjected her to frequent uneasiness; her temper was warm, but generous; she was quickly ir|ritated and quickly appeased; and to a reproof, how|ever gentle, she would often weep, but was never sul|len. Her imagination was ardent, and her mind early exhibited symptoms of genius. It was the particular care of madame de Menoa to counteract those traits in the disposition of her young pupi••s, which appeared inimical to their future happiness; and for this task she had abilities which entitled her to hope for success. A series of early misfortunes had entendered her heart, without weakening the powers of her understanding. In retirement she had acquired tranquillity, and had al|most lost the consciousness of those sorrows which yet threw a soft and not unpleasing shade over her charac|ter. She loved her young charge with maternal fond|ness, and their gradual improvement and respectful tenderness repaid all her anxiety. Madame excelled in music and drawing. She had often forgot her sor|rows in these amusements, when her mind was too much occupied to derive consolation from books, and she was assiduou•• to impart to Emilia and Julia a power so valuable as that of beguiling the sense of affliction. Emilia's taste led her to drawing, and she soon made

rapid advances in that art. Julia was uncommonly sus|ceptible of the charms of harmony. She had feelings which trembled in unison to all its various and enchant|ing powers.

The instructions of madame she caught with astonish|ing quickness, and in a sh••rt time attained to a degree of excellence in her favourite study, which few persons have ever exceeded. Her manner was entirely her own. It was not in the rapid intricacies of execution, that she excelled so much, as in that delicacy of taste, and in those enchanting powers of expression, which seem to breathe a soul through the sound, and which make captive the heart of the hearer. The lute was her fa|vourite instrument, and its tender notes accorded well with the sweet and melting tones of her voice.

The castle of Mazzini was a large irregular fabrick, and seemed suited to receive a numerous train of fol|lowers, such as, in those day••, served the nobility, either in the splendour of peace, or the turbulence of war. Its present family inhabited only a small part of it; and even this part appeared forlorn and almost des|olate from the spaciousness of the apartments, and the length of the galleries which led to ••m. A melan|choly stillness reigned through the halls, and the silence of the courts, which were shaded by high turrets, was for many hours together undisturbed by the sound of any foot-step. Julia, who discovered an early taste for books, loved to retire in an evening to a small closet in which she had collected her favourite authors. This room formed the western angle of the castle: one of its windows looked upon the sea, beyond which was faintly seen, skirting the horizon, the dark rocky coast of Calabria; the other opened towards a part of the castle, and afforded a prospect of the neighbouring woods. Her musical instruments were here deposited,

with whatever assisted her favourite amusements. This spot, which was at once elegant, pleasant, and retired, was embellished with many little ornaments of her own invention, and with some drawings executed by her sister. The closet was adjoining her chamber, and was separated from the apartment of madame, only by a short gallery. This gallery opened into another, long and winding, which led to the grand staircase, termi|nating in the north hall, with which the chief apart|ments of the north side of the edifice communicated.

Madame de Menon's apartment opened into both galleries. It was in one of these rooms that she usual|ly spent the mornings, occupied in the improvement of her young charge. The windows looked towards the sea, and the room was light and pleasant. It was their custom to dine in one of the lower apartments, and at table they were always joined by a dependant of the marquis's, who had resided many years in the castle, and who instructed the young ladies in the Latin tongue, and in geography. During the fine evenings of summer, this little party frequently supped in a pa|villion, which was built on an eminence in the woods belonging to the castle. From this spot the eye had an almost boundless range of sea and land. It com|manded the straits of Messina, with the opposite shores of Calabria, and a great extent of the wild and p••ctur|esque scenery of Sicily. Mount Aetna, crowned with eternal snows, and shooting from among the clouds, formed a grand and sublime picture in the back ground of the scene. The city of Palermo was also distinguish|able; and Julia, as she gazed on its glittering spires, would endeavour in imagination to depicture its beau|ties while she secretly sighed for a view of that world, from which she had hitherto been secluded by the mean jealousy •• the marchioness, upon whose mind the dread

of rival beauty operated strongly to the prejudice of Emilia and Julia. She employed all her influence over the marquis to detain them in retirement; and, though Emilia was now twenty, and her sister eigh|teen, they had never passed the boundaries of their fa|ther's domains.

Vanity often produces unreasonable alarm; but the marchioness had in this instance just grounds for appre|hension; the beauty of her lord's daughters has seldom been exceeded. The person of Emilia was finely pro|portioned. Her complexion was fair, her hair flaxen, and her dark blue eyes were full of sweet expression. Her manners were dignified and elegant, and in her air was a feminine softness, a tender timidity, which ir|resistibly attracted the heart of the beholder. The figure of Julia was light and graceful—her step was airy—her mien animated, and her smile enchanting. Her eyes were dark, and full of fire, but tempered with modest sweetness. Her features were finely turned— every laughing grace played round her mouth, and her countenance quickly discovered all the various emotions of her soul. The dark auburn hair which curled in beautiful profusion in her neck, gave a finishing charm to her appearance.

Thus lovely, and thus veiled in obscurity, were the daughters of the ••ble Mazzini. But they were hap|py, for they knew not enough of the world seriously to regret the want of its enjoyments, though Julia would sometimes sigh for the airy image which her fancies painted, and a painful curiosity would arise concerning the busy scenes from which she was excluded. A re|turn to her customary amusements, however, would chase the ideal image from her mind and restore her usual happy complacency. Books, music, and paint|ing divided the hours of her leisure, and many beauti|ful

summer evenings were spent in the pavillion, where the refined conversation of madame, the poetry of Tasso, the ••ute of Julia, and the friendship of Emi|lia, combined to form a species of happiness, such as elevated and highly susceptible minds are alone capa|ble of receiving or communicating. Madame under|stood and practised all the graces of conversation, and her young pupils perceived its value, and caught the spirit of its character.

Conversation may be divided into two classes—the familiar and the sentimental. It is the province of the familiar, to dissuse cheerfulness and ••ase—to open the heart of man to man, and to ••eam a temperate sun|shine upon the mind.—Nature and a••t must conspire to render us susceptible of the charms, and to qualify us for the practice of the second class of conversation, here termed sentimental, and in which madame de Menon particularly excelled. To good sense, lively feeling, and natural delicacy of ••aste, must be united an ex|pansion of mind, and a refinement of thought, which is the result of high cultivation. To render this sort of conversation irresistibly attractive, a knowledge of the world is requisite, and that enchanting ease, that ele|gance of manne, which is to be acquired only by fre|quenting the higher circles of polished life. In sen|timental conversation, subjects interesting to the heart and to the imagination, are brought forward; they are discussed in a kind of sportive way, with animation and refinement, and are never continued longer than politeness allows. Here fancy flourishes,—the sensi|bilities expand—and wit, guided by delicacy, and em|bellished by taste—points to the heart.

Such was the conversation of madame de Menon; and the pleasant gaiety of the pavillion seemed pecu|liarly to ad••pt it for the scene of social delights. On

the evening of a very sultry day, having supped in their favourite spot, the coolness of the hour, and the beauty of the night, tempted this happy party to re|main there later than usual. Returning home, they were surprised by the appearance of a light through the broken window-shutters of an apartment, belong|ing to a division of the castle which had for many years been shut up. They stopped to observe it, when it suddenly disappeared and was seen no more. Ma|dame de Menon, disturbed at this phenomenon, has|tened into the castle, with a view of inquiring into the cause of it, when she was met in the north hall by Vincent. She related to him what she had seen, and ordered an immediate search to be made for the keys of those apartments. She apprehended that some per|son had penetrated that part of the edifice with an in|tention of plunder; and, disdaining a paltry fear where her duty was concerned, she summoned the ser|vants of the castle, with an in••ention of accompany|ing them thither. Vincent smiled at her apprehensions, and imputed what she had seen to an illusion, which the solemnity of the hour had impressed upon her fan|cy. Madame, however, persevered in her purpose; and, after a long and repeated search, a massey key covered with rust was produced. She then proceeded to the southern side of the edifice, accompanied by Vincent, and followed by the servants, who were agi|tated with impatient wonder. The key was applied to an iron gate, which opened into a court that separated this division from the other parts of the castle. They entered this court, which was overgrown with grass and weeds, and ascended some steps that led to a large door, which they vainly endeavoured to open. All the different keys of the castle were app••ied to the lock, without effect, and they were at length compel|ed

to quit the place, without having either satisfied their curiosity, or quieted their fears. Every thing, however, was still, and the light did not re-appear. Madame concealed her apprehensions, and the family retired to rest.

This circumstance dwelt on the mind of madame de Menon, and it was some time before she ventured again to spend an evening in the pavillion. After several months passed, without further disturbance or discove|ry, another occurrence renewed the alarm. Julia had one night remained in her closet later than usual. A favourite book had engaged her attention beyond the hour of customary repose, and every inhabitant of the castle, except herself, had long been lost in sleep. She was roused from her forgetfulness, by the sound of the castle clock, which struck one. Surprised at the late|ness of the hour, she rose in haste, and was moving to her chamber, when the beauty of the night attracted her to the window. She opened it; and observing a fine effect of moon-light upon the dark woods, leaned forwards. In that situation she had not long remained, when she perceived a light faintly flash through a case|ment in the uninhabited part of the castle. A sudden tremor seized her, and she with difficulty supported herself. In a few moments it disappeared, and soon after a figure, bearing a lamp, proceeded from an ob|scure door belonging to the south tower; and stealing along the outside of the castle walls, turned round the southern angle, by which it was afterwards hid from the view. Astonished and terrified at what she had seen, she hurried to the apartment of madame de Me|non, and related the circumstance. The servants were immediately roused, and the alarm became gene|ral. Madame arose and descended into the north hall, where the domestics were already assembled. No one

could be found of courage sufficient to enter into the courts; and the orders of Madame were disregarded, when opposed to the effects of superstitious terror. She perceived that Vincent was absent, but as she was ordering him to be called, he entered the hall. Sur|prised to find the family thus assembled, he was told the occasion. He immediately ordered a party of the servants to attend him round the castle walls; and with some reluctance, and more fear, they obeyed him. They all returned to the hall, without having witness|ed any extraordinary appearance; but though their fears were not confirmed, they were by no means dis|sipated. The appearance of a light in a part of the castle which had for several years been shut up, and to which time and circumstance had given an air of singu|lar desolation, might reasonably be supposed to excite a strong degree of surprise and terror. In the minds of the vulgar, any species of the wonderful is received with avidity; and the servants did not hesitate in be|lieving the southern division of the castle to be inha|bited by a supernatural power. Too much agitated to sleep, they agreed to watch for the remainder of the night. For this purpose they arranged themselves in the east gallery, where they had a view of the south tower from which the light had issued. The night, however, passed without any further disturbance; and the morning dawn, which they beheld with inexpressi|ble pleasure, dissipated for a while the glooms of ap|prehension. But the return of evening renewed the general fear, and for several successive nights the do|mestics watched the southern tower. Although no|thing remarkable was seen, a report was soon raised, and believed, that the southern side of the castle was haunted. Madame de Menon, whose mind was supe|rior to the effects of superstition, was yet disturbed

and perplexed, and she determined, if the light re|appeared, to inform the marquis of the circumstance, and request the keys of those apartments.

The marquis, immersed in the dissipations of Na|ples, seldom remembered the castle, or its inhabitants. His son, who had been educated under his immediate care, was the sole object of his pride, as the marchio|ness was that of his affection. He loved her with ro|mantic fondness, which she repaid with seeming ten|derness, and secret perfidy. She allowed herself a free indulgence in the most licentious pleasures, yet conducted herself with an art so exquisite as to elude discovery, and even suspicion. In her amours she was equally inconstant as ardent, till the young count Hippolitus de Vereza attracted her attention. The natural fickleness of her disposition seemed then to cease, and upon him she centered all her desires.

The count Vereza lost his father in early childhood. He was now of age, and had just entered upon the possession of his estates. His person was graceful, yet manly; his mind accomplished, and his manners elegant; his countenance expressed a happy union of spirit, dignity, and benevolence, which formed the principal traits of his character. He had a sublimity of thought, which taught him to despise the voluptu|ous vices of the Neapolitans, and led him to higher pursuits. He was the chosen and early friend of young Ferdinand, the son of the marquis, and was a frequent visitor in the family. When the marchioness first saw him, she treated him with great distinction, and at length made such advances, as neither the ho|nour nor the inclinations of the count permitted him to notice. He conducted himself towards her with frigid indifference, which served only to inflame the passion it was meant to chill. The favours of the

marchioness had hitherto been sought with avidity, and accepted with rapture; and the repulsive insensibili|ty which she now experienced, roused all her pride, and called into action every refinement of coquetry.

It was about this period that Vincent was seized with a disorder which increased so rapidly, as in a short time to assume the most alarming appearance. Despairing of life, he desired that a messenger might be dispatched to inform the marquiss of his situation, and to signify his earnest wish to see him before he died. The progress of his disorder defied every art of medicine, and his visible distress of mind seemed to accelerate his sate. Perceiving his last hour approach|ing, he requested to have a confessor. The confessor was shut up with him a considerable time, and he had already received extreme unction, when Madame de Menon was summoned to his bed side. The hand of death was now upon him, cold damps hung upon his brows, and he, with difficulty, raised his heavy eyes to Madame as she entered the apartment. He beckon|ed her towards him, and desiring that ••o person might be permitted to enter the room, was for a few mo|ments silent. His mind appeared to labour under op|pressive remembrances: he made several attempts to speak, but either resolution or strength failed him. At length, giving Madame a look of unutterable anguish, "Alas madam," said he, "Heaven grants not the prayer of such a wretch as I am. I must expire long before the marquis can arrive. Since I shall see him no more, I would impart to you a secret which lies heavy at my heart, and which makes my last moments dreadful, as they are without hope." Be comforted," said Madame, who was affected by the energy of his manner, "we are taught to believe that forgiveness is never denied to sincere repentance." "You, ma|dam,

are ignorant of the enormity of my crime, and of the secret—the horrid secret which labours at my breast. My guilt is beyond remedy in this world, and I fear will be without pardon in the next; I therefore hope little from confession even to a priest. Yet some good it is still in my power to do; let me disclose to you that secret which is so mysteriously connected with the southern apartments of this castle". "What of them!" exclaimed Madame, with impati|ence. Vincent returned no answer; exhausted by the effort of speaking, he had fainted. Madame rung for assistance, and by proper applications, his senses were recalled. He was however, entirely speechless, and in this state he remained till he expired, which was about an hour after he had conversed with Madame.

The perplexity and astonishment of Madame, were by the late seene heightened to a very painful degree. She recollected the various particulars relative to the southern division of the castle, the many years it had stood uninhabited—the silence which had been observ|ed concerning it—the appearance of the light and the figure—the fruitless search for the keys, and the re|ports so generally believed; and thus remembrance presented her with a combination of circumstances, ••hich served only to increase her wonder, and height|en her curiosity. A ve•• of mystery enveloped that part of the castle, which it now seemed impossible should ever be penetrated, since the only person who could have removed it, was no more.

The marquis arrived on the day after that on which Vincent had expired. He came attended by servants only, and alighted at the gates of the castle with an air of impatience, and a countenance expressive of strong emotion. Madame, with the young ladies, re|ceived him in the hall. He hastily saluted his daugh|ters,

and passed on to the oak parlour, desiring Ma|dame to follow him. She obeyed, and the marquis inquired with great agitation after Vincent. When told of his death, he paced the room with hurried steps, and was for some time silent, at length seating himself, and surveying Madame with a scrutinizing eye, he asked some questions concerning the particu|lars of Vincent's death. She mentioned his earnest desire to see the marquis, and repeated his last words. The marquis remained silent, and Madame proceeded to mention those circumstances relative to the southern division of the castle, which she thought it of so much importance to discover. He treated the affair very lightly, laughed at her conjectures, represented the appearances she described as the illusions of a weak and timid mind, and broke up the conversation, by going to visit the chamber of Vincent, in which he re|mained a considerable time.

On the following day Emilia and Julia dined with the marquis. He was gloomy and silent; their efforts to amuse him seemed to excite displeasure rather than kindness: and when the repast was concluded, he withdrew to his own apartment, leaving his daughters in a state of sorrow and surprise.

Vincent was to be interred, according to his own desire, in the church belonging to the convent of St. Nicholas. One of the servants, after receiving some necessary orders concerning the funeral, ventured to inform the marquis of the appearance of the lights in the south tower. He mentioned the superstitious re|ports that prevailed amongst the ••oushold, and com|plained that the servants would not cross the courts af|ter it was dark. "And who is he that has commi••i|oned you with this story?" said the marquis, in a tone

of displeasure; are the weak and ridiculous fancies of women and servants to be obtruded upon my notice? Away—appear no more before me, till you have learned to speak what it is proper for me to hear." Robert withdrew abashed, and it was some time be|fore any person ventured to renew the subject with the marquis.

The majority of young Ferdinand now drew near, and the marquis determined to celebrate the occasion with festive magnificence at the castle of Mazzini. He therefore summoned the marchioness, and his son, from Naples, and very splendid preparations were or|dered to be made. Emilia and Julia dreaded the arri|val of the marchioness, whose influence they had long been sensible of, and from whose presence they antici|pated a painful restraint. Beneath the gentle gui|dance of Madame de Menon, their hours had passed in happy tranquillity, for they were ignorant alike of the sorrows and the pleasures of the world. Those did not oppress, and these did not inflame them. En|gaged in the pursuits of knowledge, and in the at|tainment of elegant accomplishments, their moments, flew lightly away, and the flight of time was marked only by improvement. In Madame was united the tenderness of the mother, with the sympathy of a friend; and they loved her with a warm and inviola|ble affection.

The purposed visit of their brother, whom they had not seen for several years, gave them great pleasure. Although their minds retained no very distinct remem|brance of him, they looked forward with eager ••nd delightful expectation to his virtues and his talents; and hoped to find in his company, a consolation for the uneasiness which the presence of the marchioness would excite. Neither did Julia contemplate with indiffe|rence

the approaching festival. A new scene was now opening to her, which her young imagination paint|ed in the warm and glowing colours of delight. The near approach of pleasure frequently awakens the heart to emotions, which would fail to be excited by a more remote and abstracted observance. Julia, who in the distance, had considered the splendid gaieties of life with tranquillity, now lingered with impatient hope through the moments which withheld her from their enjoyments. Emilia, whose feelings were less lively, and whose imagination was less powerful, be|held the approaching festival with calm consideration, and almost regretted the interruption of those tranquil pleasures, which she knew to be more congenial with her powers and disposition.

In a few days the marchioness arrived at the castle. She was followed by a numerous retinue, and accom|panied by Ferdinand, and several of the Italian nob|lesse, whom pleasure attracted to her train. Her en|trance was proclaimed by the sound of music, and those gates, which had long rusted on their hinges, were thrown open to receive her. The courts and halls, whose aspect so lately expressed only gloom and desolation, now shone with sudden splendor, and echo|ed the sounds of gaiety and gladness. Julia surveyed the scene from an obscure window; and as the trium|phal strains filled the air, her breast throbbed, her heart beat quick with joy, and she lost her apprehensi|ons from the marchioness in a sort of wild delight hi|therto unknown to her. The arrival of the marchio|ness seemed indeed the signal of universal and unlimit|ed pleasure. When the marquis came out to receive her, the gloom that lately clouded his countenance, broke away in smiles of welcome, which the whole company appeared to consider as invitations to joy.

The tranquil heart of Emilia was not proof against •• scene so alluring, and she sighed at the prospect, yet scarcely knew why. Julia pointed out to her sis|ter, the graceful figure of a young man who followed the marchioness, and she expressed her wishes that he might be her brother. From the contemplation of the scene before them, they were summoned to meet the marchioness. Julia trembled with apprehension, and for a few moments wished the castle was in its former state. As they advanced through the saloon, in which they were presented, Julia was covered with blushes, but Emilia, tho' equally timid, preserved her graceful dignity. The marchioness received them with a min|gled smile of condescension and politeness, and imme|diately the whole attention of the company was at|tracted by their elegance and beauty. The eager eyes of Julia sought in vain to discover her brother, of whose features she had no recollection in those of any of the persons then present. At length her father pre|sented him, and she perceived with a sigh of regret, that he was not the youth she had observed from the window. He advanced with a very engaging air, and she met him with an unfeigned welcome. His figure was tall and majestic; he had a very noble and spirited carriage; and his countenance expressed at once sweet|ness and dignity. Supper was served in the east hall, and the tables were spread with a profusion of delica|cies. A band of musick played during the repast, and the evening concluded with a concert in the sa|loon.

CHAPTER II.

THE day of the festival, so long and so impatient|ly looked for by Julia, was now arrived. All the neighbouring nobility were invited, and the gates of the castle were thrown open for a general rejoicing. A magnificent entertainment, consisting of the most luxu|rious and expensive dishes, was served in the balls. Soft music floated along the vaulted roofs, the walls were hung with decorations, and it seemed as if the hand of a magician had suddenly metamorphosed this once gloomy fabric into the palace of a fairy. The mar|quis, notwithstanding the gaiety of the scene▪ frequent|ly appeared abstracted from its enjoyments, and in spite of all his efforts at cheerfulness, the melancholy of his heart was visible in his countenance.

In the evening there was a grand ball: the marchi|oness, who was still distinguished for her beauty, and for the winning elegance of her manners, appeared in the most splendid attire. Her hair was ornamented with a profusion of jewels, but was so disposed as to give an air rather of voluptuousness, than of grace, to her figure. Although conscious of her charms, she beheld the beauty of Emilia and Julia with a jealous eye, and was compelled secretly to acknowledge, that the simple elegance with which they were adorned, was more enchanting than all the studied artifice of splendid decoration. They were dressed alike in light Sicilian habits, and the beautiful luxuriance of their flowing hair, was restrained only by bandellets of pearl. The ball was opened by Ferdinand, and the lady Ma|tilda Constanza. Emilia danced with the young mar|quis della Fazelli, and acquitted herself with the ease and dignity so natural to her. Julia experienced a

various emotion of pleasure and fear when the count de Vereza, in whom she recollected the cavalier she had observed from the window, led her forth. The grace of her step, and the elegant symmetry of her figure, raised in the assembly a gentle murmur of ap|applause, and the soft blush which now stole over her cheek, gave an additional charm to her appearance. But when the music changed, and she danced to the soft Sicilian measure, the airy grace of her movement, and the unaffected tenderness of her air, sunk attention into silence, which continued for some time after the dance had ceased. The marchioness observed the gen|eral admiration with seeming pleasure, and secret un|easiness. She had suffered a very painful solicitude, when the count de Vereza selected her for his partner in the dance, and she pursued him through the evening, with an eye of jealous scrutiny. Her bosom, which before glowed only with love, was now torn by the agitation of other passions more violent and destructive. Her thoughts were restless, her mind wandered from the scene before her, and it required all her address to preserve an apparent ease. She saw, or fancied she saw, an impassioned air in the count, when he addressed himself to Julia, that corroded her heart with jealous fury.

At twelve the gates of the castle were thrown open, and the company quitted it for the woods, which were splendidly illuminated. Arcades of light lined the long vistas, which were terminated by pyramids of lamps that presented to the eye one bright column of flame. At irregular distances buildings were erected, hung with variagated lamps disposed in the gayest and most fantastic forms. Collations were spread under the trees; and music, touched by unseen hands, breathed around. The musicians were placed in the

most obscure and embowered spots, so as to elude the eye and strike the imagination. The scene appeared enchanted. Nothing met the eye but beauty, and romantic splendor; the ear received no sounds but those of mirth and melody. The younger part of the company formed themselves into groups which at in|tervals glanced through the woods, and were again unseen. Julia seemed the magic queen of the place. Her heart dilated with pleasure, and diffused over her features an expression of pure and complacent delight. A generous, frank, and exalted sentiment sparkled in her eyes, and animated her manner. Her bosom glowed with benevolent affections; and she seem|ed anxious to impart to all around her, a happi|ness as unmixed as that she experienced. Wherever she moved, admiration followed her steps. Ferdinand was as gay as the scene around him. Emilia was pleased; and the marquis seemed to have left his me|lancholy in the castle. The marchioness alone was wretched. She supped with a select party, in a pavil|lion on the sea shore, which was fitted up with peculi|ar elegance. It was hung with white silk, drawn up in festoons, and richly fringed with gold. The sofas were of the same materials, and alternate wreaths of roses entwined the columns. A row of small lamps placed about the cornice, formed an edge of light round the roof, which, with the other numerous lights, was reflected in a blaze of splendor from the large mirrors that adorned the room. The count Muriani was of the party;—he complimented the marchioness on the beauty of her daughters; and after lamenting with gaiety the captives which their charms would en|thral, he mentioned the count de Vereza, "He is cer|tainly of all others the man most deserving the lady Julia. As they danced, I thought they exhibited a

perfect model of the beauty of either sex; and if I mistake not, they are inspired with a mutual admirati|on." The marchioness, endeavouring to conceal her uneasiness, said, "Yes, my lord, I allow the count all the merit you adjudge him, but from the little I have seen of his disposition, he is too volatile for a serious attachment."—At that instant the count entered the pavillion: "Ah, said Muria|mi, laughingly, you was the subject of our conversa|tion, and seem to be come in good time to receive the honours alloted you. I was interceding with the mar|chioness for her interest in your favour, with the lady Julia; but she absolutely refuses it; and though she allows you merit, alledges, that you are by nature fickle and inconstant. What say you—would not the beauty of lady Julia bind your unsteady heart?"

"I know not how I have deserved that character of the marchioness," said the count, with a smile, "but that heart must be either fickle or insensible in an un|common degree, which can boast of freedom in the presence of lady Julia." The marchioness, mortified by the whole conversation, now felt the full force of Vereza's reply, which she imagined he pointed with particular emphasis.

The entertainment concluded with a grand firework, which was exhibited on the margin of the sea, and the company did not part till the dawn of morning. Ju|lia retired from the scene with regret. She was en|chanted with the new world that was now exhibited to her, and she was not cool enough to distinguish the vivid glow of imagination from the colours of real bliss. The pleasure she now felt, she believed would always be renewed, and in an equal degree, by the objects which first excited it. The weakness of humanity is never willingly perceived by young minds.

It is painful to know, that we are operated upon by objects whose impressions are variable as they are inde|finable—and that what yesterday affected us strongly, is to-day but imperfectly felt, and to-morrow perhaps shall be disregarded. When at length this unwelcome truth is received into the mind, we at first reject, with disgust, every appearance of good, we disdain to partake of a happiness which we cannot always com|mand, and we not unfrequently sink into a temporary despair. Wisdom or accident at length, recall us from our error, and offers to us some object capable of pro|ducing a pleasing, yet lasting effect, which effect, therefore, we call happiness. Happiness has this essential difference from what is commonly called pleas|ure; that virtue forms its basis, and virtue being the offspring of reason, may be expected to pro|duce uniformity of effect.

The passions which had hitherto lain concealed in Julia's heart, touched by circumstance, dilated to its power, and afforded her a slight experience of the pain and delight which flow from their influence. The beauty and accomplishments of Vereza, raised in her a new and various emotion, which reflexion made her fear to encourage, but which was too pleasing to be wholly resisted. Tremblingly alive to a sense of de|light, and unchilled by disappointment, the young heart welcomes every feeling, not simply painful, with a romantic expectation, that it will expand into bliss.

Julia sought with eager anxiety to discover the sen|timents of Vereza towards her; she revolved each cir|cumstance of the day, but they afforded her little sa|tisfaction; they reflected only a glimmering and un|certain light, which instead of guiding, served only to perplex her. Now she remembered some instance of particular attention, and then s••me mark of appa|rent

indifference. She compared his conduct with that of the other young noblesse; and thought each ap|peared equally desirous of the favour of every lady present. All the ladies, however, appeared to her to court the admiration of Veresa, and she trembled lest he should be too sensible of the distinction. She drew from these reflexions no positive inference; and though distrust rendered pain the predominant sensa|tion, it was exquisitely interwoven with delight, that she could not wish it exchanged for her former ease. Thoughtful and restless, sleep fled from her eyes, and she longed with impatience for the morning, which should again present Vereza, and enable her to pursue the inquiry. She arose early, and adorned herself with unusual care. In her favourite closet she awaited the hour of breakfast, and endeavoured to read, but her thoughts wandered from the subject. Her lute and favourite airs lost half their power to please; the day seemed to stand still—she became melancholy, and thought the breakfast hour would never arrive. At length the clock struck the signal, the sound vibrated on every nerve, and trembling she quitted the closet for her sister's apartment. Love taught her disguise. Till then Emilia had shared all her thoughts; they now descended to the breakfast room in silence, and Julia almost feared to meet her eye. In the breakfast room they were alone. Julia found it impossible to support a conversation with Emilia, whose observati|ons interrupting the course of her thoughts, became uninteresting and tiresome. She was therefore about to retire to her closet, when the marquis entered. His air was haughty, and his look severe. He coldly sa|luted his daughters, and they had scarcely time to re|ply to his general inquiries, when the marchioness en|tered,

and company soon after assembled. Julia, who had awaited with so painful an impatience for the mo|ment which should present Vereza to her sight, now sighed that it was arrived. She scarcely dared to lift her timid eyes from the ground, and when by accident they met his, a soft tremour seized her; and apprehen|sion, lest he should discover her sentiments, served only to render her confusion conspicuous. At length a glance from the marchioness recalled her bewildered thoughts; and other fears superseding those of love, her mind, by degrees, recovered its dignity. She could distinguish in the behaviour of Vereza no symp|toms of particular admiration, and she resolved to con|duct herself towards him with the most scrupulous care.

This day, like the preceding one, was devoted to joy. In the evening there was a concert, which was chiefly performed by the nobility. Ferdinand played the violincello, Vereza the german flute, and Julia the piano forte, which she touched with a delicacy and ex|ecution that engaged every auditor. The confusion of Julia may be easily imagined, when Ferdinand, se|lecting a beautiful duet, desired Vereza would accom|pany his sister. The pride of conscious excellence, however, quickly overcame her timidity, and enabled her to exert all her power. The air was simple and pathetic, and she gave it those charms of expression so peculiarly her own. She struck the chords of her piano forte in beautiful accompaniment, and towards the close of the second stanza, her voice resting on one note, swelled into a tone so exquisite, and from thence descended to a few simple notes, which she touched with such impassioned tenderness that every eye wept to the sounds. The breath of the flute trembled, and

Hippolitus entranced, forgot to play. A pause of si|lence ensued at the conclusion of the piece, and con|tinued till a general sigh seemed to awaken the audi|ence from their enchantment. Amid the general ap|plause, Hippolitus was silent. Julia observed his be|haviour, and gently raising her eyes to his, there read the sentiments which she had inspired. An exquisite emotion thrilled her heart, and she experienced one of those rare moments which illumine life with a ray of bliss, by which the darkness of its general shade is con|trasted. Care, doubt, every disagreeable sensation vanished, and for the remainder of the evening she was conscious only of delight. A timid respect marked the manner of Hippolitus, more flattering to Julia than the most ardent professions. The evening con|cluded with a ball, and Julia was again the partner of the count.

When the ball broke up, she retired to her apart|ment, but not to sleep. Joy is as restless as anxiety or sorrow. She seemed to have entered upon a new state of existence;—those fine springs of affection which had hitherto lain concealed, were now touched, and yielded to her a happiness more exalted than any her imagination had ever painted. She reflected on the tranquillity of her past life, and comparing it with the emotions of the present hour, exulted in the difference. All her former pleasures now appeared insipid; she wondered that they ever had power to affect her, and that she had endured with content the dull uniformity to which she had been condemned. It was now only that she appeared to live. Absorbed in the single idea of being beloved, her imagination soared into the re|gions of romantic bliss, and bore her high above the possibility of evil. Since she was beloved by Hippo|litus, she could only be happy.

From this state of entranced delight, she was awaken|ed by the sound of music immediately under her win|dow. It was a lute touched by a masterly hand. Af|ter a wild and melancholy symphony, a voice of more than magic expression swelled into an air so pathetic and tender, that it seemed to breathe the very soul of love. The chords of the lute were struck in low and sweet accompaniment, Julia listened, and distinguish|ed the following words:

SONNET.

STILL is the night breeze!—not a lonely sound Steals through the silence of this dreary hour; O'er these high battlements Sleep reigns prosound, And sheds on all, his sweet oblivious power.

On all but me—I vainly ask his dews To sleep in short forgetfulness my cares; Th' affrighted god still flies when Love pursues, Still—still denies the wretched lover's prayers.

An interval of silence followed, and the air was re|peated; after which the music was heard no more. If before Julia believed that she was loved by Hippoli|tus, she was now confirmed in the sweet reality. But sleep at length fell upon her senses, and the airy forms of ideal bliss no longer flected before her imagination. Morning came, and she arose light and refreshed. How different were her present sensations from those of the preceding day. Her anxiety had now evapor|ated in joy, and she experienced that airy dance of spirits which accumulated delight from every object; and with a power like the touch of enchantment, can transform a gloomy desert into a smiling Eden. She flew to the breakfast room, scarcely conscious of mo|tion; but, as she entered it, a soft confusion overcame

her; she blushed, and almost feared to meet the eyes of Vereza. She was presently relieved, however, for the count was not there. The company assembled— Julia watched ••e entrance of every person with pain|ful anxiety, but he for whom she looked did not ap|pear. Surprised and uneasy, she fixed her eyes on the door, and whenever it opened, her heart beat with an expectation which was as often checked by disappointment. In spite of all her efforts her vi|vacity sunk into languor, and she then perceived that love may produce other sensations than those of delight. She found it possible to be unhappy, though loved by Hippolitus; and acknowledged with a sigh of regret, which was yet new to her, how trembling|ly her peace depended upon him. He neither appear|ed nor was mentioned at breakfast; but though deli|cacy prevented her inquiring after him, conversation soon became irksome to her, and she retired to the apartment of Madame de Menon. There she employ|ed herself in painting, and endeavoured to beguile the time till the hour of dinner, when she hoped to see Hippolitus. Madame was as usual, friendly and cheerful, but she perceived a reserve in the conduct of Julia, and penetrated without difficulty into its cause. She was, however, ignorant of the object of her pu|pil's admiration. The hour so eagerly desired by Julia at length arrived, and with a palpitating heart she en|tered the hall. The count was not there, and in the course of conversation, she learned that he had that morning sailed for Naples. The scene which so late|ly appeared enchanting to her eyes, now changed its hue; and in the midst of society, and surrounded by gaiety, she was solitary and dejected. She accused herself of having suffered her wishes to mislead her

judgment; and the present conduct of Hippolitus convinced her, that she had mistaken admiration, for a sentiment more tender. She believed too, that the musician who had addressed her in his sonnet, was not the count; and thus at once was dissolved all the ide|al fabrick of her happiness. How short a period of|ten reverses the character of our sentiments, rendering that which yesterday we despised, to day desirable. The tranquil state which she had so lately delighted to quit, she now reflected upon with regret. She had, however, the consolation of believing that her sentiments towards the count were unknown, and the sweet consciousness that her conduct had been govern|ed by a nice sense of propriety.

The public rejoicings at the castle closed with the week; but the gay spirit of the marchioness forbade a return to tranquillity; and she substituted diversions more private, but in splendour scarcely inferior to the preceding ones. She had observed the behaviour of Hippolitus on the night of the concert with chagrin, and his departure with sorrow; yet disdaining to per|petuate misfortunes by reflexion, she sought to lose the sense of disappointment in the hurry of dissipati|on. But her efforts to erase him from her remembrance were ineffectual. Unaccustomed to oppose the bent of her inclinations, they now maintained unbounded sway; and she found too late, that in order to have a due command of our passions, it is necessary to sub|ject them to early obedience. Passion, in its undue influence, produces weakness as well as injustice. The pain which now recoiled upon her heart from disap|pointment, she had not strength of mind to endure, and she sought relief from its pressure in afflicting the innocent. Julia, whose beauty she imagined had capti|vated

the cou••, and confirmed him in indifference to|wards herself, she incessantly tormented by the exer|cise of those various and splenetic little arts, which elude the eye of the common observer, and are only to be known by those who have felt them. Arts, which individually are inconsiderable, but in the ag|gregate, amount to a cruel and decisive effect.

From Julia's mind the idea of happiness was now faded. ••leasure had withdrawn her beam from the prospect, and the objects no longer illumined by her ray, became dark and colourless. As often as her situation would permit, she withdrew from society, and sought the freedom of solitude, where she could indulge in melancholy thoughts, and give a loose to that despair which is so apt to follow the disappoint|ment of our first hopes.

Week after week elapsed, yet no mention was made of returning to Naples. The marquis at length de|clared it his intention to spend the remainder of the summer in the castle. To this determination the marchioness submitted with decent resignation, for she was here surrounded by a croud of flatterers, and and her invention supplied her with continual diversi|ons: that gaiety which rendered Naples so dear to her, glittered in the woods of Mazzini, and resound|ed through the castle.

The apartments of Madame de Menon were spaci|ous and noble. The windows opened upon the sea, and commanded a view of the straits of Messina, bounded on one side by the beautiful shores of the isle of Sicily, and on the other by the high mountains of Calabria. The straits filled with vessels whose gay streamers glittered to the sun beam, presented to the eye an ever moving scene. The principal room opened upon a gallery that overhung the grand terrace of

the castle, and it commanded a prospect which for beauty and extent has seldom been equalled. These were formerly considered the chief apartments of the castle; and when the marquis quitted them for Naples, were alotted for the residence of Madame de Menon, and her young charge. The marchioness, struck with the prospect which the windows afforded, and the pleasantness of the gallery, determined to restore the rooms to their former splendour. She signified this intention to Madame, for whom other apartments were provided. The chambers of Emilia and Julia forming part of the suite, they were also claimed by the marchioness, who left Julia only her favourite clo|set. The rooms to which they removed, were spaci|ous but gloomy; they had been for some years unin|habited; and though preparations had been made for the reception of their new inhabitants, an air of de|solation reigned within them that inspired melancholy sensations. Julia observed that her chamber, which opened beyond Madame's, formed a part of the sou|thern building, with which, however, there appeared no means of communication. The late mysterious circumstances relating to this part of the fabrick, now arose to her imagination, and conjured up a terror which reason could not subdue. She told her emoti|ons to Madame, who, with more prudence than since|rity, laughed at her fears. The behaviour of the marquis, the dying words of Vincent, together with the preceding circumstances of alarm, had sunk deep in the mind of Madame, but she saw the necessity of confining to her own breast, doubts which time only could resolve.

Julia endeavoured to reconcile herself to the change, and a circumstance soon occurred which obliterated

her present sensations, and excited others far more in|teresting. One day that she was arranging some pa|pers in the small drawers of a cabinet that stood in her apartment, she found a picture which fixed all her attention. It was a miniature of a lady, whose coun|tenance was touched with sorrow, and expressed an air of dignified resignation. The mournful sweetness of her eyes, raised towards Heaven with a look of supplication, and the melancholy languor that shaded her features, so deeply affected Julia, that her eyes were filled with involuntary tears. She sighed and wept, still gazing on the picture, which seemed to engage her by a kind of fascination. She almost fan|cied that the portrait breathed, and that the eyes were fixed on her's with a look of penetrating softness. Full of the emotions which the miniature had excited, she presented it to Madame, whose mingled sorrow and surprise increased her curiosity. But what were the various sensations which pressed upon her heart, on learning that she had wept over the resemblance of her mother! Deprived of a mother's tenderness before she was sensible of its value, it was now only that she mourned the event which lamentation could not recall. Emilia, with an emotion as exquisite, mingled her tears with those of her sister. With eager impatience they pressed Madame to disclose the cause of that sor|row which so emphatically marked the features of their mother.

"Alas! my dear children," said Madame, deeply sighing, "you engage me in a task too severe, not only for your peace, but for mine; since in giving you the information you require, I must retrace scenes of my own life, which I wish for ever obliterated. It would however, be both cruel and unjust to with-hold

an explanation so nearly interesting to you, and I will sacrifice my own ease to your wishes."

"Louisa de Bernini, your mother, was as you well know, the only daughter of the count de Bernini. Of the misfortunes of your family, I believe you are yet ignorant. The chief estates of the count were situa|ted in the Val di Demona, a valley deriving its name from its vicinity to Mount Aetna, which vulgar tradi|tion has peopled with devils. In one of those dread|ful eruptions of Aetna, which deluged this valley with a flood of fire, a great part of your grandfather's do|mains in that quarter were laid waste. The count was at that time with a part of his family at Messina, but the countess and her son, who were in the country, were destroyed. The remaining property of the count was proportionably inconsiderable, and the loss of his wife and son deeply affected him. He retired with Louisa, his only surviving child, who was then near fifteen, to a small estate near Catania. There was some degree of relationship between your grandfather and myself; and your mother was attached to me by the ties of sentiment, which, as we grew up, united us still more strongly than those of blood. Our plea|sures and our tastes were the same; and a similarity of misfortunes might, perhaps, contribute to cement our early friendship. I, like herself, had lost a parent in the eruption of Aetna. My mother had died before I understood her value, but my father, whom I rever|ed and tenderly loved, was destroyed by one of those terrible events; his lands were buried beneath the lava, and he left an only son and myself to mourn his fate, and encounter the evils of poverty. The count, who, was our nearest surviving relation, generously took us home to his house, and declared that he considered us

as his children. To amuse his leisure hours, he un|dertook to finish the education of my brother, who was then about seventeen, and whose rising genius promised to reward the labours of the count. Louisa and myself often shared the instruction of her father, and at those hours Orlando was generally of the party. The tranquil retirement of the count's situation, the rational employment of his time between his own stu|dies, the education of those whom he called his chil|dren, and the conversation of a few select friends, anticipated the effect of time, and softened the asperi|ties of his distress into a tender complacent melancho|ly. As for Louisa and myself, who were yet new in life, and whose spirits possessed the happy elasticity of youth, our minds gradually shifted from suffering to tranquillity, and from tranquillity to happiness. I have sometimes thought that when my brother has been reading to her a delightful passage, the counte|nance of Louisa discovered a tender interest, which seemed to be excited rather by the reader than by the author. These days, which were surely the most en|viable of our lives, now passed in serene enjoyments, and in continual gradations of improvement.

"The count designed my brother for the army, and the time now drew nigh when he was to join the Sicilian regiment, in which he had a commission. The absent thoughts, and dejected spirits of my cou|sin, now discovered to me the secret which had long been concealed even from herself; for it was not till Orlando was about to depart, that she perceived how dear he was to her peace. On the eve of his departure, the count lamented with fatherly, yet manly tender|ness, the distance which was soon to separate us. "But we shall meet again," said he,

when the ho|nours of war shall have rewarded the bravery of my

son.

Louisa grew pale, a half suppressed sigh escaped her, and to conceal her emotion she turned to her harpsicord.

"My brother had a favourite dog which, before he set off, he presented to Louisa, and committing it to her care, begged she would be kind to it, and sometimes remember its master. He checked his ri|sing emotion, but as he turned from her, I perceived the tear that wetted his cheek. He departed, and with him the spirit of our happiness seemed to evapo|rate. The seenes which his presence had formerly en|livened, were now forlorn and melancholy, yet we loved to wander in what were once his favourite haunts. Louisa forbore to mention my brother even to me, but frequently when she thought herself unob|served, she would steal to her harpsicord, and repeat the str••n which she had played on the evening before his departure.

"We had the pleasure to hear from time to time that he was well; and though his own modesty threw a veil over his conduct, we could collect from other ac|counts that he had behaved with great bravery. At length the time of his return approached, and the en|livened spirits of Louisa declared the influence he re|retained in her heart. He returned bearing public testimony of his valour in the honours which had been conferred upon him. He was received with universal joy; the count welcomed him with the pride and fond|ness of a father, and the villa became again the seat of happiness. His person and manners were much improv|ed; the elegant beauty of the youth was now exchanged for the graceful dignity •• manhood, and some know|ledge of the world was added to that of the sciences. The joy which illumined his countenance when he met Louisa, spoke at once his admiration and his love;

and the blush which her observation of it brought upon her cheek, would have discovered even to an uninter|ested spectator that this joy was mutual.

"Orlando brought with him a young Frenchman, a brother officer, who had rescued him from imminent danger in battle, and whom he introduced to the count as his preserver. The count received him with grati|tude and distinction, and he was for a considerable time an inmate at the villa. His manners were singu|larly pleasing, and his understanding was cultivated and refined. He soon discovered a partiality for me, and he was indeed too pleasing to be seen with indifference. Gratitude for the valuable life he had preserved, was perhaps the ground work of an esteem which soon in|creased into the most affectionate love. Our attach|ment grew stronger as our acquaintance increased; and at length the chevalier de Menon asked me of the count, who consulted my heart, and finding it favoura|ble to the connexion, proceeded to make the necessary inquiries concerning the family of the stranger. He obtained a satisfactory and pleasing account of it. The chevalier was the second son of a French gentle|man of large estates in France, who had been some years deceased. He had left several sons; the family estate, of course, devolved to the eldest, but to the two younger he had bequeathed considerable property. Our marriage was solemnized in a private manner at the villa, in the presence of the count, Louisa, and my brother. Soon after the nuptials, my husband and Or|lando were remanded to their regiments. My bro|ther's affections were now unalterably fixed upon Louisa, but a sentiment of delicacy and generosity still kept him silent. He thought, poor as he was, to so|licit the hand of Louisa, would be to repay the kind|ness of the count with ingratitude. I have seen the

inward struggles of his heart, and mine has bled for him. The count and Louisa so earnestly solicited me to remain at the villa during the campaign, that at length my husband consented. We parted—O! let me forget that period!—Had I accompanied him, all might have been well; and the long—long years of affliction which followed had been spared me."

The horn now sounded the signal for dinner, and interrupted the narrative of Madame. Her beauteous auditors wiped the tears from their eyes, and with ex|treme reluctance descended to the hall. The day was occupied with company and diversions, and it was not till late in the evening that they were suffered to retire. They hastened to Madame immediately upon their be|ing released; and too much interested for sleep, and too importunate to be repulsed, solicited the sequel of her story. She objected the lateness of the hour, but at length yielded to their entreaties. They drew their chairs close to her's; and every sense being absorbed in the single one of hearing, followed her through the course of her narrative.

"My brother again departed without disclosing his sentiments; the effort it cost him was evident, but his sense of honour surmounted every opposing considera|tion. Louisa again drooped, and pined in silent sor|row. I lamented equally for my friend and my bro|ther; and have a thousand times accused that delicacy as false, which with-held them from the happiness they might so easily and so innocently have obtained. The behaviour of the count, at least to my eye, seemed to indicate the satisfaction which this union would have given him. It was about this period that the marquis Mazzini first saw and became enamoured of Louisa. His proposals were very flattering, but the count for|bore

to exert the undue authority of a father; and he ceased to press the connexion, when he perceived that Louisa was really averse to it. Louisa was sensible of the generosity of his conduct, and she could scarcely re|ject the alliance without a sigh, which her gratitude paid to the kindness of her father.

"But an event now happened which dissolved at once our happiness, and all our air drawn schemes for futurity. A dispute, which it seems originated in a trifle, but soon increased to a serious degree, arose be|tween the Chevalier de Menon and my brother. It was decided by the sword, and my dear brother fell by the hand of my husband. I shall pass over this period of my life. It is too painful for recollection. The effect of this event upon Louisa was such as may be imagined. The world was now become indifferent to her, and as she had no prospect of happiness for her|self, she was unwilling to with-hold it from the father who had deserved so much of her. After some time, when the marquis renewed his addresses, she gave him her hand. The characters of the marquis and his lady were in their nature too opposite to form a happy union. Of this Louisa was very soon sensible; and though the mildness of her disposition made her tamely submit to the unfeeling authority of her husband, his behavi|our sunk deep in her heart, and she pined in secret. It was impossible for her to avoid opposing the charact|er of the marquis to that of him upon whom her affec|tions had been so fondly and so justly fixed. The comparison increased her sufferings, which soon preyed upon her constitution, and very visibly affected her health. Her situation deeply afflicted the count, and united with the infirmities of age to shorten his life.

"Upon his death, I bade ad eu to my cousin, and and quitted Sicily for Italy, where the Chevalier de

Menon had for some time expected me. Our meeting was very affecting. My resentment towards him was done away, when I observed his pale and altered coun|tenance, and perceived the melancholy which preyed upon his heart. All the airy vivacity of his former manner was fled, and he was devoured by unavailing grief and remorse. He deplored with unceasing sor|row the friend he had murdered, and my presence seemed to open afresh the wounds which time had be|gun to close. His affliction, united with my own, was almost more than I could support, but I was doomed to suffer, and endure yet more. In a subsequent en|gagement my husband, weary of existence, rushed into the heat of battle, and there obtained an honourable death. In a paper which he left behind him, he said it was his intention to die in that battle: that he had long wished for death, and waited for an opportunity of obtaining it without staining his own character by the cowardice of suicide, or distressing me by an act of butchery. This event gave the finishing stroke to my afflictions;—yet let me retract:—another misfortune awaited me when I least expected one. The Chevalier de Menon died without a will, and his brothers refused to give up his estate, unless I could produce a witness of my marriage. I returned to Sicily, and to my in|expressible sorrow found that your mother had died during my stay abroad, a prey, I fear, to grief. The priest who performed the ceremony of my marriage, having been threatened with punishment for some ec|clesiastical offences, had secretly left the country; and thus was I deprived of those proofs which were neces|sary to authenticate my claims to the estates of my husband. His brothers, to whom I was an utter stranger, were either too prejudiced to believe, or be|lieving, were too dishonourable to acknowledge the

justice of my ci••ims. I was therefore at once abandon|ed to sorrow and to poverty; a small legacy from the count de Bernini being all that now remained to me.

"When the marquis married Maria de Vellorno, which was about this period, he designed to quit Maz|zini for Naples. His son was to accompany him, but, it was his intention to leave you, who were both very young, to the care of some person qualified to super|intend your education. My circumstances rendered the office acceptable, and my former friendship for your mother made the duty pleasing to me. The mar|quis, was, I believe, glad to be scared the trouble of searching further for what he had hitherto found it difficult to obtain—a person whom inclination as well as duty would bind to his interest."

Madame ceased to speak, and Emilia and Julia wept to the memory of the mother, whose misfortunes this story recorded. The sufferings of Madame, together with her former friendship for the late marchioness, endeared her to her pupils, who from this period en|deavoured by every kind and delicate attention to ob|literate the traces of her sorrows. Madame was sensi|ble of this tenderness, and it was productive in some de|gree of the effect d••s••••ed. But a subject soon after occurred, which draw off their minds from the consi|deration of their mother's fate to a subject more won|derful and equally interesting.

One night that Emilia and Julia had been detained, by company, in ceremonial restraint, later than usual, they were induced by the easy conversation of Ma|dame, and by the pleasure which a return to liberty naturally produces to defer the hour of repose till the night was far advanced. They were engaged in inter|esting discourse, when Madame, who was then speak|ing, was interrupted by a low hollow sound, which

arose from beneath the apartment, and seemed like the closing of a door. Chilled into a silence, they listen|ed and distinctly heard it repeated. Deadly ideas crowded upon their imaginations, and inspired a ter|ror which scarcely allowed them to breathe. The noise lasted only for a moment, and a profound silence soon ensued. Their feelings at length relaxed, and suf|fered them to move to Madame's apartment, when again they heard the same sounds. Almost distracted with fear, they rushed into Madame's apartment, where Emilia sunk upon the bed and fainted. It was a considerable time ere the efforts of Madame recalled her to sensation. When they were again tranquil, she employed all her endeavours to compose the spirits of the young ladies, and dissuade them from alarming the castle. Involved in dark and fearful doubts, she yet commanded her feelings, and endeavoured to as|sume an appearance of composure. The late behaviour of the marquis had convinced her that he was nearly connected with the mystery which hung over this part of the edifice; and she dreaded to excite his resentment by a further mention of alarms, which were perhaps only ideal, and whose reality she had certainly no means of proving.

Influenced by these considerations, she endeavoured to prevail on Emilia and Julia, to await in silence some confirmation of their surmises, but their terror made this a very difficult task. They acquiesced, however, so far with her wishes, as to agree to conceal the pre|ceding circumstances from every person but their bro|ther, without whose protecting presence they declared it utterly impossible to pass another night in the apart|ments. For the remainder of this night they resolved to watch. To beguile the tediousness of the time they endeavoured to converse, but the minds of Emilia and

Julia were too much affected by the late occurrence to wander from the subject. They compared this with the foregoing circumstance of the figure and the light which had appeared; their imaginations kindled wild conjectures, and they submitted their opinions to Ma|dame, entreating her to inform them sincerely, whe|ther she believed that disembodied spirits were ever permitted to visit this earth.

"My children," said she, "I will not attempt to per|suade you that the existence of such spirits is impossi|ble. Who shall say that any thing is impossible to God? We know that he has made us, who are embo|died spirits; he, therefore, can make unembodied spi|rits. If we cannot understand how such spirits exist, we should consider the limited powers of our minds, and that we cannot understand many things which are indisputably true. No one yet knows why the magnet|ic needle points to the north; yet you, who have never seen a magnet, do not hesitate to believe that it has this tendency, because you have been well assured of it, both from books and in conversation. Since, there|fore, we are sure that nothing is impossible to God, and that such beings may exist, though we can not tell how, we ought to consider by what evidence their ex|istence is supported. I do not say that spirits have ap|peared; but if several discreet unprejudiced person•• were to assure me that they had seen one, I should not be proud or bold enough to reply—"it is impossible." Let not, however, such considerations disturb your minds. I have said thus much, because I was unwilling to impose upon your understandings; it is now your part to exercise your reason, and preserve the unmov|ed confidence of virtue. Such spirits, if indeed they have ever been seen, can have appeared only by the ex|press permission of God, and for some very singular

purposes; be assured that there are no beings who act unseen by him; and that, therefore, there are none from whom innocence can ever suffer harm."

No further sounds disturbed them for that time; and before the morning dawned, weariness insensibly overcame apprehension, and sunk them in repose.

When Ferdinand learned the circumstances relating to the southern side of the castle, his imagination seiz|ed with avidity each appearance of mystery, and inspir|ed him with an irresistible desire to penetrate the se|crets of this desolate part of the fabric. He very rea|dily consented to watch with his sisters in Julia's apart|ment; but as his chamber was in a remote part of the castle, there would be some difficulty in passing unob|served to her's. It was agreed, however, that when all was hushed, he should make the attempt. Having thus resolved, Emilia and Julia waited the return of night with restless and fearful impatience.

At length the family retired to rest. The castle clock had struck one, and Julia began to fear that Fer|dinand had been discovered, when a knocking was heard at the door of the outer chamber.

Her heart beat with apprehensions, which reason could not justify. Madame rose, and inquiring what was there, was answered by the voice of Ferdinand. The door was cheerfully opened. They drew their chairs round him, and endeavoured to pass the time in conversation; but fear and expectation attracted all their thoughts to one subject, and Madame alone pre|served her composure. The hour was now come when the sounds had been heard the preceding night, and every ear was given to attention. All, however, re|mained quiet, and the night passed without any new alarm.

The greater part of several succeeding nights were

spent in watching, but no sounds disturbed their silence. Ferdinand, in whose mind the late circumstances had excited a degree of astonishment and curiosity superior to common obstacles, determined, if possible, to gain admittance to those recesses of the castle which had for so many years been hid from human eye. This, however, was a design which we saw little probability of accomplishing, for the keys of that part of the edi|fice were in the possession of the marquis, of whose late conduct he judged too well to believe he would suffer the apartments to be explored. He racked his inven|tion for the means of getting access to them, and at length recollecting that Julia's chamber formed a part of these buildings, it occurred to him, that according to the mode of building in old times, there might for|merly have been a communication between them. This consideration suggested to him the possibility of a concealed door in her apartment, and he determined to survey it on the following night with great care.

CHAPTER III.

THE castle was buried in sleep when Ferdinand again joined his sisters in Madame's apartment. With anxious curiosity they followed him to the chamber. The room was hung with tapestry. Ferdinand care|fully sounded the wall which communicated with the southern buildings. From one part of it a sound was returned, which convinced him there was something less solid than stone. He removed the tapestry, and behind it appeared, to his inexpressible satisfaction, a small door. With a hand trembling through eager|ness he undrew the bolts, and was rushing forward,

when he perceived that a lock with held his passage. The keys of Madame and his sisters were applied in vain, and he was compelled to submit to disappoint|ment at the very moment when he congratulated him|self on his success, for he had with him no means of forcing the door.

He stood gazing on the door, and inwardly lament|ing, when a low hollow sound was heard from beneath. Emilia and Julia seized his arm; and almost sinking with apprehension, listened in profound silence. A footstep was distinctly heard, as if passing through the apartment below, after which all was still. Ferdinand fired by this confirmation of the late report, rushed on to the door, and again tried to burst his way, but it resisted all the efforts of his strength. The ladies now rejoiced in that circumstance which they so lately lamented; for the sounds had renewed their terror, and though the night passed without further disturb|ance, their fears were very little abated.

Ferdinand, whose mind was wholly occupied with wonder, could with difficulty await the return of night. Emilia and Julia were scarcely less impatient. They counted the minutes as they passed; and when the fa|mily retired to rest, hastened with palpitating hearts to the apartment of Madame. They were soon after joined by Ferdinand, who brought with him tools for cutting away the lock of the door. They paused a few moments in the chamber in fearful silence, but no sound disturbed the stillness of night. Ferdinand ap|plied a knife to the door, and in a short time separa|ted the lock. The door yielded and disclosed a large and gloomy gallery. He took a light. Emilia and Julia, fearful of remaining in the chamber, resolved to to accompany him, and each seizing an arm of Madame, they followed in silence. The gallery was in many

parts falling to decay, the cieling was broke, and the window shutters shattered, which, together with the dampness of the walls, gave the place an air of wild desolation.

They passed lightly on, for their steps ran in whis|pering echoes through the gallery, and often did Ju|lia cast a fearful glance around.

The gallery terminated in a large old stair-case, which led to a hall below; on the left appeared seve|ral doors which seemed to lead to separate apartments. While they hesitated which course to pursue, a light flashed faintly up the stair-case, and in a moment after passed away; at the same time was heard the sound of a distant footstep. Ferdinand drew his sword and sprang forward; his companions screaming with er|ror, ran back to Madame's apartment.

Ferdinand descended a large vaulted hall; he crose|ed it towards a low arched door which was left half open, and through which streamed a ray of light. The door opened upon a narrow winding passage•• he entered, and the light retiring, was quickly lost in the windings of the place. Still he went on. The passage grew narrower, and the frequent fragments of loose stone, made it now difficult to proceed. A low door closed the avenue, resembling that by which he had entered. He opened it, and discovered a square room, from whence rose a windng stair case, which led up the south tower of the castle. Ferdinand pau|sed to listen; the sound of steps had ceased, and all was profoundly silent. A door on the right attracted his notice; he tried to open it, but it was fastened. He concluded, therefore, that the person, if indeed a human being it was that bore the light he had seen, had passed up the tower. After a momentary hesita|••ion,

he determined to ascend the stair-case, but its ••uinous condition made this an adventure of some dif|••iculty. The steps were decayed and broken, and the ••ooseness of the stones rendered a footing very insecure. Impelled by an irresistible curiosity, he was undismay|ed and began the ascent. He had not proceeded very far, when the stones of a step which his foot had just quitted, loosened by his weight, gave way; and drag|ging with them those adjoining, formed a chasm in the stair-case that terrified even Ferdinand, who was left tottering on the suspended half of the steps, in mo|mentary expectation of falling to the bottom with the stone on which he rested. In the terror which this oc|casioned, he attempted to save himself by catching at a kind of beam which projected over the stairs, when the lamp dropped from his hand, and he was left in total darkness. Terror now usurped the place of eve|ry other interest, and he was utterly perplexed how to proceed. He feared to go on, lest the steps above, as infirm as those below, should yield to his weight; —to return was impracticable, for the darkness pre|cluded the possibility of discovering a means. He de|termined, therefore, to remain in this situation till light should d•• through the narrow grates in the walls, and enable him to contrive some method of let|ting himself down to the ground.

He had remained here above an hour, when he sud|denly heard a voice from below. It seemed to come from the passage leading to the tower, and percepti|bly drew nearer. His agitation was now extreme, for he had no power of defending himself, and while he remained in this state of torturing expectation, a blaze of light burst upon the stair-case beneath him. In the succeeding moment he heard his own name sounded from below. His apprehensions instantly vanished,

for he distinguished the voices of Madame and his sisters▪

They had awaited his return in all the horrors of apprehension, till at length all fear for themselves was lost in those concern for him; and they, who so lately had not dared to enter this part of the edifice, now un|dauntedly searched it in quest of Ferdinand. What were their emotions when they discovered his perilous situation!

The light now enabled him to take a more accurate survey of the place. He perceived that some few stones of the steps which had fallen, still remained attached to the wall, but he feared to trust to their support on|ly. He observed, however, that the wall itself was partly decayed, and consequently rugged with the corners of half worn stones. On these small projec|tions he contrived, with the assistance of the steps al|ready mentioned, to suspend himself, and at length gained the unbroken part of the stairs in safety. It is difficult to determine which individual of the party rejoiced most at this escape. The morning now dawn|ed, and Ferdinand desisted for the present from far|ther inquiry.

The interest which these mysterious circumstances excited in the mind of Julia, had with-drawn her at|tention from a subject more dangerous to its peace. The image of Vereza, notwithstanding, would fre|quently intrude upon her fancy; and awakening the recollection of happy emotions, would call forth a sigh which all her efforts could not suppress. She loved to indulge the melancholy of her heart in the solitude of the woods. One evening she took her lute to a favour|ite spot on the sea shore, and resigning herself in a pleasing sadness, touched some sweet and plaintive airs.

The purple flush of evening was diffused over the heavens. The sun, involved in clouds of splendid and innumerable hues, was setting o'er the distant water, whose clear bosom glowed with rich reflexion. The beauty of the scene, the soothing murmur of the high trees, waved by the light air which overshadowed her, and the soft swelling of the waves that flowed gently in upon the shores, insensibly sunk her mind into a state of repose. She touched the chords of her lute in sweet and wild melody, and sung the following ode:

EVENING.

EVENING veil'd in dewy shades, Slowly sinks upon the main; See th' empurpled glory fades, Beneath her sober, chasten'd reign.

Around her car the pensive Hours, In sweet illapses meet the sight, Crown'd their brows with closing flow'rs Rich with chrystal dews of night.

Her hands, the dusky hues arrange O'er the fine tints of parting day; Insensibly the colours change, And languish into soft decay.

Wide o'er the waves her shadowy veil she draws, As faint they die along the distant shores; Through the still air I make each solemn pause, Each rising murmur which the wild wave pours.

A browner shadow spreads upon the air And o'er the scene a pensive grandeur throws; The rocks—the woods a wilder beauty wear, And the deep wave in softer music slows.

And now the distant view where vision fails, Twilight and grey obscurity pervade; Tint following tint each dark'ning object veils, Till all the landscape sinks into the shade.

Oft from the airy steep of some lone hill, While sleeps the scene beneath the purple glow; And evening lies o'er all serene and still, Wrapt let me view the magic world below!

And catch the dying gale that swells remote, That steals the sweetness from the shepherd's flute; The distant torrent's melancholy note And the soft warblings of the lover's lute.

Still through the deep'ning gloom of bow'ry shades To Fancy's eye fantastic forms appear; Low whisp'ring echoes steal along the glades And thrill the heart with wildly-pleasing fear.

Parent of shades!—of silence!—dewy airs! Of solemn musing, and of vision wild! To thee my soul her pensive tribute bears, And hails thy gradual step, thy influence mild.

Having ceased to sing, her fingers wandered over the lute in melancholy symphony, and for some mo|ments she remained lost in the sweet sensations which the music and the scenery had inspired. She was awakened from her reverie, by a sigh that stole from among the trees, and directing her eyes whence it came, beheld—Hippolitus! A thousand sweet and mingled emotions pressed upon her heart, yet she scarcely dared to trust the evidence of sight. He ad|vanced, and throwing himself at her feet. "Suffer me" said he, in a tremulous voice, "to disclose to you the sentiments which you have inspired, and to offer you the effusions of a heart filled only with love and admiration." "Rise my lord," said Julia, mov|ing from her seat with an air of dignity, "that atti|tude is neither becoming you to use, or me to suffer▪ The evening is closing, and Ferdinand will be impati|ent to see you."

"Never will I rise, Madam," replied the count, with an impassioned air, "till."—He was interrupted by the marchioness who at this moment entered the grove. On observing the position of the count she was retiring. "Stay Madam," said Julia, almost sinking under her confusion. "By no means," re|plied the marchioness, in a tone of irony, "my pre|sence would only interrupt a very agreeable scene. The count, I see, is willing to pay you his earliest re|spects." Saying this she disappeared, leaving Julia distressed and offended, and the count provoked at the intrusion. He attempted to renew the subject, but Julia hastily followed the steps of the marchioness, and entered the castle.

The scene she had witnessed, raised in the marchio|ness a tumult of dreadful emotions. Love, hatred, and jealousy, raged by turns in her heart, and defied all power of controul. Subjected to their alternate violence, she experienced a misery more acute than any she had yet known. Her imagination, invigorat|ed by opposition, heightened to her the graces of Hip|politus; her bosom glowed with more intense passion, and her brain was at length exasperated almost to madness.

In Julia this sudden and unexpected interview excit|ed a mingled emotion of love and vexation, which did not soon subside. At length, however, the delightful consciousness of Vereza's love bore her high above every other sensation; again the scene more brightly glow|ed, and again her fancy overcame the possibility of evil.

During the evening, a tender and timid respect dis|tinguished the behaviour of the count towards Julia, who, contented with the certainty of being loved, re|solved to conceal her sentiments till an explanation of

his abrupt departure from Mazzini, and subsequent absence, should have dissipated the shadow of mystery which hung over this part of his conduct. She ob|served that the marchioness pursued her with steady and constant observation, and she carefully avoided af|fording the count an opportunity of renewing the sub|ject of the preceding interview, which whenever he ap|proached her seemed to tremble on his lips.

Night returned, and Ferdinand repaired to the chamber of Julia to pursue his inquiry. Here he had not long remained, when the strange and alarming sounds which had been heard on the preceding night were repeated. The circumstance that now sunk in terror the minds of Emilia and Julia, fired with new wonder that of Ferdinand, who seizing a light, darted through the discovered door, and almost instantly dis|appeared.

He descended into the same wild hall he had passed on the preceding night. He had scarcely reached the bottom of the stair-case, when a feeble light gleamed across the hall, and his eye caught the glimpse of a figure retiring through the low arched door which led to the south ••ower. He drew his sword and rushed on. A faint sound died away along the passage, the windings of which prevented his seeing the figure he pursued. Of this, indeed, he had obtained so slight a view, that he scarcely knew whether it bore the im|pression of a human form. The light quickly disap|peared, and he heard the door that opened upon the tower suddenly close. He reached it, and forcing it open, sprang forward; but the place was dark and so|litary, and there was no appearance of any person having passed along it. He looked up the tower, and the chasm which the stair-case exhibited, convinced him that no human being could have passed up. He

stood silent and amazed; examining the place with an eye of strict inquiry, he perceived a door, which was partly concealed by hanging stairs, and which till now had escaped his notice. Hope invigorated curiosity, but his expectation was quickly disappointed, for this door also was fastened. He tried in vain to force it. He knocked, and a hollow sullen sound ran in echoes through the place, and died away at a distance. It was evident that beyond this door were chambers of considerable extent, but after long and various at|tempts to reach them, he was obliged to desist, and he quitted the tower as ignorant and more dissatisfied than he had entered. He returned to the hall, which he now for the first time deliberately surveyed. It was a spacious and desolate apartment, whose lofty roof rose into arches supported by pillars of black marble. The same substance inlaid the floor, and formed the stair-case. The windows were high and gothic. An air of proud sublimity, united with singular wildness, char|acterized the place, at the extremity of which arose several gothic arches, whose dark shade veiled in ob|scurity the extent beyond. On the left hand appear|ed two doors, each of which was fastened, and on the right the grand entrance from the courts. Ferdinand determined to explore the dark recess which terminated his view, and as he traversed the hall, his imagination, affected by the surrounding scene, often multiplied the echoes of his footsteps into uncertain sounds of strange and fearful import.

He reached the arches, and discovered beyond a kind of inner hall of considerable extent, which was closed at the farther end by a pai•• of massy folding doors, heavily ornamented with carving. They were fastened by a lock, and defied his utmost strength.

As he surveyed the place in silent wonder, a sullen

groan arose from beneath the spot where he stood. His blood ran cold at the sound, but silence returning, and continuing unbroken, he attributed his alarm to the illusion of fancy, which terror had impregnated. He made another effort to force the door when a groan was repeated more hollow, and more dreadful than the first. At this moment all his courage forsook him, he quitted the door, and hastened to the stair-case, which he ascended almost breathless with 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

He found Madame de Menon and his sisters awa••|ing his return in the most painful anxiety; and, thus disappointed in all his endeavours to penetrate the se|cret of these buildings, and fatigued with fruitless search, he resolved to suspend farther inquiry.

When he related the circumstances of his late ad|venture, the terror of Emilia and Julia was heightened to a degree that overcame every prudent consideration. Their apprehension of the marquis's displeasure, was lost in a stronger feeling, and they resolved no longer to remain in apartments which offered only terrific images to their fancy. Madame de Menon almost equally alarmed, and more perplexed, by this combi|nation of strange and unaccountable circumstances, ceased to oppose their design. It was resolved, there|fore, that on the following day, Madame should ac|quaint the marchioness with such particulars of the late occurrences as their purpose made it necessary she should know, concealing their knowledge of the hid|den door, and the incidents immediately dependant on it; and that Madame should entreat a change of apartments.

Madame accordingly waited on the marchioness. The marchioness having listened to the account at first with surprise, and afterwards with indifference, con|descended to reprove Madame for encouraging super|stitious

belief in the minds of her young charge. She concluded with ridiculing as fanciful the circumstances related, and with refusing, on account of the numer|ous visitants at the castle, the request preferred to her.

It is true the castle was crowded with visitors; the former apartments of Madame de Menon were the only ones unoccupied, and these were in magnificent pre|paration for the pleasure of the marchioness, who was unaccustomed to sacrifice her own wishes to the com|fort of those around her. She therefore treated lightly the subject, which, seriously attended to, could have enda••••ered her new plan of delight.

But Emilia and Julia were too seriously terrified to obey the scruples of delicacy, or to be easily repulsed. They prevailed on Ferdinand to represent their situa|tion to the marquis.

Meanwhile Hippolitus, who had passed the night in a state of sleepless anxiety, watched with busy impa|tience, an opportunity of more fully disclosing to Julia, the passion which glowed in his heart. The first mo|ment in which he beheld her, had awakened in him an admiration which had since ripened into a sentiment more tender. He had been prevented formally de|claring his passion by the circumstance which so sud|denly called him to Naples. This was the dangerous illness of the marquis de Lomelli, his near and much valued relation. But it was a task too painful to de|part in silence, and he contrived to inform Julia of his sentiments in the air which she heard so sweetly sung beneath her window.

When Hippolitus reached Naples the marquis was yet living, but expired a few days after his arrival, leaving the count heir to the small possessions which remained from the extravagance of their ancestors.

The business 〈◊〉〈◊〉 adjusting his rights had till now de|tained

him from Sicily, whither he came for the so•• purpose of declaring his love. Here unexpected obsta|cles awaited him. The jealous vigilance of the mar|chioness, conspired with the delicacy of Julia, to with|hold from him the opportunity he so anxiously sought.

When Ferdinand entered upon the subject of the southern buildings to the marquis, he carefully avoided mentioning the hidden door. The marquis listened for some time to the relation in gloomy silence, but at length assuming an air of displeasure, reprehended Ferdinand for yielding his confidence to those idle alarms, which he said were the suggestions of a timid imagination. "Alarms," continued he, "which will readily find admittance to the weak mind of a wo|man, but which the firmer nature of man should dis|dain. Degenerate boy! Is it thus you reward my care? Do I live to see my son the sport of every idle tale a woman may repeat? Learn to trust reason and your senses, and you will then be worthy of my atten|tion."

The marquis was retiring, and Ferdinand now per|ceived it necessary to declare, that he had himself wit|nessed the sounds he mentioned. "Pardon me, my lord," said he, "in the late instance I have been just to your command—my senses have been the only evi|dences I have trusted. I have heard those sounds which I can not doubt." The marquis appeared shocked. Ferdinand perceived the change, and urged the subject so vigorously, that the marquis suddenly assuming a look of grave importance, commanded him to attend him in the evenining in his closet.

Ferdinand in passing from the marquis met Hippol|itus. He was pacing the gallery in much seeming agi|tation, but observing Ferdinand, he advanced to him "I am ill at heart," said he, in a melancholy tone▪

"assist me with your advice. We will step into this apartment where we can converse without interruption."

"You are not ignorant," said he, throwing him|self into a chair, "of the tender sentiments which your sister Julia has inspired. I entreat you by that sacred friendship which has so long united us, to afford me an opportunity of pleading my passion. Her heart, which is so susceptible of other impressions, is, I fea••, insensible to love. Procure me, however, the satisfac|tion of certainty upon a point where the tortures of suspence are surely the most intolerable."

"Your penetration," replied Ferdinand, "has for once forsaken you, else you would now be spared the tortures of which you complain, for you would have discovered what I have long observed, that Julia re|gards you with a partial eye."

"Do not," said Hippolitus, "make disappoint|ment more terrible by flattery; neither suffer the par|tiality of friendship to mislead your judgment. Your perceptions are affected by the warmth of your feel|ings, and because you think I deserve her distinction, you believe I possess it. Alas! you deceive yourself, but not me!"

"The very reverse," replied Ferdinand; "tis you who deceive yourself, or rather it is the delicacy of the passion which animates you, and which will ever ope|rate against your clear perception of a truth in which your happiness is so deeply involved. Believe me, I speak not without reason;—she loves you."

At these words Hippolitus started from his seat, and clasping his hands in fervent joy, "Enchanting sounds!" cried he, in a voice tenderly impassioned; "could I but believe you!—could I but believe you— this world were paradise!"

During this exclamation, the emotions of Julia,

who sat in her closet adjoining, can with difficulty be imagined. A door which opened into it from the apartment where this conversation was held, was only half closed. Agitated with the pleasure this declara|tion excited, she yet trembled with apprehension lest she should be discovered. She hardly dared to breathe, much less to move across the closet to the door, which opened upon the gallery, whence she might probably have escaped unnoticed, lest the sound of her step should betray her. Compelled, therefore, to remain where she was, she sat in a state of fearful distress, which no colour of language can paint.

"Alas!" resumed Hippolitus, "I too eagerly ad|mit the possibility of what I wish. If you mean that I should really believe you, confirm your assertion by some proof." "Readily," rejoined Ferdinand.

The heart of Julia beat quick.

"When you was so suddenly called to Naples upon the illness of the marquis Lomelli, I marked her con|duct well, and in that read the sentiments of her heart. On the following morning, I observed in her counte|nance a restless anxiety which I had never seen before. She watched the entrance of every person with an ea|ger expectation, which was as often succeeded by evi|dent disappointment. At dinner your departure was mentioned:—she spilt the wine she was carrying to her lips, and for the remainder of the day was spirit|less and melancholy. I saw her ineffectual struggles to conceal the oppression at her heart. Since that time she has seized every opportunity of withdrawing from company. The gaiety with which she was so lately charmed—charmed her no longer; she became pensive, retired, and I have often heard her singing in some lone spot, the most moving and tender airs. Your return produced a visible and instantaneous alter|ation;

she has now resumed her gaiety; and the soft confusion of her countenance, whenever you approach, might alone suffice to convince you of the truth of my assertion."

"O! talk for ever thus!" sighed Hippolitus. "These words are so sweet, so soothing to my soul, that I could listen till I forgot I had a wish beyond them. Yes!—Ferdinand, these circumstances are not to be doubted, and conviction opens upon my mind a flow of extacy I never knew till now. O! lead me to her, that I may speak the sentiments which swell my heart."

They arose, when Julia, who with difficulty had supported herself, now impelled by an irresistible fear of instant discovery, rose also, and moved softly to|wards the gallery. The sound of her step alarmed the count, who, apprehensive lest his conversation had been overheard, was anxious to be satisfied whether any person was in the closet. He rushed in, and dis|covered Julia! She caught at a chair to support her trembling frame; and overwhelmed with mortifying sensations, sunk into it, and hid her face in her robe. Hippolitus threw himself at her feet, and seizing her hand, pressed it to his lips in expressive silence. Some moments passed before the confusion of either would suffer them to speak. At length recovering his voice, "Can you, Madam, said he, forgive this intrusion, so unintentional? or will it deprive me of that esteem which I have but lately ventured to believe I possessed, and which I value more than existence itself? O! speak my pardon! Let me not believe that a single accident has destroyed my peace for ever."—"If your peace, Sir, depends upon a knowledge of my esteem," said Julia, in a tremulous voice, "that peace is already se|cure. If I wished even to deny the partiality I feel, it

would now be useless; and since I no longer wish this, it would also be painful." Hippolitus could only weep his thanks over the hand he still held. "Be sensible, however, of the delicacy of my situation," continued she, rising, "and suffer me to withdraw." Saying this she quitted the closet, leaving Hippolitus overcome with this sweet confirmation of his wishes, and Ferdinand not yet recovered from the painful sur|prise which the discovery of Julia had excited. He was deeply sensible of the confusion he had occasioned her, and knew that apologies would not restore the composure he had so cruelly yet unwarily disturbed.

Ferdinand awaited the hour appointed by the mar|quis in impatient curiosity. The solemn air which the marquis assumed when he commanded him to attend, had deeply impressed his mind. As the time drew nigh, expectation increased, and every moment seemed to linger into hours. At length he repaired to the closet, where he did not remain long before the mar|quis entered▪ The same chilling solemnity marked his manner. He locked the door of the closet, and seat|ing himself, addressed Ferdinand as follows:

"I am now going to repose in you a confidence, which will severely prove the strength of your honour. But before I disclose a secret, hitherto so carefully con|cealed, and now reluctantly told, you must swear to preserve on this subject an eternal silence. If you doubt the ••eadiness of your discretion—now declare it, and save yourself from the infamy, and the fatal consequences, which may attend a breach of your oath;—if, or the ••ntrary, you believe yourself capa|ble of a strict integrity— now accept the terms, and receive the secret I offer." Ferdinand was awed by this exordium—the impatience of curiosity was for a while suspended, and he hesitated whether he should

receive the secret upon such terms. At length he sig|nified his consent, and the marquis arising, drew his sword from the scabbard.—"Here" said he, offering it to Ferdinand, "seal your vows—swear by this sacred pledge of honour never to repeat what I shall now re|veal" Ferdinand bowed upon the sword, and raising his eyes to Heaven solemnly swore. The marquis then resumed his seat, and proceeded.

"You are not to learn that, about a century ago, this castle was in the possession of Vincent, third mar|quis of Mazzini, my grandfather. At that time there existed an inveterate hatred between our family and that of della Campo. I shall not now revert to the origin of the animosity, or relate the particulars of the consequent feuds—suffice it to observe, that by the power of our family, the della Campos were unable to preserve their former consequence in Sicily, and they have therefore quitted it for a foreign land to live in unmolested security. To return to my subject. —My grandfather, believing his life endangered by his enemy, planted spies upon him. He employed some of the numerous banditti who sought protection in his service, and after some weeks past in waiting for an opportunity, they seized Henry della Campo, and brought him secretly to this castle. He was for some time confined in a close chamber of the southern build|ings, where he expired; by what means I shall forbear to mention. The plan had been so well conducted, and the secrecy so strictly preserved, that every endea|vour of his family to trace the means of his disappear|ance, proved ineffectual. Their conjectures, it they fell upon our family, were supported by no proof; and the della Campos are to this day ignorant of the mode of his death. A rumour had prevailed long be|fore the death of my father, that the southern build|ings

of the castle were haunted. I disbelieved the fact and treated it accordingly. One night when every human being of the castle, except myself, was retire•• to rest, I had such strong and dreadful proofs of the general assertion, that even at this moment I can n•• recollect them without horror. Let me, if possible forget them. From that moment I forsook those buildings; they have ever since been shut up, and th•• circumstance I have mentioned, is the true reason why I have resided so little at the castle."

Ferdinand listened to this narrative in silent horror. He remembered the temerity with which he had da••|ed to penetrate those apartments—the light, and fi|gure he had seen—and, above all, his situation in the stair case of the tower. Every nerve thrilled at the re|collection; and the terrors of remembrance almost equalled those of reality.

The marquis permitted his daughters to change their apartments, but he commanded Ferdinand to tell them, that in granting their request, he consulted their ease only, and was himself by no means convinced of its propriety. They were accordingly re-instated in their former chambers, and the great ••om o••y of M••+dame's apartments was reserved for the marchioness, who expressed her discontent to the marquis in to•• of mingled censure and lamentation. The marquis privately reproved his daughters, for what he termed the idle fancies of a wea•• ••ind; and desired them no more to disturb the peace of the castle with the subject of their late fears. They received this reproof with silent submission—too much pleased with the success of their suit to be susceptible of any emotion but joy.

Ferdinand, reflecting on the late discovery, w•• shocked to learn, what was now forced upon his belief that he was the descendant of a murderer. He no••

knew that innocent blood had been shed in the castle, and that the walls were still the haunt of an unquiet spirit, which seemed to call aloud for retribution on the posterity of him who had disturbed its eternal rest. Hippolitus perceived his dejection, and entreated that he might participate his uneasiness: but Ferdinand, who had hitherto been frank and ingenuous, was now inflexibly reserved. "Forbear," said he "to urge a discovery of what I am not permitted to reveal; this is the only point upon which I conjure you to be si|lent, and this, even to you, I can not explain." Hip|politus was surprised, but pressed the subject no farther.

Julia, though she had been extremely mortified by the circumstances attendant on the discovery of her sentiments to Hippolitus, experienced, after the first shock had subsided, an emotion more pleasing than painful. The late conversation had painted in strong colours the attachment of her lover. His diffidence— his slowness to perceive the effect of his merit—his succeeding rapture, when conviction was at length forced upon his mind; and his conduct upon discover|ing Julia, proved to her at once the delicacy and the strength of his passion, and she yielded her heart to sensations of pure and unmixed delight. She was roused from this state of visionary happiness, by a summons from the marquis to attend him in the library. A circumstance so unusual surprised her, and she obey|ed with trembling curiosity. She found him pacing the room in deep thought, and she had shut the door before he perceived her. The authoritative severity in his countenance alarmed her, and prepared her for a subject of importance. He seated himself by her, and continued a moment silent. At length, steadily ob|serving her, "I sent for you, my child," said he,

"to declare the honour which awaits you. The duke of Luovo has solicited your hand. An alliance so splendid was beyond my expectation. You will re|ceive the distinction with the gratitude it claims, and prepare for the celebration of the nuptials."

This speech fell like the dart of death upon the heart of Julia. She sat motionless—stupified and de|prived of the power of utterance. The marquis ob|served her cousternation; and mistaking its cause, "I acknowledge," said he, "that there is somewhat ab|rupt in this affair; but the joy occasioned by a distinc|tion so unmerited on your part, ought to overcome the little feminine weakness you might otherwise indulge. Retire and compose yourself; and observe," continu|ed he, in a stern voice, "this is no time for finesse." These words roused Julia from her state of horrid stu|pefaction. "O! Sir," said she, throwing herself at his feet, "forbear to enforce authority upon a point where to obey you would be worse than death; if, in|deed, to obey you were possible." "Cease," said the marquis, "this affectation, and practise what becomes you." "Pardon me, my lord," she replied, "my distress is, alas! unfeigned. I cannot love the duke." "Away," interrupted the marquis, "nor tempt my rage with objections thus childish and absurd." "Yet hear me, my lord," said Julia, tears swelling in her eyes, "and pity the sufferings of a child, who never till this moment has dared to dispute your commands."

"Nor shall she now," said the marquis. "What— when wealth, honour, and distinction are laid at my feet, shall they be refused, because a foolish girl—a very baby, who knows not good from evil, cries, and says she cannot love. Let me not think of it—My just anger may, perhaps, out-run discretion, and tempt me to chastise your folly.—Attend to what I say—

accept the duke, or quit this castle for ever, and wan|der where you will." Saying this, he burst away, and Julia, who had hung weeping upon his knees, fell prostrate upon the floor. The violence of the fall com|pleted the effect of her distress, and she fainted. In this state she remained a considerable time. When she recovered her senses, the recollection of her cala|mity burst upon her mind with a force that almost a|gain overwhelmed her. She at length raised herself from the ground, and moved towards her own apart|ment, but had scarcely reached the great gallery, when Hippolitus entered it. Her trembling limbs would no longer support her;—she caught at a bannister to save herself; and Hippolitus, with all his speed, was scarcely in time to prevent her falling. The pale dis|tress exhibited in her counenance terrified him, and he anxiously inquired concerning it. She could answer him only with her tears, which she found it impossible to suppress; and gently disengaging herself, tottered to her closet. Hippolitus followed her to the door, but desisted from further importunity. He pressed her hand to his lips in tender silence, and withdrew sur|prised and alarmed.

Julia, resigning herself to despair, indulged in soli|tude the excess of her grief. A calamity, so dreadful as the present, had never before presented itself to her imagination. The union proposed would have been hateful to her, even if she had no prior attachment; what then must have been her distress, when she had given her heart to him who deserved all her admira|tion, and returned all her affection.

The duke de Luovo was of a character very similar to that of the marquis. The love of power was his ruling passion;—with him no gentle or generous sen|timent meliorated the harshness of authority, or di|rected

it to acts of beneficence. He delighted in sim|ple undisguised tyranny. He had been twice married, and the unfortunate women subjected to his power, had fallen victims to the slow but corroding hand of sorrow. He had one son, who some years before had escaped the tyranny of his father, and had not been since heard of. At the late festival the duke had seen Julia; and her beauty made so strong an impression upon him, that he had been induced now to solicit her hand. The marquis, delighted with the prospect of a connexion so flattering to his favourlie passion, rea|dily granted his consent, and immediately sealed it with a promise.

Julia remained for the rest of the day shut up in her closet, where the tender efforts of Madame and Emi|lia were exerted to soften her distress. Towards the close of evening Ferdinand entered. Hippolitus, shocked at her absence, had requested him to visit her, to alleviate her affliction, and if possible to discover its cause. Ferdinand, who tenderly loved his sister, was alarmed by the words of Hippolitus, and immediately sought her. Her eyes were swelled with weeping, and her countenance was but too expressive of the state of her mind. Ferdinand's distress, when told of his father's conduct, was scarcely less than her own. He had pleased himself with the hope of uniting the sister of his heart, with the friend whom he loved. An act of cruel authority now dissolved the fairy dream of happiness which his fancy had formed, and destroyed the peace of those most dear to him. He sat for a long time silent and dejected; at length, starting from his melancholy reverie, he bade Julia good night, and returned to Hippolitus, who was waiting for him with anxious impatience in the north hall.

Ferdinand dreaded the effect of that despair, which

the intelligence he had to communicate would produce in the mind of Hippolitus. He revolved some means of softening the dreadful truth; but Hippolitus, quick to apprehend the evil which love taught him to fear, seized at once upon the reality. "Tell me all," said he, in a tone of assumed firmness. "I am prepared for the worst." Ferdinand related the decree of the marquis, and Hippolitus, soon sunk into an excess of grief which defied, as much as it required, the powers of alleviation.

Julia, at length, retired to her chamber, but the sorrow which occupied her mind, with-held the bles|sings of sleep. Distracted and restless she arose, and gently opened the window of her apartment. The night was still, and not a breath disturbed the surface of the waters. The moon shed a mild radiance over the waves, which in gentle undulations flowed upon the sands. The scene insensibly tranquillized her spi|rits. A tender and pleasing melancholy diffused it|self over her mind; and as she mused, she heard the dashing of distant oars. Presently she perceived upon the light surface of the sea a small boat. The sound of the oars ceased, and a solemn strain of harmony (such as fancy wafts from the abodes of the blessed) stole upon the silence of night. A chorus of voices now swelled upon the air, and died away at a distance. In the strain Julia recollected the midnight hymn to the virgin, and holy enthusiasm filled her heart. The chorus was repeated, accompanied by a solemn strik|ing of oars. A sigh of extacy stole from her bosom. Silence returned. The divine melody she had heard calmed the tumult of her mind, and she sunk in sweet repose.

She arose in the morning refreshed by light slum|bers; but the recollection of her sorrows soon returned

with new force, and sickening faintness overcame her. In this situation she received a message from the mar|quis to attend him instantly. She obeyed, and he bade her prepare to receive the duke, who that morn|ing purposed to visit the castle. He commanded her to attire herself richly, and to welcome him with smiles. Julia submitted in silence. She saw the mar|quis was inflexibly resolved, and she withdrew to in|dulge the anguish of her heart, and prepare for this detested interview.

The clock had struck twelve, when a flourish of trumpets announced the approach of the duke. The heart of Julia sunk at the sound, and she threw her|self on a sopha overwhelmed with bitter sensations. Here she was soon disturbed by a message from the marquis. She arose, and tenderly embracing Emilia, their tears for some moments flowed together. At length summoning all her fortitude, she descended to the hall, where, she was met by the marquis. He led her to the saloon in which the duke sat, with whom having conversed a short time, he withdrew. The emotion of Julia at this instant was beyond any thing she had before suffered; but by a sudden and strange exertion of fortitude, which the force of desperate ca|lamity sometimes affords us, but which inferior sorrow toils after in vain, she recovered her composure, and resumed her natural dignity. For a moment she won|dered at herself, and she formed the dangerous resolu|tion of throwing herself upon the generosity of the duke, by acknowledging her reluctance to the engage|ment, and soliciting him to withdraw his suit.

The duke approached her with an air of proud con|descension; and taking her hand placed himself be|side her. Having paid some formal and general com|pliments to her beauty, he proceeded to profess him|self

her admirer. She listened for some time to his professions, and when he appeared willing to hear her, she addressed him—"I am justly sensible, my lord, of the distinction you offer me, and must lament that re|spectful gratitude is the only sentiment I can return. Nothing can more strongly prove my confidence in your generosity, than when I confess to you, that parental authority urges me to give my hand, whither my heart can not accompany it."

She paused—the duke continued silent.—"'Tis you only, my lord, who can release me from a situa|tion so distressing; and to your goodness and justice I appeal, certain that necessity will excuse the singularity of my conduct, and that I shall not appeal in vain."

The duke was embarrassed—a flush of pride over|spread his countenance, and he seemed endeavouring to stifle the feelings that swelled his heart. "I had been prepared Madam," said he, "to expect a very different reception, and had certainly no reason to be|lieve that the duke de Luovo was likely to sue in vain. Since, however, Madam, you acknowledge that you have already disposed of your affections, I shall cer|tainly be very willing, if the marquis will release me from our mutual engagements, to resign you to a more favoured lover." "Pardon me, my lord," said Julia, blushing, "suffer me to"—"I am not easily deceived, Madam," interrupted the duke,—"your conduct can be attributed only to the influence of a prior attachment; and though for so young a lady, such a circumstance is somewhat extraordinary, I have certainly no right to arraign your choice. Permit me to wish you a good morning." He bowed low, and quitted the room. Julia now experienced a new dis|tress; she dreaded the resentment of the marquis, when he should be informed of her conversation with

the duke, of whose character she now judged too ju•• not to repent the confidence she had reposed in him.

The duke, on quitting Julia, went to the marquis with whom he remained in conversation some hou•• When he had left the castle, the marquis sent for h•• daughter, and poured forth his resentment with a•• the violence of threats, and all the acrimony of con|tempt. So severely did he ridicule the idea of h•• disposing of her heart, and so dreadfully did he d••+nounce vengeance on her disobedience, that she scare+ly thought herself safe in his presence. She sto•• trembling and confused, and heard his reproaches with+out the power to reply. At length the marquis i••+formed her, that the nuptials would be solemnized 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the third day from the present; and as he quitted 〈◊〉〈◊〉 room, a flood of tears came to her relief, and save her from fainting.

Julia passed the remainder of the day in her clos•• with Emilia. Night returned, but brought her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 peace. She sat long after the departure of Emilia and to beguile recollection, she selected a favourite au+thor, endeavouring to revive those sensations his p•• had once excited. She opened to a passage, the t••+der sorrow of which was applicable to her own situa|tion, and her tears flowed anew. Her grief was so•• suspended by apprehension. Hitherto a deadly silen•• had reigned through the castle, interrupted only 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the wind, whose low sound crept at intervals through the galleries. She now thought she heard a foot-ste•• near her door, but presently all was still, for she be+lieved she had been deceived by the wind. The su••+ceeding moment, however, convinced her of her er•• for she distinguished the low whisperings of some p••+sons in the gallery. Her spirits, already weakened 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sorrow, deserted her; she was seized with an unive••

terror, and presently afterwards a low voice called her from without, and the door was opened by Ferdinand.

She shrieked and fainted. On recovering, she found herself supported by Ferdinand and Hippolitus, who had stolen this moment of silence and security to gain admittance to her presence. Hippolitus came to urge a proposal, which despair only could have suggested. "Fly," said he, "from the authority of a father who abuses his power, and assert the liberty of choice, which nature assigned you. Let the desperate situa|tion of my hopes plead excuse for the apparent bold|ness of this address, and let the man who exists but for you, be the means of saving you from destruction. Alas! Madam, you are silent, and perhaps I have for|feited by this proposal, the confidence I so lately flat|tered myself I possessed. If so, I will submit to my fate in silence, and will to-morrow quit a scene which presents only images of distress to my mind.

Julia could speak but with her tears. A variety of strong and contending emotions struggled at her breast, and suppressed the power of utterance. Ferdinand se|con••ed the proposal of the count. "It is unnecessary," my sister, said he, "to point out the misery which awaits you here. I love you too well tamely to suffer you to be sacrificed to ambition, and to a passion still more hateful. I now glory in calling Hippolitus my friend—let me ere long receive him as a brother. I can give no stronger testimony of my esteem for his character, than in the wish I now express. Believe me he has a heart worthy of your acceptance—a heart noble and expansive as your own." "Ah, cease," said Julia, "to dwell upon a character of whose worth I am fully sensible. Your kindness and his merit can never be forgotten by her whose misfortunes you have

so generously suffered to interest you." She paused in silent hesitation. A sense of delicacy made her hesi|tate upon the decision which her heart so warmly prompted. If she fled with Hippolitus, she would avoid one evil, and encounter another. She would escape the dreadful destiny awaiting her, but must, perhaps, sully the purity of that reputation, which was dearer to her than existence. In a mind like her's, exquisitely susceptible of the pride of honour, this fear was able to counteract every other consideration and to keep her intentions in a state of painful suspense. She sighed deeply, and continued silent. Hippolitus was alarmed by the calm distress which her counte|nance exhibited. "O! Julia," said he, "relieve me from this dreadful suspense!—speak to me—explain this silence." She looked mournfully upon him—her lips moved, but no sounds were uttered. As he re|peated his question, she waved her hand, and sunk back into her chair. She had not fainted, but conti|nued some time in a state of stupor not less alarming. The importance of the present question, operating upon her mind, already harrassed by distress, had pro|duced a temporary suspension of reason. Hippolitus hung over her in an agony not to be described, and Ferdinand vainly repeated her name. At length, ut|tering a deep sigh, she raised herself, and like one awakened from a dream, gazed around her. Hippol|itus thanked God fervently in his heart. "Tell me but that you are well," said he, "and that I may dare to hope, and we will leave you to repose." "My sister," said Ferdinand, "consult only your own wishes, and leave the rest to me. Suffer a confidence in me to dissipate the doubts with which you are agi|tated." "Ferdinand," said Julia, emphatically,

"how shall I express the gratitude your kindness has excited?" "Your gratitude," said he, "will be best shown in consulting your own wishes; for be assured, that whatever procures your happiness, will most ef|fectually establish mine. Do not suffer the prejudices of education to render you miserable. Believe that a choice which involves the happiness or misery of your whole life, ought to be decided only by yourself.

"Let us forbear for the present," said Hippolitus, "to urge the subject. Repose is necessary for you," addressing Julia, "and I will not suffer a selfish con|sideration any longer to with-hold you from it.—Grant me but this request—that at this hour to-morrow night, I may return hither to receive my doom." Julia hav|ing consented to receive Hippolitus and Ferdinand, they quitted the closet. In turning into the grand gallery, they were surprised by the appearance of a light, which gleamed upon the wall that terminated their view. It seemed to proceed from a door which opened upon a back stair-case. They pushed on, but it almost instantly disappeared, and upon the stair-case all was still. They then separated, and retired to their apartments, somewhat alarmed by this circum|stance, which induced them to suspect that their visit to Julia had been observed.

Julia passed the night in broken slumbers, and anx|ious consideration. On her present decision, hung the crisis of her fate. Her consciousness of the influ|ence of Hippolitus over her heart, made her fear to indulge its predilection, by trusting to her own opin|ion of its fidelity. She shrunk from the disgraceful idea of an elopement, yet she saw no means of avoid|ing this, but by rushing upon the fate so dreadful to her imagination.

On the following night, when the inhabitants of the castle were retired to rest, Hippolitus, whose ex|pectation had lengthened the hours into ages, accom|panied by Ferdinand, revisited the closet. Julia, who had known no interval of rest since they left her, re|ceived them with much agitation. The vivid glow of health had fled her cheek, and was succeeded by a lan|guid delicacy, less beautiful, but more interesting. To the eager inquiries of Hippolitus, she returned no answer, but faintly smiling through her tears, pre|sented him her head, and covered her face with her robe. "I receive it," cried he, "as the pledge of my happiness;—yet—yet let your voice ratify the gift." "If the present concession does not sink me in your esteem," said Julia, in a low tone, "this hand is your's." "The concession, my love (for by that tender name I may now call you) would, if pos|sible, raise you in my esteem; but since that has been long incapable of addition, it can only heighten my opinion of myself, and increase my gratitude to you: gratitude which I will endeavour to show by an anxious care of your happiness, and by the tender attentions of a whole life. From this blessed moment," conti|nued he, in a voice of rapture, "permit, me, in thought, to hail you as my wife. From this moment, let me banish every vestige of sorrow—let me dry those tears," gently pressing her cheek with his lips, "ne|ver to spring again."—The gratitude and joy which Ferdinand expressed upon this occasion, united with the tenderness of Hippolitus, to soothe the agitated spirits of Julia, and she gradually recovered her com|placency.

They now arranged their plan of escape, in the ex|ecution of which no time was to be lost, since the nup|tials with the duke were to be solemnized on the day

after the morrow. Their scheme, whatever it was that should be adopted, they therefore resolved to ex|ecute on the following night. But when they de|scended from the first warmth of enterprize, to minu|ter examination, they soon found the difficulties of the undertaking. The keys of the castle were kept by Robert, the confidential servant of the marquis, who every night deposited them in an iron chest in his chamber. To obtain them by stratagem seemed im|possible, and Ferdinand feared to tamper with the ho|nesty of this man, who had been many years in the service of the marquis. Dangerous as was the attempt, no other alternative appeared, and they were therefore compelled to rest all their hopes upon the experiment. It was settled, that if the keys could be procured, Fer|dinand and Hippolitus should meet Julia in the closet. That they should convey her to the sea shore, from whence a boat, which was to be kept in waiting, would carry them to the opposite coast of Calabria, where the marriage might be solemnized without dan|ger of interruption. But, as it was necessary that Ferdinand should not appear in the affair, it was agreed that he should return to the castle immediately upon the embarkation of his sister. Having thus arranged this plan of operation, they separated till the following night, which was to decide the fate of Hippolitus and Julia.

Julia, whose mind was soothed by the fraternal kindness of Ferdinand, and the tender assurances of Hippolitus, now experienced an interval of repose. At the return of day she awoke refreshed, and tolerably composed. She selected the few clothes which were necessary, and prepared them for her journey. A sen|timent of generosity justified her in the reserve she pre|served to Emilia and Madame de Menon, whose faith|fulness

and attachment she could not doubt, but whom she disdained to involve in the disgrace that must fall upon them, should their knowledge of her flight be discovered.

In the mean time the castle was a scene of confusion. The magnificent preparations which were making for the nuptials, engaged all eyes, and busied all hands. The marchioness had the direction of the whole, and the alacrity with which she acquitted herself, testified how much she was pleased with the alliance, and cre|ated a suspicion that it had not been concerted with|out some exertion of her influence. Thus was Julia designed the joint victim of ambition, and illicit love.

The composure of Julia declined with the day, whose hours had crept heavily along. As the night drew on, her anxiety for the success of Ferdinand's ne|gociation with Robert, increased to a painful degree. A variety of new emotions pressed at her heart, and subdued her spirits. When she bade Emilia good night, she thought she beheld her for the last time. The ideas of the distance which would separate them, of the dangers she was going to encounter, with a train of wild and fearful anticipations, crowded upon her mind, tears sprang in her eyes, and it was with diffi|culty she avoided betraying her emotions. Of Ma|dame too, her heart took a tender farewell. At length she heard the marquis retire to his apartment, and the doors belonging to the several chambers of the guests successively close. She marked with trembling attention the gradual change from bustle to quiet, till all was still.

She now held herself in readiness to depart, at the moment in which Ferdinand and Hippolitus, for whose steps in the gallery she eagerly listened, should appear. The castle clock struck twelve. The sound seemed to

shake the pile. Julia felt it thrill upon her heart. "I hear you," sighed she "for the last time." The still|ness of death succeeded. She continued to listen, but no sound met her ear. For a considerable time she sat in a state of anxious expectation not to be describ|ed. The clock chimed the successive quarters, and her fear rose to each additional sound. At length she heard it strike one. Hollow was that sound, and dreadful to her hopes, for neither Hippolitus nor Fer|dinand appeared. She grew faint with fear and dis|appointment. Her mind, which for two hours had been kept upon the stretch of expectation, now resign|ed itself to despair. She gently opened the door of her closet, and looked upon the gallery, but all was lonely and silent. It appeared that Robert had re|fused to be accessary to their scheme, and it was pro|bable that he had betrayed it to the marquis. Over|whelmed with bitter reflexions, she threw herself upon the sopha in the first distraction of despair. Suddenly she thought she heard a noise in the gallery; and as she started from her posture to listen to the sound, the door of her closet was gently opened by Ferdinand. "Come, my love," said he, the keys are ours, and we have not a moment to lose; our delay has been un|avoidable, but this is no time for explanation." Julia, almost fainting gave her hand to Ferdinand; and Hippolitus, after some short expression of his thankful|ness, followed. They passed the door of Madame's chamber; and treading the gallery with slow and si|lent steps, descended to the hall. This they crossed towards a door, after opening which they were to find their way through various passages to a remote part of the castle, where a private door opened upon the walls. Ferdinand carried the several keys. They fastened the hall door after them, and proceeded through a narrow passage terminating in a stair case.

They descended, and had hardly reached the bot|tom, when they heard a loud noise at the door above, and presently the voices of several people. Julia scarce|ly felt the ground she trod on, and Ferdinand flew to unlock a door that obstructed their way. He applied the different keys, and at length found the proper one, but the lock was rusted and refused to yield. Their distress now was not to be conceived. The noise a|bove increased, and it seemed as if the people were forcing the door. Hippolitus and Ferdinand vainly tri|ed to turn the key. A sudden crash from above con|vinced them that the door had yielded, when making another desperate effort, the key broke in the lock. Trembling and exhausted, Julia gave herself up for lost. As she hung upon Ferdinand, Hippolitus vainly endeavoured to soothe her—the noise suddenly ceased. They listened, dreading to hear the sounds renewed; but, to their utter astonishment, the silence of the place remained undisturbed. They had now time to breathe, and to consider the possibility of effecting their escape, for from the marquis they had no mercy to hope. Hippolitus, in order to ascertain whether the people had quitted the door above, began to ascend the pas|sage, in which he had not gone many steps, when the noise was renewed with increased violence. He in|stantly retreated; and making a desperate push at the door below, which obstructed their passage, it seemed to yield, and by another effort of Ferdinand, burst open. They had not an instant to lose, for they now heard the steps of persons descending the stairs. The avenue they were in opened into a kind of chamber, whence three passages branched, of which they imme|diately chose the first. Another door now obstructed their passage, and they were compelled to wait while Ferdinand applied the keys. "Be quick," said Julia,

"or we are lost. O! if this lock too is rusted!"— "Hark! said Ferdinand." They now discovered what apprehension had before prevented them from perceiving, that the sounds of pursuit were ceased, and all again was silent. As this could happen only by the mistake of their pursuers, in taking the wrong route, they resolved to preserve their advantage, by concealing the light which Ferdinand now covered with his cloak. The door was opened, and they pass|ed on, but they were perplexed in the intricacies of the place, and wandered about, in vain endeavours to find their way. Often did they pause to listen, and often did fancy give them sounds of fearful import. At length they entered on the passage, which Ferdi|nand knew led directly to a door that opened on the woods. Rejoiced at this certainty, they soon reached the spot which was to give them liberty.

Ferdinand turned the key, the door unclosed, and to their infinite joy discovered to them the grey dawn.

"Now, my love," said Hippolitus, "you are safe, and I am happy."—Immediately a loud voice from without exclaimed, "Take, villain, the reward of your perfidy!" at the same instant Hippolitus receiv|ed a sword in his body, and uttering a deep sigh, fell to the ground. Julia shrieked, and fainted. Ferdinand, drawing his sword, advanced towards the assassin, upon whose countenance the light of his lamp then shone, and discovered to him his father! The sword fell from his grasp, and he started back in an agony of horror. He was instantly surrounded, and seized by the servants of the marquis, while the marquis himself denounced vengeance upon his head, and ordered him to be thrown into a dungeon of the castle. At this in|stant the servants of the count, who were awaiting his arrival on the sea shore, hearing the tumult, hastened to

the scene, and there beheld their beloved master, life|less and weltering in his blood. They conveyed the bleeding body, with loud lamentations, on board the vessel which had been prepared for him, and immedi|ately set sail for Italy.

Julia, on recovering her senses, found herself in a small room, of which she had no remembrance, with her maid weeping over her. Recollection, when it returned, brought to her mind an energy of grief, which exceeded even all former conceptions of suffer|ing. Yet her misery was heightened by the intelli|gence which she now received. She learned that Hippolitus had been borne away lifeless by his people, that Ferdinand was confined in a dungeon by order of the marquis, and that herself was a prisoner in a remote room, from which, on the day after the morrow, she was to be removed to the chapel of the castle, and there sacrificed to the ambition of her father, and the absurd love of the duke de Luovo.

This accumulation of evil subdued each power of resistance, and reduced Julia to a state little short of distraction. No person was allowed to approach her but her maid, and the servant who brought her food. Emilia, who, though shocked by Julia's apparant want of confidence, severely sympathized in her distress, so|licited to see her; but the pain of denial was so sharp|ly aggravated by rebuke, that she dared not again to urge the request.

In the mean time Ferdinand, involved in the gloom of a dungeon, was resigned to the painful recollection of the past, and a horrid anticipation of the future. From the resentment of the marquis, whose passions were wild and terrible, and whose rank gave him an unlimited power of life and death in his own territo|ries, Ferdinand had much to fear. Yet selfish appre|hension

soon yielded to a more noble sorrow. He mourned the fate of Hippolitus, and the sufferings of Julia. He could attribute the failure of their scheme only to the treachery of Robert, who had, however, met the wishes of Ferdinand, with strong apparent sinceri|ty, and generous interest in the cause of Julia. On the night of the intended elopement he had consigned the keys to Ferdinand, who, immediately on receiving them, went to the apartment of Hippolitus. There they were detained till after the clock had struck one, by a low noise, which returned at intervals, and con|vinced them, that some part of the family was not yet retired to rest. This noise was undoubtedly occasion|ed by the people whom the marquis had employed to watch, and whose vigilance was too faithful to suffer the fugitives to escape. The very caution of Ferdi|nand defeated its purpose; for it is probable, that had he attempted to quit the castle by the common en|trance, he might have escaped. The keys of the grand door, and those of the courts, remaining in the posses|sion of Robert, the marquis was certain of the intend|ed place of their departure; and was thus enabled to defeat their hopes at the very moment when they ex|ulted in their success.

When the marchioness learned the fate of Hippoli|tus, the resentment of jealous passion, yielded to emo|tions of pity. Revenge was satisfied, and she could now lament the sufferings of a youth, whose personal charms had touched her heart as much as his virtues had disappointed her hopes. Still true to passion, and inaccessible to reason, she poured upon the defenceless Julia her anger for that calamity of which she herself was the unwilling cause. By a dexterous adaptation of her powers, she had worked upon the passions of the marquis, so as to render him relentless in the pur|suit

of his ambitious purposes, and insatiable in reveng|ing his disappointment. But the effects of her arti|fices exceeded her intention in exerting them; and when she meant only to sacrifice a rival to her love, she found she had given up its object to revenge.

CHAPTER IV.

THE nuptial morn, so justly dreaded by Julia, and so impatiently awaited by the marquis, now arrived. The marriage was to be celebrated with a magnificence which demonstrated the joy it occasioned to the mar|quis. The castle was fitted up in a style of grandeur superior to any thing that had been before seen in it. The neighbouring nobility were invited to an entertainment which was to conclude with a splendid ball and supper, and the gates were to be thrown open to all who chose to partake of the bounty of the mar|quis. At an early hour the duke, attended by a nu|merous retinue, entered the castle. Ferdinand heard from his dungeon, where the rigour and the policy of of the marquis still confined him, the loud clattering of hoofs in the court yard above, the rolling of the car|riage wheels, and all the tumultuous bustle which the entrance of the duke occasioned. He too well under|stood this cause of the uproar, and it awakened in him sensations resembling those which the condemned criminal feels, when his ears are assailed by the dread|ful sound that precede his execution. When he was able to think of himself, he wondered by what means the marquis would reconcile his absence to the guests▪ He however, knew too well the dissipated character of the Sicilian nobility, to doubt, that whatever story

should be invented would be very readily believed by them; who, even if they knew the truth, would not suffer a discovery of their knowledge to interrupt the festivity which was offered them.

The marquis and marchioness received the duke in the outer hall, and conducted him to the saloon, where he partook of the refreshments prepared for him, and from hence retired to the chapel. The marquis now withdrew to lead Julia to the altar, and Emilia was ordered to attend at the door of the chapel, in which the priest and a numerous company were already as|sembled. The marchioness, a prey to the turbulence of succeeding passions, exulted in the near completion of her favourite scheme. A disappointment, however was prepared for her, which would at once crush the triumph of her malice and her pride. The marquis, on entering the prison of Julia, found it empty! His astonishment and indignation, upon the discovery, al|most overpowered his reason. Of the servants of the castle, who were immediately summoned, he inquired concerning her escape, with a mixture of fury and sor|row, which left them no opportunity for reply. They had, however, no information to give, but that her woman had not appeared during the whole morning. In the prison were found the bridal habiliments which the marchioness herself had sent on the preceding night, together with a letter addressed to Emilia, which con|tained the following words:

"Adieu, dear Emilia; never more will you see your wretched sister, who flies from the cruel fate now prepared for her, certain that she can never meet one more dreadful.—In happiness or misery—in hope or in despair—whatever may be your situation—still re|member me with pity and affection. Dear Emilia,

adieu!—You will always be the sister of my heart— may you never be the partner of my misfortunes!"

While the marquis was reading this letter, the mar|chioness, who supposed the delay occasioned by some opposition from Julia, flew to the apartment. By her orders all the habitable parts of the castle were ex|plored, and she herself assisted in the search. At length the intelligence was communicated to the chapel, and the confusion became universal. The priest quitted the altar, and the company returned to the saloon.

The letter, when it was given to Emilia, excited emotions which she found it impossible to disguise, but which did not, however, protect her from a suspicion that she was concerned in the transaction, her know|ledge of which this letter appeared intended to conceal.

The marquis immediately dispatched servants upon the fleetest horses of his stables, with directions to take different routes, and to scour every corner of the island in pursuit of the fugitives. When these exertions had somewhat quieted his mind, he began to consider by what means Julia could have effected her escape. She had been confined in a small room in a remote part of the castle, to which no person had been admitted but her own woman, and Robert, the confidential servant of the marquis. Even Lisette had not been suffered to enter, unless accompanied by Robert, in whose room, since the night of the fatal discovery, the keys had been regularly deposited. Without them it was im|possible she could have escaped: the windows of the aparment being barred and grated, and opening into an inner court, at a prodigious height from the ground. Besides who could she depend upon for protection—or whither could she intend to fly for concealment?—The associates of her former elopement were utterly unable to assist her even with advice. Ferdinand, himself a

prisoner, had been deprived of any means of intercourse with her, and Hippolitus had been carried lifeless on board a vessel which had immediately sailed for Italy.

Robert, to whom the key had been intrusted, was severely interrogated by the marquis. He persisted in a simple and uniform declaration of his innocence; but as the marquis believed it impossible that Julia could have escaped without his knowledge, he was or|dered into imprisonment till he should confess the fact.

The pride of the duke was severely wounded by this elopement, which proved the excess of Julia's aversion, and compleated the disgraceful circumstances of his rejection. The marquis had carefully concealed from him her prior attempt at elopement, and her con|sequent confinement; but the truth now burst from disguise, and stood revealed with bitter aggravation. The duke, fired with indignation at the duplicity of the marquis, poured forth his resentment in terms of proud and bitter invective; and the marquis, galled by recent disappointment, was in no mood to restrain the impetuosity of his nature. He retorted with acri|mony; and the consequence would have been serious, had not the friends of each party interposed for their preservation. The disputants were at length reconci|led; it was agreed to pursue Julia with united, and indefatigable search; and that whenever she should be found, the nuptials should be solemnized without fur|ther delay. With the character of the duke, this conduct was consistent. His passions, inflamed by dis|appointment, and strengthened by repulse, now defied the power of obstacle; and those considerations which would have operated with a more delicate mind to overcome its original inclination, served only to en|crease the violence of his.

Madame de Menon, who loved Julia with maternal

affection, was an interested observer of all that passed at the castle. The cruel fate to which the marquis des|tined his daughter, she had severely lamented, yet she could hardly rejoice to find that this had been avoided by elopement. She trembled for the future safety of her pupil; and her tranquillity, which was thus first disturbed for the welfare of others, she was not soon suffered to recover.

The marchioness had long nourished a secret dislike to Madame de Menon, whose virtues were a silent re|proof to her vices. The contrariety of their disposi|tions, created in the marchioness an aversion which would have amounted to contempt, had not that dig|nity of virtue which strongly characterized the manners of Madame, compelled the former to fear what she wished to despise. Her conscience whispered her that the dislike was mutual; and she now rejoiced in the opportunity which seemed to offer itself, of lowering the proud integrity of Madame's character. Pretend|ing, therefore, to believe that she had encouraged Fer|dinand to disobey his father's commands, and had been accessary to the elopement, she accused her of these offences, and stimulated the marquis to reprehend her conduct. But the integrity of madame de Menon was not to be questioned with impunity. Without deign|ing to answer the imputation, she desired to resign an office of which she was no longer considered worthy, and to quit the castle immediately. This the policy of the marquis would not suffer; and he was compelled to make such ample concessions to Madame, as in|duced her for the present to continue at the castle.

The news of Julia's elopement at length reached the ears of Ferdinand, whose joy at this event was equalled only by his surprise. He lost, for a moment, the sense of his own situation, and thought only of the

escape of Julia. But his sorrow soon returned with ac|cumulated force when he recollected that Julia might then perhaps want that assistance, which his confine|ment alone could prevent his affording her.

The servants, who had been sent in pursuit, returned to the castle without any satisfactory information. Week after week elapsed in fruitless search, yet the duke was strenuous in continuing the pursuit. Emis|saries were dispatched to Naples, and to the several estates of the count Vereza, but they returned with|out any satisfactory information. The count had not been heard of since he quitted Naples for Sicily.

During these inquiries a new subject of disturbance broke out in the castle of Mazzina. On the night so fatal to the hopes of Hippolitus and Julia, when the tumult was subsided, and all was still, a light was ob|served by a servant as he passed by the window of the great stair case in the way to his chamber, to glimmer through the casement before noticed in the southern buildings. While he stood observing it, it vanished, and presently re-appeared. The former mysterious circumstances relative to these buildings rushed upon his mind; and fired with wonder, he roused some of his fellow servants to come and behold this phenomenon.

As they gazed in silent terror, the light disappear|ed, and soon after, they saw a small door belonging to the south tower open, and a figure bearing a light issue forth, which gliding along the castle walls, was quickly lost to their view. Overcome with fear, they hurried back to their chambers, and revolved all the late wonderful occurrences. They doubted not, that this was the figure formerly seen by the lady Julia. The sudden change of Madame de Menon's apartments had not passed unobserved by the servants, but they now longer hesitated to what to attribute the remo|val.

They collected each various and uncommon cir|cumstance attendant on this part of the fabric; and, comparing them with the present, their superstitious fears were confirmed, and their terror heightened to such a degree, that many of them resolved to quit the service of the marquis.

The marquis surprised at this sudden desertion, in|quired into its cause, and learned the truth. Shocked by this discovery, he yet resolved to prevent, if pos|sible the ill effects which might be expected from a circulation of the report. To this end it was neces|sary to quiet the minds of his people, and to prevent their quitting his service. Having severely reprehended them for the idle apprehension they encouraged, he told them that, to prove the fallacy of their surmises, he would lead them over that part of the castle which was the subject of their fears, and ordered them to at|tend him at the return of night in the north hall. Emi|lia and Madame de Menon surprised at this procedure, awaited the issue in silent expectation.

The servants in obedience to the commands of the marquis assembled at night in the north hall. The air of desolation which reigned through the south buildings; and the circumstance of their having been for so many years shut up, would naturally tend to in|spire awe; but to these people, who firmly believed them to be the haunt of an unquiet spirit, terror was the predominant sentiment.

The marquis now appeared with the keys of these buildings in his hands, and every heart thrilled with wild expectation. He ordered Robert to precede him with a torch, and the rest of the servants following, he passed on. A pair of iron gates were unlocked, and they proceeded through a court, whose pavement was wildly overgrown with long grass, to the great

door of the south fabric. Here they met with some difficulty, for the lock, which had not been turned for many years, was rusted.

During this interval, the silence of expectation sealed the lips of all present. At length the lock yielded. That door which had not been passed for so many years, creaked heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the hall of black marble which Ferdinand had formerly crossed. "Now," cried the marquis, in a tone of irony as he entered, "expect to encounter the ghosts of which you tell me; but if you fail to conquer them, prepare to quit my service. The people who live with me, shall at least have courage and ability sufficient to de|fend me from these spiritual attacks. All I apprehend is, that the enemy will not appear, and in this case your valour will go untried."

No one dared to answer, but all followed, in silent fear, the marquis, who ascended the great stair-case, and entered the gallery. "Unlock that door," said he, pointing to one on the left, "and we will soon unhouse these ghosts." Robert applied the key, but his hand shook so violently that he could not turn it. "Here is a fellow," cried the marquis, "sit to encounter a whole legion of spirits. Do you, An|thony, take the key, and try your valour."

"Please you, my lord," replied Anthony, "I ne|ver was a good one at unlocking a door in my life, but here is Gregory will do it." "No, my lord, an' please you," said Gregory, here is Richard." "Stand off," said the marquis, "I will shame your cowardice, and do it myself."

Saying this he turned the key, and was rushing on, but the door refused to yield; it shook under his hands, and seemed as if partially held by some person on the other side. The marquis was surprised, and

made several efforts to move it, without effect. He then ordered his servants to burst it open, but, shrink|ing back with one accord, they cried "for God's sake, my lord, go no farther; we are satisfied here are no ghosts, only let us go back."

"It is now then my turn to be satisfied," replied the marquis, and till I am, not one of you shall stir. Open me that door." "My lord!"—"Nay," said the marquis, assuming a look of stern authority—"dis|pute not my commands, I am not to be trifled with."

They now stepped forward, and applied their strength to the door, when a loud and sudden noise burst from within, and resounded through the hollow chambers! The men started back in a fright, and were rushing headlong down the stair-case, when the voice of the marquis arrested their flight. They returned with hearts palpitating with terror, "Observe what I say," said the marquis, "and behave like men. Yonder door," pointing to one at some distance, "will lead us through other rooms to this chamber—unlock it therefore, for I will know the cause of these sounds." Shocked at this determination, the servants again sup|plicated the marquis to go no farther; and to be obeyed, he was obliged to exert all his authority. The door was opened, and discovered a long narrow pas|sage, into which they descended by a few steps. It led to a gallery that terminated in a back stair-case, where several doors appeared, one of which the mar|quis unclosed. A spacious chamber appeared beyond, whose walls decayed and discoloured by the damps, exhibited a melancholy proof of desertion.

They passed on through a long suite of lofty and noble apartments▪ which were in the same ruinous con|dition. At length they came to the chamber whence the noise had issued. "Go first Robert, with the

light," said the marquis, as they approached the door, "this is the key." Robert trembled—but obeyed, and the other servants followed in silence. They stop|ped a moment at the door to listen, but all was still within. The door was opened, and disclosed a large vaulted chamber, nearly resembling those they had passed, and on looking round, they discovered at once the cause of the alarm.—A part of the decayed roof was fallen in, and the stones and rubbish of the ruin falling against the gallery door, obstructed the passage. It was evident, too, whence the noise which occasioned their terror had arisen; the loose stones which were piled against the door being shook by the effort made to open it, had given way, and rolled to the floor.

After surveying the place, they returned to the back stairs, which they descended, and having pursued the several windings of a long passage, found themselves again in the marble hall. "Now," said the marquis, "what think ye?—What evil spirits infest these walls? Henceforth be cautious how ye credit the phantasms of idleness, for ye may not always meet with a master who will condescend to undeceive ye." They acknow|ledged the goodness of the marquis, and professing themselves perfectly conscious of the error of their former suspicions, desire they might search no farther. "I choose to leave nothing to your imagination," re|plied the marquis, lest hereafter it should betray you into a similar error. Follow me, therefore; you shall see the whole of these buildings." Saying this he led them to the south tower. They remembered, that from a door of this tower, the figure which caused their alarm had issued; and notwithstanding the late assertion of their suspicions being removed, fear still operated powerfully upon their minds, and they would willingly have been excused from farther research.

"Would any of you choose to explore this tower?" said the marquis, pointing to the broken stair-case; "for myself I am mortal, and therefore fear to venture, but you who hold communion with disembodied spirits, may partake something of their nature, if so, you may pass without apprehension where the ghost has probably passed before." They shrunk at this re|proof, and were silent.

The marquis, turning to a door on his right hand, ordered it to be unlocked. It opened upon the coun|try, and the servants knew it to be the same whence the figure had appeared. Having re-locked it, "Lift that trap-door, we will descend into the vaults," said the marquis. "What trap-door, my lord?" said Ro|bert, with encreased agitation, "I see none." The marquis pointed, and Robert perceived a door which lay almost concealed beneath the stone•• that had fallen from the stair case above. He began to remove them, when the marquis suddenly turning, "I have already sufficiently indulged your folly," said he "and am weary of this business. If you are capable of receiv|ing conviction from truth, you must now be convinced that these buildings are not the haunt of a super-natur|al being; and if you are incapable, it would be entire|ly useless to proceed. You, Robert, may therefore spare yourself the trouble of removing the rubbish; we will quit this part of the fabric."

The servants joyfully obeyed, and the marquis lock|ing the several doors, returned with the keys to the habitable part of the castle.

Every inquiry after Julia had hitherto proved fruit|less, and the imperious nature of the marquis, height|ened by the present vexation, became intolerably op|pressive to all around him. As the hope of recovering Julia declined, his opinion that Emilia had assisted her

to escape strengthened, and he inflicted upon her the severity of his unjust suspicions. She was ordered to confine herself to her apartment till her innocence should be cleared, or her sister discovered. From Ma|dame de Menon she received a faithful sympathy, which was the sole relief of her oppressed heart. Her anxiety concerning Julia daily encreased, and was heightened into the most terrifying apprehension for her safety. She knew of no person in whom her sister could confide, or of any place where she could find pro|tection; the most deplorable evils were therefore to be expected.

One day as she was sitting at the window of her apartment, engaged in melancholy reflexion, she saw a man riding towards the castle on full speed. Her heart beat with fear and expectation, for his haste made her suspect he brought intelligence of Julia, and she could scarcely refrain from breaking through the command of the marquis, and rushing into the hall to learn something of his errand. She was right in her conjecture; the person she had seen was a spy of the marquis's, and came to inform him that the lady Julia was at the time concealed in a cottage of the forest of Marentino. The marquis rejoiced at this intelligence, and gave the man a liberal reward. He learned also, that she was accompanied by a young cavalier, which circumstance surprised him exceedingly, for he knew of no person except the count de Vereza with whom she could have entrusted herself, and the count had fallen by his sword! He immediately ordered a party of his people to accompany the messenger to the forest of Marentino, and to suffer neither Julia nor the cavalier to escape them on pain of death.

When the duke de Luovo was informed of this dis|covery, he entreated and obtained permission of the

marquis to join in the pursuit. He immediately set out on the expedition, armed, and followed by a num|ber of his servants. He resolved to encounter all ha|zards, and to practise the most desperate extremes ra|ther than fail in the object of his enterprise. In a short time he overtook the marquis's people, and they pro|ceeded together with all possible speed. The forest lay several leagues distant from the castle of Mazzini, and the day was closing when they entered upon the borders. The thick foliage of the trees spread a deeper shade around, and they were obliged to proceed with caution. Darkness had long fallen upon the earth when they reached the cottage, to which they were directed by a light that glimmered from afar among the trees. The duke left his people at some distance; and dismounting, and accompanied only by one ser|vant, approached the cottage. When he reached it he stopped, and looking through the window observed a man and woman in the habit of peasants seated at their supper. They were conversing with earnestness, and the duke, hoping to obtain farther intelligence of Julia, endeavoured to listen to their discourse. They were praising the beauty of a lady whom the duke did no•• doubt to be Julia, and the woman spoke much in praise of the cavalier. "He has a noble heart," said she, "and I am sure by his look belongs to some great family." "Nay," replied her companion, "the lady is as good as he. I have been at Palermo, and ought to know what great folks are, and if she is not one of them, never take my word again. Poor thing, how she d••s take on! It made my heart ach to see her."

They were some time silent. The duke knocked at the door, and inquired of the man who opened it con|cerning the lady and cavalier then in his cottage. He was assured there were no other persons in the cottage

than those he then saw. The duke persisted in affirm|ing that the persons he inquired for were there con|cealed, which the man being as resolute in denying, he gave the signal, and his people approached, and surrounded the cottage. The peasants, terrified by this circumstance, confessed that a lady and cavalier, such as the duke described, had been for some time concealed in the cottage, but that they were now de|parted.

Suspicious of the truth of the latter assertion, the duke ordered his people to search the cottage, and that part of the forest contiguous to it. The search ended in disappointment. The duke, however, resolved to obtain all possible information concerning the fugi|tives; and assuming, therefore, a stern air, bade the peasant, on pain of instant death, discover all he knew of them.

The man replied, that on a very dark and stormy night, about a week before, two persons had come to the cottage, and desired shelter. That they were un|attended, but seemed to be persons of consequence in disguise. That they paid very liberally for what they had, and that they departed from the cottage a few hours before the arrival of the duke.

The duke inquired concerning the course they had ta|ken, and having received information, re-mounted his horse, and set forward in pursuit. The road lay for several leagues through the forest, and the darkness, and the probability of encountering banditti, made the journey dangerous. About the break of day, they quitted the forest, and entered upon a wild and moun|tainous country, in which they travelled some miles without perceiving a hut, or a human being. No vestige of cultivation appeared, and no sounds reach|ed them but those of their horses feet, and the roar|ing

of the winds through the deep forests that over|hung the mountains. The pursuit was uncertain, but the duke resolved to persevere.

They came at length to a cottage, where he repeated his inquiries, and learned to his satisfaction that two persons, such as he described, had stopped there for refreshment about two hours before. He found it now necessary to stop for the same purpose. Bread and milk, the only provisions of the place, were set before him, and his attendants would have been well contented had there been sufficient of this homely fare to have satisfied their hunger.

Having dispatched an hasty meal, they again set forward in the way pointed out to them as the route of the fugitives. The country assumed a more civil|ized aspect. Corn, vineyards, olives, and groves of mulberry trees adorned the hills. The vallies, luxu|riant in shade, were frequently embellished by the windings of a lucid stream, and diversified by clusters of half-seen cottages. Here the rising turrets of a mo|nastery appeared above the thick trees with which they were surrounded; and there the savage wilds, the tra|vellers had passed, formed a bold and picturesque back|ground to the scene.

To the questions put by the duke to the several per|sons he met, he received answers that encouraged him to proceed. At noon he halted at a village to refresh himself and his people. He could gain no intelligence of Julia, and was perplexed which way to choose; but determined at length to pursue the road he was then in, and accordingly again set forward. He travelled several miles without meeting any person who could give the necessary information, and began to despair of success. The lengthened shadows of the mountains, and the fading light gave signals of declining day▪

when having gained the summit of a high hill, he ob|served two persons travelling on horse-back in the plains below. On one of them he distinguished the habiliments of a woman; and in her air he thought he discovered that of Julia. While he stood attentively surveying them, they looked towards the hill, when, as if urged by a sudden impulse of terror, they set off on full speed over the plains. The duke had no doubt but that these were the persons he sought; and he, therefore, ordered some of his people to pursue them, and pushed his horse into a full gallop. Before he reached the plains, the fugitives, winding round an abrupt hill, were lost to his view. The duke conti|nued his course, and his people, who were a conside|rable way before him, at length reached the hill, be|hind which the two persons had disappeared. No traces of them were to be seen, and they entered a nar|row defile between two ranges of high, and savage mountains; on the right of which a rapid stream rol|led along, and broke with its deep resounding murmurs the solemn silence of the place. The shades of even|ing now fell thick, and the scene was soon enveloped in darkness; but to the duke, who was animated by a strong and impetuous passion, these were unimport|ant circumstances. Although he knew that the wilds of Sicily were frequently infested with banditti, his numbers made him fearless of attack. Not so his at|tendants, many of whom, as the darkness increased, testified emotions not very honourable to their courage; starting at every bush, and believing it concealed a mur|derer. They endeavoured to dissuade the duke from proceeding, expressing uncertainty of their being in the right route, and recommending the open plains. But the duke, whose eye had been vigilant to mark the flight of the fugitives, and who was not to be dis|suaded

from his purpose, quickly repressed their argu|ments. They continued their course without meeting a single person.

The moon now rose, and afforded them a shadowy imperfect view of the surrounding objects. The pros|pect was gloomy and vast, and not a human habitation met their eyes. They had now lost every trace of the fugitives, and found themselves bewildered in a wild and savage country. Their only remaining care was to extricate themselves from so forlorn a situation, and they listened at every step with anxious attention, for some sound that might discover to them the haunts of men. They listened in vain; the stillness of night was undisturbed but by the wind, which broke at intervals in low and hollow murmurs from among the mountains.

As they proceeded with silent caution, they per|ceived a light break from among the rocks at some dis|tance. The duke hesitated whether to approach, since it might probably proceed from a party of the banditti with which these mountains were said to be infested. While he hesitated, it disappeared; but he had not advanced many steps when it returned. He now per|ceived it issue from the mouth of a cavern, and cast a bright reflexion upon the overhanging rocks and shrubs.

He dismounted, and followed by two of his people, leaving the rest at some distance, moved with slow and silent steps towards the cave. As he drew near he heard the sound of many voices in high carousal. Sud|denly the uproar ceased, and the following words were sung by a clear and manly voice:

SONG.

Pour the rich libation high, The sparkling cup to Bacchus fill; His joys shall dance in ev'ry eye, And ••h••ce the forms of future ill!

Quick the magic raptures steal O'er the tan••y kindling brain; Warm the heart with social zeal, And song and laughter reign.

Then visions of pleasure shall ••loat on our sight, While light bounding our spirits shall flow: And the god shall impart a fine sense of delight Which in vain sober mortals would know.

The last verse was repeated in loud chorus. The duke listened with astonishment! Such social merri|ment, amid a scene of such savage wildness, appeared more like enchantment than reality. He would not have hesitated to pronounce this a party of banditti, had not the delicacy of expression, preserved in the song, appeared unattainable by men of their class.

He had now a full view of the cave, and the moment which convinced him of his error, served also to en|crease his surprise. He beheld by the light of a fire, a party of banditti seated within the deepest recess of the cave, round a rude kind of table formed in the rock. The table was spread with provisions, and they were ••egaling themselves with great eagerness and joy. The countenances of the men exhibited a strange mix|ture of fierceness and sociality; and the duke could almost have imagined he beheld in these robbere a band of the early Romans before knowledge had civilized, or luxury had softened them. But he had not much time for meditation—a sense of his danger bade him fly, while to fly was yet in his power.

As he turned to depart, he observed two saddle horses grazing upon the herbage near the mouth of the cave. It instantly occurred to him that they belonged to Julia, and her companion. He hesitated, and at length determined to linger awhile, and listen to the conversation of the robbers, hoping from thence to

have his doubts resolved. They talked for some time in a strain of high coviviality, and recounted in exulta|tion many of their exploits. They described also the be|haviour of several people whom they had robbed, with highly ludicrous allusions, and with much rude humour; while the cave re-echoed with loud bursts of laughter and applause. They were thus engaged in tumultuous merriment, till one of them cursing the scanty plunder of their late adventure, but praising the beauty of a lady, they all lowered their voices together, and seemed as if debating upon a point uncommonly inte|resting to them. The passions of the duke were roused, and he became certain that it was Julia of whom they had spoken. In the first impulse of feeling, he drew his sword; but recollecting the number of his adversaries, restrained his fury. He was returning from the cave, with a design of summoning his people, when the light of the fire glittering upon the bright blade of his weapon, caught the eye of one of the ban|ditti. He started from his seat, and his comrades in|stantly rising in consternation, discovered the duke. They rushed with loud vociferation towards the mouth of the cave. He endeavoured to escape to his people; but two of the banditti mounting the horses which were grazing near, quickly overtook and seized him. His dress and air proclaimed him to be a person of distinction, and rejoicing in their prospect of plunder, they forced him towards the cave. Here their com|rades awaited them, but what were the emotions of the duke, when he discovered in the person of the principal robber, his own son! who to escape the gall|ing severity of his father, had fled from his castle some years before, and had not been heard of since.

He had placed himself at the head of a party of

banditti, and pleased with the liberty which 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••en he had never tasted, and with the power which his new situation afforded him, he became so much at|tached to this wild and lawless mode of 〈◊〉〈◊〉, that he determined never to quit it till death should dissolve those ties which now made his rank only oppressive. This event seemed at so great a distance, that he sel|dom allowed himself to think of it. Whenever it should happen, he had no doubt that he might either resume his rank without danger of discovery, or might justify his present conduct as a frolick which a few acts of generosity would easily excuse. He knew his power would then place him beyond the reach of censure, in a country where the people are accustomed to implicit subordination, and seldom dare to scrutinize the actions of the nobility.

His sensations, however, on discovering his father, were not very pleasing; but proclaiming the duke, he protected him from farther outrage.

With the duke, whose heart was a stranger to the softer affections, indignation usurped the place of pa|rental feeling. His pride was the only passion affected by the discovery; and he had the rashness to express the indignation, which the conduct of his son had ex|cited, in terms of unrestrained invective. The ban|ditti, inflamed by the opprobrium with which he loaded their order, threatened instant punishment to his te|merity; and the authority of Riccardo could hardly restrain them within the limits of forbearance.

The menaces, and at length entreaties, of the duke, to prevail with his son to abandon his present way of life, were equally ineffectual. Secure in his own power, Riccardo laughed at the first, and was insensible to the latter; and his father was compelled to relinquish the attempt. The duke, however, boldly and passionately

accused ••m of having plundered and secreted a lady and cavalier, his friends, at the same time describing Julia, for ••se liberation he offered large rewards, Riccardo d••d the fact, which so much exasperated the duke, that he drew his sword with an intention of plunging it in the breast of his son. His arm was ar|rested by the surrounding banditti, who half unsheathed their swords, and stood suspended in an attitude of menace. The fate of the father now hung upon the voice of the son. Riccardo raised his arm, but in|stantly dropped it, and turned away. The banditti sheathed their weapons, and stepped back.

Riccardo solemnly swearing that he knew nothing of the persons described, the duke at length became convinced of the truth of the assertion, and departing from the cave, rejoined his people. All the impetuous passions of his nature were roused and inflamed by the discovery of his son, in a situation so wretchedly dis|graceful. Yet it was his pride rather than his virtue that was hurt; and when he wished him dead, it was rather to save himself from disgrace, than his son from the real indignity of vice. He had no means of re|claiming him; to have attempted it by force, would have been at this time the excess of temerity, for his at|tendants, though numerous, were undisciplined, and would have fallen certain victims to the power of a savage and dexterous banditti.

With thoughts agitated in fierce and agonizing con|flict, he pursued his journey; and having lost all trace of Julia, sought only for an habitation which might shelter him from the night, and afford necessary refresh|ment for himself and his people. With this, how|ever, there appeared little hope of meeting.

CHAPTER IV.

THE night grew stormy. The hollow ••nds swept over the mountains, and blew bleak and cold around; the clouds were driven swiftly over the face of the moon, and the duke and his people were frequently involved in total darkness. They had travelled on si|lently and dejectedly for some hours, and were bewil|dered in the wilds, when they suddenly heard the bell of a monastery chiming for midnight prayer. Their hearts revived at the sound, which they endeavoured to follow, but they had not gone far, when the gale wast|ed it away, and they were abandoned to the uncertain guide of their own conjectures.

They had pursued for some time the way which they judged led to the monastery, when the note of the bell returned upon the wind, and discovered to them that they had mistaken their route. After much wandering and difficulty they arrived, overcome with weariness, at the gates of a large and gloomy fabric. The bell had ceased and all was still. By the moon-light, which through broken clouds clouds now streamed upon the building, they became convinced it was the monastery they had sought, and the duke himself struck loudly upon the gate.

Several minutes elapsed, no person appeared, and he repeated the stroke. A step was presently heard with|in, the gate was unbarred, and a thin shivering figure presented itself. The duke solicited admission, but was refused, and reprimanded for disturbing the convent at the hour sacred to prayer. He then made known his rank, and bade the friar inform the Superior that he requested shelter from the night. The friar, suspi|cious

of deceit, and apprehensive of robbers, refused with much firmness, and repeated that the convent was engaged 〈◊〉〈◊〉 prayer; he had almost closed the gate, when the duke, whom hunger and fatigue made des|perate, rushed by him, and passed into the court. It was his intention to present himself to the Superior, and he had not proceeded far when the sound of laugh|ter and of many voices in loud and mirthful jollity, attracted his steps. It led him through several pas|sages to a door, through the crevices of which light appeared. He paused a moment, and heard within a wild uproar of merriment and song. He was struck with astonishment, and could scarcely credit his senses!

He unclosed the door, and beheld in a large room, well lighted, a company of friars, drest in the habit of their order, placed round a table, which was profusely spread with wines and fruits. The Superior, whose habit distinguished him from his associates, appeared at the head of the table. He was lifting a large gob|let of wine to his lips, and was roaring out, "Pro|fusion and confusion," at the moment when the duke entered. His appearance caused a general alarm; that part of the company who were not too much in|toxicated, arose from their seats; and the Superior, dropping the goblet from his hands, endeavoured to assume a look of auste••ty, which his rosy countenance belied. The duke received a reprimand, delivered in the lisping accents of ixtoxication, and embellished with frequent interjections of hiccup. He made known his quality, his distress, and solicited a night's lodging for himself and his people. When the Supe|rior understood the distinction of his guest, his fea|tures relaxed into a smile of joyous welcome; and ta|king him by the hand, he placed him by his side.

The table was quickly covered with luxurious pro|visions, and orders were given that the duke's people

should be admitted, and taken care of▪ He was re|galed with a variety of the finest wines, and at length, highly elevated by monastic hospitality, ••e retired to the apartment allotted him, leaving the Superior in a condition which precluded all ceremony.

He departed in the morning, very well pleased with the accommodating principles of monastic religion. He had been told that the enjoyment of the good things of this life was the surest sign of our gratitude to Heaven; and it appeared, that within the walls of a Sicilian monastery, the precept and the practice were equally enforced.

He was now at a loss what course to choose, for he had no clue to direct him towards the object of his pursuit; but hope still invigorated, and urged him to perseverance. He was not many leagues from the coast; and it occurred to him, that the fugitives might make towards it with a design of escaping into Italy. He therefore determined to travel towards the sea, and proceed along the shore.

At the house where he stopped to dine, he learned that two persons, such as he described, had halted there about an hour before his arrival, and had set off again in much seeming haste. They had taken the road towards the coast, where it was obvious to the duke they designed to embark▪ He stayed not to finish the repast set before him, b•• instantly re••unt|ed to continue the pursuit.

To the inquiries he made of the persons he chanc|ed to meet, favourable answers were returned for a time, but he was at length bewildered in uncertainty, and travelled for some hours in a direction which chance, rather than judgment, prompted him to take.

The falling evening again confused his prospects, and unsettled his hopes. The shades were deepened

by thick and heavy clouds that enveloped the horizon, and the deep sounding air foretold a tempest. The thunder now rolled at a distance, and the accumulated clouds grew darker. The duke and his people were on a wild and dreary heath, round which they looked in vain for shelter, the view being terminated on all sides by the same desolate scene. They rode, how|ever, as hard as their horses would carry them; and at length one of the attendants espied on the skirts of the waste a large mansion, towards which they immediate|ly directed their course.

They were overtaken by the storm, and at the mo|ment when they reached the building, a peal of thun|der, which seemed to shake the pile, burst over their heads. They now found themselves in a large and ancient mansion, which seemed totally deserted, and was falling to decay. The edifice was distinguished by an air of magnificence, which ill accorded with the surrounding scenery, and which excited some degree of surprise in the mind of the duke, who, however fully justified the owner in forsaking a spot, which presented to the eye only views of rude and desolated nature.

The storm encreased with much violence, and threat|ened to detain the duke a prisoner in his present habi|tation for the night. The hall, of which he and his people had taken possession, exhibited in every feature marks of ruin and desolation. The marble pavement was in many places broken, the walls were mouldering into decay, and round the high and shattered windows ••he long grass waved to the lonely gale. Curiosity led him to explore the recesses of the mansion. He quitted the hall, and entered upon a passage which conducted him to a remote part of the edifice. He wandered through the wild and spacious apartments in gloomy meditation, and often paused in wonder at the remains of magnificence which he beheld.

The mansion was irregular and vast, and he was be|wildered in its intricacies. In endeavouring to find his way back, he only perplexed himself more, till at length he arrived at a door, which he believed led into the hall he first quitted. On opening it, he dis|covered by the faint light of the moon, a large place, which he scarcely knew whether to think a cloister, a chapel, or a hall. It retired in long perspective, in arches, and terminated in a large iron gate, through which appeared the open country.

The lightnings flashed thick and blue around, which together with the thunder, that seemed to rend the wide arch of Heaven, and the melancholy aspect of the place, so awed the duke, that he involuntarily called to his people. His voice was answered only by the deep echoes which ran in murmurs through the place, and died away at distance; and the moon now sinking be|hind a cloud, left him in total darkness.

He repeated the call more loudly, and at length heard the approach of footsteps. A few moments re|lieved him from his anxiety, for his people appeared. The storm was yet loud, and the heavy and sulphure|ous appearance of the atmosphere promised no speedy abatement of it. The duke endeavoured to reconcile himself to pass the night in his present situation, and ordered a fire to be lighted in the place he was in. This with much difficulty was accomplished. He then threw himself on the pavement before it, and tried to endure the abstinence which he had so ill ob|served in the monastery on the preceding night. But to his great joy his attendants, more provident than himself, had not scrupled to accept a comfortable quantity of provisions which had been offered them at the monastery; and which they now drew forth from a wallet. They were spread upon the pavement; and

the duke, after refreshing himself, delivered up the re|remains to his people. Having ordered them to watch by turns at the gate, he wrap•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 cloak round him, and resigned himself to repose.

The night passed without any disturbance. The morning arose fresh and bright; the Heavens exhibit|ed a clear and unclouded concave; even the wild heath, refreshed by the late rains, smiled around, and sent up with the morning gale a stream of fragrance.

The duke quitted the mansion, reanimated by the cheerfulness of morn, and pursued his journey. He could gain no intelligence of the fugitives. About noon he found himself in a beautifully romantic coun|try; and having reached the summit of some wild cliffs, he rested to view the picturesque imagery of the scene below. A shadowy sequestered dell appeared buried deep among the rocks, and in the bottom was seen a lake, whose clear bosom reflected the impending cliffs, and the beautiful luxuriance of the overhanging shades.

But his attention was quickly called from the beau|ties of inanimate nature, to objects more interesting; for he observed two persons, whom he instantly re|collected to be the same that he had formerly pursued over the plains. They were seated on the margin of the lake, under the shade of some high trees at the foot of the rocks, and seemed partaking of a repast which was spread upon the grass. Two horses were grazing near. In the lady the duke saw the very air and shape of Julia, and his heart bounded at the sight. They were seated with their backs to the cliffs upon which the duke stood, and he therefore surveyed them unobserv|ed. They were now almost within his power, but the difficulty was how to descend the rocks, whose stupen|dous heights, and craggy steeps seemed to render

them imputable. He examined them with a scruti|nizing eye, and at length espied, where the rock re|ce••ed, a narrow winding sort of path. He dismount|ed, and some of his attendants doing the same, follow|ed their lord down the cliffs, treading lightly, lest their steps should betray them. Immediately upon their reaching the bottom, they were perceived by the lady, who fled among the rocks, and was presently pursued by the duke's people. The cavalier had no time to escape, but drew his sword, and defended him|self against the furious assault of the duke.

The combat was sustained with much vigour and dexterity on both sides for some minutes, when the duke received the point of his adversary's sword, and fell. The cavalier, endeavouring to escape, was seized by the duke's people, who now appeared with the fair fugitive;—but what was the disappointment—the rage of the duke, when in the person of the lady he discovered a stranger! The astonishment was 〈◊〉〈◊〉▪ but the accompanying feelings were, in the different persons, of a very opposite nature. In the duke, as|tonishment was heightened by vexation, and embitter|ed by disappointment:— in the lady, it was softened by the joy of unexpected deliverance.

This lady was the younger daughter of a Sicilian nobleman, whose avarice, or necessities, had devoted her to a convent. To avoid the threatened fate, she fled with the lover to whom her affections had long been engaged, and whose only fault, even in the eye of her father, was inferiority of birth. They were now on their way to the coast, whence they de|signed to pass over to Italy, where the church would confirm the bonds which their hearts had already formed. There the friends of the cavalier resided, and with them they expected to find a secure retreat.

The duke, who was not materially wounded, after the first transport of his rage had subsided, suffered them them to depart. Relieved from their fears, they joyfully set forward, leaving their ••ate pursuer to the anguish of defeat, and fruitless endeavour. He was remounted on his horse; and having dispatched two of his people in search of a house where he might ob|tain some relief, he proceeded slowly on his return to the castle of Mazzini.

It was not long ere he recollected a circumstance which, in the first tumult of his disappointment, had escaped him, but which so essentially affected the whole tenour of his hopes, as to make him again irresolute how to proceed. He considered that, although these were the fugitives he had pursued over the plains, they might not be the same who had been secreted in the cottage, and it was therefore possible that Julia might have been the person whom they had for some time fol|lowed from thence. This suggestion awakened his hopes, which were however quickly destroyed; for he remembered that the only persons, who could have satisfied his doubts were now gone beyond the power of recall. To pursue Julia, when no traces of her flight remained, was absurd; and he was therefore compelled to return to the marquis, as ignorant and more hopeless than he had left him. With much pains he reached the village which his emissaries had disco|vered, where fortunately he obtained some medical as|sistance. Here he was obliged by indisposition to rest. The anguish of his mind equalled that of his body▪ Those impetuous passions which so strongly mar•• his nature, were roused and exasperated to a deg•• that operated powerfully upon his constitution, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 threatened him with the most alarming consequences. The effect of his wound was heightened by the agita|tion

of his mind; and a fever, which quickly assumed a very serious aspect co-operated to endanger his life.

CHAPTER VI.

THE castle of Mazzini was still the scene of dis|sention and misery. The impatience and astonishment of the marquis being daily increased by the lengthened absence of the duke, he dispatched servants to the forest of Marentino, to inquire the occasion of this circum|stance. They returned with intelligence, that neither Julia, the duke, nor any of his people were there. He therefore concluded, that his daughter had fled the cottage upon information of the approach of the duke, who, he believed, was still engaged in the pursuit. With respect to Ferdinand, who yet pined 〈◊〉〈◊〉 sorrow and anxiety in his dungeon, the rigour of the mar|quis's conduct was unabated. He apprehended that his son, if liberated, would quickly discover the re|treat of Julia, and by his advice and assistance, confirm her in disobedience.

Ferdinand in the stillness and solitude of his dungeon brooded over the late calamity in gloomy ineffectual lamentation. The idea of Hippolitus—of Hippolitus murdered ••ose to his imagination in busy intrusion, and s•• the strongest efforts of his solitude. Julia too 〈◊〉〈◊〉 beloved sister—unprotected—unfriended— might, even at the moment he lamented her, be sink|ing under sufferings dreadful to humanity. The airy ••mes he once formed of future felicity, resulting from the uni•••• of two persons so justly dear to him— 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the gay visions of past happiness—floated upon his fancy, and the lustre they reflected, served only to

heighten by contrast, the obscurity and gloom of his present views. He had, however, a new subject of astonishment, which often withdrew his thoughts from their accustomed object, and substituted a sensation less painful, t••ough scarcely less powerful. One night, as he lay ruminating on the past in melancholy dejection, the stillness of the place was suddenly interrupted by a low and dismal sound. It returned at intervals in hol|low sighings, and seemed to come from some person in deep distress. So much did fear operate upon his mind, that he was uncertain whether it arose from within or from without. He looked round his dungeon, but could distinguish no object through the impenetrable darkness. As he listened in deep amazement, the sound was repeated in moans more hollow. Terror now occupied his mind, and disturbed his reason; he started from his posture, and, determined to be satisfi|ed whether any person beside himself was in the dun|geon, groped, with arms extended, along the walls. The place was empty, but coming to a particular spot, the sound suddenly arose more distinctly to his ear. He called aloud, and asked who was there; but re|ceived no answer. Soon after all 〈◊〉〈◊〉 still; and after listening for some ti•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••out hea•• the sounds re|newed, he laid himsel•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to sleep. On the follow|ing day he mentio•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••e man who brought him food, what he had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••d inquired ••ning the noise. The servant appeared very much ••d, but could give no information that might in t•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ac|count for the circumstance, ••ll he mentioned the ••+cinity of the dungeon to the southern buildings. T•• dreadful relation formerly given by the marquis ••+stantly recurred to the mind of Ferdinand, who 〈◊〉〈◊〉 not hesitate to believe, that the moan he heard 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from the restless spirit of the murdered della Campo.

At this conviction, horr•• thrilled his nerves; but he remembered his oath, and was silent. His courage, however, yielded to the idea of passing another night alone in his prison, where if the vengeful spirit of the murdered should appear, he might even die of the hor|ror which its appearance would inspire.

The mind of Ferdinand was highly superior to the general influence of superstition; but, in the present instance such strong correlative circumstances appeared as compelled even incredulity to yield. He had him|self heard strange and awful sounds in the forsaken southern buildings;—he received from his father a dreadful secret relative to them—a secret in which his honour, nay even his life, was bound up. His father had also confessed, that he had himself there seen ap|pearances which he could never after remember with|out horror, and which had occasioned him to quit that part of the castle. All these recollections presented to Ferdinand a chain of evidence too powerful to be re|sisted, and he could not doubt that the spirit of the dead had for once been permitted to revisit the earth, and to call 〈◊〉〈◊〉 vengeance on the descendant of the murderer.

This convi•• occasioned than a degree of horror, such as no apprehension of ••ortal powers could have excited, and he determined, if possible, to prevail on Peter to 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the hours of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ight with him in his dung•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉. The strictness of Peter's fidelity yielded to the ••asions of Ferdinand, though no bribe could ••pt him to incur the resentment of the marquis, by permitting an escape, Ferdinand passed the day in ••ing anxious expectation, and the return of night ••rought Peter to the dungeon. His kindness exposed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to a danger which he had not foreseen; for when seated in the dungeon, alone with his prisoner, how ea|sily

might that prisoner have conquered him, and les•• him to pay his life to the fury of the marquis. He was preserved by the humanity of Ferdinand, who in|stantly perceived his advantage, but disdained to in|volve an innocent man in destruction, and spurned the suggestion from his mind.

Peter, whose friendship was stronger than his cour|age, trembled with apprehension as the hour drew nigh in which the groans had been heard on the preceding night. He recounted to Ferdinand a variety of terri|fic circumstances, which existed only in the heated ima|ginations of his fellow servants, but which were still admitted by them as facts. Among the rest, he did not omit to mention the light and the figure, which had been seen to issue from the south tower on the night of Julia's intended elopement; a circumstance which he embellished with innumerable aggravations of fear and wonder. He concluded with describing the general consternation it had caused, and the consequent be|haviour of the marquis, who laughed at the fears of his people, yet condescended to quiet them by a formal re|view of the buildings, whence their terror had origi|nated. He related the adventure of the door, which refused to yield—the sounds which arose from within, and the discovery of the fallen roof; but declared, that neither he, nor any of his fellow-servants believed the noise, or the obstruction proceed•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 from that, "because, my lord," continued he, "〈◊〉〈◊〉 seem|ed to be held only in one place; and as for 〈◊〉〈◊〉 ••ife— O! Lord! I never shall forget what a noise it w•• it was a thousand times louder than what any sto•• could make."

Ferdinand listened to this narrative in silent w••|der!—wonder, not occasioned by the adventur•• ••+scribed, but by the hardihood and rashness of the mar|quis,

who had thus exposed to the inspection of his people that dreadful spot which he knew from experi|ence to be the haunt of an injured spirit; a spot which he had hitherto scrupulously concealed from human eye, and human curiosity; and which, for so many years, he had not dared even himself to enter. Peter went on, but was presently interrupted by a hollow moan, which seemed to come from beneath the ground. "Blessed virgin!" exclaimed he: Ferdinand listened in awful expectation. A groan longer and more dreadful was repeated, when Peter starting from his seat, and snatching up the lamp, rushed out of the dungeon. Ferdinand, who was left in total darkness, followed to the door, which the affrighted Peter had not stopped to fasten, but which had closed, and seem|ed held by a lock that could be opened only on the outside. The sensations of Ferdinand, thus compelled to remain in the dungeon, are not to be imagined. The horrors of the night, whatever they were to be, he was to endure alone. By degrees, however, he seemed to acquire the valour of despair. The sounds were repeated at intervals for near an hour, when si|lence returned, and remained undisturbed during the rest of the night. Ferdinand was alarmed by no ap|pearance; and at length, overcome with anxiety and watching, he sunk to repose.

On the following morning Peter returned to the dungeon, scarcely knowing what to expect, yet ex|pecting something very strange, perhaps the murder— perhaps the supernatural disappearance of his young ••ord. Full of these wild apprehensions, he dared not endure thither alone, but persuaded some of the ser|vants, to whom he had communicated his terrors, to accompany him to the door. As they passed along he recollected, that in the terror of the preceding

night 〈◊〉〈◊〉 had forgot to fasten the door, and he now feared that his prisoner had made his escape without a miracle. He hurried to the door, and his surprise was extreme to find it fastened It instantly struck him that this was the work of a supernatural power; when, on calling alo•• he was answered by a voice from within. His ••urd fear did not suffer him to recognize the voice of Ferdinand, neither did he sup|pose that Ferdinand had failed to escape; he, there|fore, attributed the voice to the being he had heard on the preceeding night; and starting back from the door, fled with his companions to the great hall. There the uproar occasioned by their entrance called together a number of persons, amongst whom was the marquis, who was soon informed of the cause of alarm, with a long history of the circumstances of the foregoing night. At this information, the marquis assumed a very stern look, and severely reprimanded Peter for his impru|dence, at the same time reproaching the other servants with their undutifulness in thus disturbing his peace. He reminded them of the condescension he had prac|tised to dissipate their former terrors, and of the result of their examination. He then assured them, that since indulgence had only encouraged intrusion, he would for the future be severe; and concluded with declaring, that the first man who should disturb him with a repetition of such ridiculous apprehensions, or should attempt to disturb the peace of the castle by cir|culating these idle notions, should be rigorously pun|ished, and banished his dominions. They shrunk back at this reproof, and were silent. "Bring a torch, said the marquis, "and show me to the dungeon. I will once more condescend to confute you."

They obeyed, and descended with the marquis, who, arriving at the dungeon, instantly threw open the door,

and discovered to the astonished eyes of his attendants —Ferdinand!—He started with surprise at the entrance of his father thus attended. The marquis darting upon him a severe look, which he perfectly comprehended— "Now," cried he, turning to his people, "what do you feel My son, whom I myself placed here, and whose voice, which answered to your calls, you have transformed into unknown sounds. "Speak, Ferdi|nand, and confirm what I say." Ferdinand did so. "What dreadful spectre appeared to you last night? Resumed the marquis, looking stedfastly upon him •• gratify these fellows with a description of it, for they cannot exist without something of the marvellous." "None my lord," replied Ferdinand, who too well understood the manner of the marquis. "Tis well," cried the marquis, "and this is the last time," turning to his attendants, "that your folly shall be treated with so much lenity." He ceased to urge the subject, and forbore to ask Ferdinand even one question before his servants, concerning the nocturnal sounds described by Peter. He quitted the dungeon with eyes steadily bent in anger and suspicion upon Ferdinand. The marquis suspected that the fears of his son had inad|vertently betrayed to Peter a part of the secret intrusted to him, and he artfully interrogated Peter with seem|ing carelessness, concerning the circumstances of the preceding night. From him he drew such answers as honourably acquitted Ferdinand of indiscretion, and relieved himself from tormenting apprehensions.

The following night passed quietly away; neither sound nor appearance disturbed the peace of Ferdinand. The marquis, on the next day, thought proper to sof|ten the severity of his sufferings, and he was removed from his dungeon to a room strongly grated, but ex|posed to the light of day.

Meanwhile a circumstance occurred which increased the general discord, and threatened Emilia with the loss of her last remaining comfort—the advice and con|solation of Madame de Menon. The marchioness, whose passion for the count de Vereza had at length yielded to absence, and the pressure of present circum|stances, now bestowed her smiles upon a young Italian cavalier, a visitor at the castle, who possessed too much of the spirit of gallantry to permit a lady to languish in vain. The marquis, whose mind was occupied with other passions, was insensible to the misconduct of his wife, who at all times had the address to disguise her vices beneath the gloss of virtue and innocent freedom. The intrigue was discovered by Madame, who, hav|ing one day left a book in the oak parlour, returned thither in search of it. As she opened the door of the apartment, she heard the voice of the cavalier in pas|sionate exclamation; and on entering, discovered him rising in some confusion from the feet of the marchi|oness, who, darting at Madame a look of severity, arose from her seat. Madame, shocked at what she had seen, instantly retired, and buried in her own bo|som that secret, the discovery of which would most essentially have poisoned the peace of the marquis. The marchioness, who was a stranger to the generosity of sentiment which actuated Madame de Menon, doubted not that she would seize the moment of re|taliation, and expose her conduct where most she dreaded it should be known▪ The consciousness of guilt tortured her with incessant fear of discovery, and from this period her whose attention was employed to dis|lodge from the castle, the person to whom her charac|ter was committed. In this it was not difficult to suc|ceed; for the delicacy of Madame's feelings made her quick to perceive, and to withdraw from a treatment

unsuitable to the natural dignity of her character. She therefore resolved to depart from the castle; but dis|daining to take an advantage even over a successful enemy, she determined to be silent on that subject which would instantly have transferred the triumph from her adversary to herself. When the marquis, on hearing her determination to retire, earnestly inquired for the motive of her conduct she forbore to acquaint him with the real one, and left him to incertitude and disappointment.

To Emilia this design occasioned a distress which almost subdued the resolution of Madame. Her tears and intreaties spoke the artless energy of sorrow. In Madame she lost her only friend; and she too well un|derstood the value of that friend, to see her depart without feeling and expressing the deepest distress. From a strong attachment to the memory of the mo|ther, Madame had been induced to undertake the education of her daughters, whose engaging disposi|tions had perpetuated a kind of hereditary affection. Regard for Emilia and Julia had alone for some time detained her at the castle; but this was now succeeded by the influence of considerations too powerful to be resisted. As her income was small, it was her plan to retire to her native place, which was situated in a dis|tant part of the island, and there take up her residence in a convent.

Emilia saw the time of Madame's departure approach with increased distress. They left each other with a mutual sorrow, which did honour to their hearts. When her last friend was gone, Emilia wandered through the forsaken apartments, where she had been accustomed to converse with Julia, and to recieve con|solation and sympathy from her dear instructress, with a kind of anguish known only to those who have ex|perienced

a similar situation. Madame pursued her journey with a heavy heart. Separated from the ob|jects of he•• fondest affections, and from the scenes and occupations for which long habit had formed claims upon her heart, she seemed without interest and with|out motive for exertion. The world appeared a wild and gloomy desert, where no heart welcomed her with kindness—no countenance brightened into smiles at her approach. It was many years since she quitted Calini—and in the interval, death had swept away the few friends she left there. The future presented a me|lancholy scene; but she had the retrospect of years spent in honourable endeavour and strict integrity, to cheer her heart and encourage her hopes.

But her utmost endeavours were unable to repress the anxiety with which the uncertain fate of Julia overwhelmed her. Wild and terrific images arose to her imagination. Fancy drew the scene;—she deep|ened the shades; and the terrific aspect of the object she presented was heightened by the obscurity which involved them.

CHAPTER VII.

TOWARDS the close of day Madame arrived at a small village situated among the mountains, where she purposed to pass the night. The evening was re|markably fine, and the grotesque beauty of the sur|rounding scenery invited her to walk. She followed the windings of a stream, which was lost at some dis|tance among luxuriant groves of chesnut. The rich colouring of evening glowed through the dark foliage, which spreading a pensive gloom around, offered a

scene congenial to the present temper of her mind, and she entered the shades. Her thoughts, affected by the surrounding objects, gradually sunk into a pleasing and complacent melancholy, and she was insensibly led on. She still followed the course of the stream to where the deep shades retired, and the scene again opening to day, yielded to her a view so various and sublime, that she paused in thrilling and delightful wonder. A group of wild and gro••sque rocks rose in a semicircu|lar form, and their fantastic shapes exhibited Nature in her most sublime and striking attitudes. Here her vast magnificence elevated the mind of the beholder with high enthusiasm. Fancy caught the thrilling sensation, and at her touch the towering steeps became shaded with unreal glooms; the caves more darkly frowned—the projecting cliffs assured a more terrific aspect, and the wild overhanging shrubs waved to the gale in deeper murmurs. The scene inspired Madame with reverential awe, and her thoughts involuntarily rose "from Nature up to Nature's God." The last dying gleams of day tinted the rocks and shone upon the waters, which retired through a rugged channel, and were lost afar among the receding cliffs. While she listened to their distant murmur, a voice of liquid and melodious sweetness arose from among the rocks; it s••ng an air, whose melancholy expressions awakened all her attention, and captivated her heart. The tones swelled and died faintly away among the clear, yet languishing echoes, which the rocks repeated with an effect like that of enchantment. Madame looked a|round in search of the sweet warble, and observed at some distance a peasant girl seated on a small projec|tion of the rock, overshadowed by drooping sycamores. She moved slowly towards the spot, which she had al|most reached, when the sound of her steps startled and

silenced the syren, who, on perceiving a stranger, arose in an attitude to depart. The voice of Madame arrest|ed her, and she appproached. Language cannot paint the sensation of Madame, when, in the disguise of a peasant girl, she distinguished the features of Julia, whose eyes lighted up with sudden recollection, and who sunk into her arms overcome with joy. When their first emotions were subsided, and Julia had re|ceived answers to her inquiries concerning Ferdinand and Emilia, she led Madame to the place of her con|cealment. This was a solitary cottage, in a close val|ley surrounded by mountains whose cliffs appeared wholly inaccessible to mortal foot. The deep solitude of the scene dissipated at once Madame's wonder that Julia had so long remained undiscovered, and excited surprise how she had been able to explore a spot thus deeply sequestered; but Madame observed with ex|treme concern, that the countenance of Julia no lon|ger wore the smile of health and gaiety. Her fine features had received the impressions not only of me|lancholy, but of grief. Madame sighed as she gazed, and read too plainly the cause of the change. Julia understood that sigh, and answered it with her tears. She pressed the hand of Madame in mournful silence to her lips, and her cheeks were suffused with a crimson glow. At length, recovering herself, "I have much, my dear Madame, to tell," said she, "and much to explain, 'ere you will admit me again to that esteem of which I was once so justly proud. I had no re|source from misery, but in flight; and of that I could not make you a confidant, without meanly involving you in its disgrace." "Say no more, my love, on the subject," replied Madame; "with respect to myself, I admired your conduct, and felt severely for your si|tuation. Rather let me hear by what means you ef|fected

your escape, and what has since befallen you." Julia paused a moment, as if to stifle her rising emo|tion, and then commenced her narrative.

"You are already acquainted with the secret of that night, so fatal to my peace. I recall the remembrance of it with an anguish which I cannot conceal; and why should I wish its concealment, since I mourn for one, whose noble qualities justified all my admiration, and deserved more than my feeble praise can bestow: the idea of whom will be the last to linger in my mind till death shuts up this painful scene." Her voice trembled, and she paused. After a few moments she resumed her tale. "I will spare myself the pain of recurring to scenes with which you are not unac|quainted, and proceed to those which more immedi|ately attract your interest. Caterina, my faithful ser|vant, you know, attended me in my confinement; to her kindness I owe my escape. She obtained from her lover, a servant in the castle, that assistance which gave me liberty.—One night when Carlo, who had been ap|pointed my guard, was asleep, Nicolo crept into his chamber, and stole from him the keys of my prison. He had previously procured a ladder of ropes. O! I can never forget my emotions, when in the dead hour of that night, which was meant to precede the day of my sacrifice, I heard the door of my prison unlock, and found myself half at liberty! My trembling limbs with difficulty supported me as I followed Caterina to the saloon, the windows of which being low and near to the terrace, suited our purpose. To the terrace we easily got, where Nicolo awaited us with the rope lad|der. He fastened it to the ground; and having climbed to the top of the parapet, quickly slided down on the other side. There he held it while we ascend|ed and descended; and I soon breathed the air of

freedom again. But the apprehension of being re|taken was still too powerful to permit a full enjoyment of my escape. It was my plan to proceed to the place of my faithful Caterina's nativity, where she had as|sured me I might find a safe asylum in the cottage of her parents, from whom, as they had never seen me, I might conceal my birth. This place, she said, was en|tirely unknown to the marquis, who had hired her at Naples only a few months before, without any inquir|ies concerning her family. She had informed me that the village was many leagues distant from the castle, but that she was very well acquainted with the road. At the foot of the walls we left Nicolo, who returned to the castle 〈◊〉〈◊〉 prevent suspicion, but with an intention to lea•• it at a less dangerous time, and repair to Fa••|rini to his good Caterina. I parted from him with many thanks, and gave him a small diamond cross, which, for that purpose, I had taken from the jewels sent to me for wedding ornaments."

CHAPTER VIII.

"ABOUT a quarter of a league from the walls we stopped, and I assumed the habit in which you now see me. My own dress was fastened to some heavy stones, and Caterina threw it into the stream, whose murmurings you have so often admired. The fatigue and hardship I endured in this journey, performed al|most wholly on foot, at any other time would have overcome me; but my mind was so occupied by the danger I was avoiding, that these lesser evils were dis|regarded. We arrived in safety at the cottage, which stood at a little distance from the village of Farrini and

were received by Caterina's parents, with some sur|prise, and more kindness. I soon perceived it would be useless, and even dangerous, to attempt to preserve the character I personated. In the eyes of Caterina's mother, I read a degree of surprise and admiration which declared she believed me of superior rank; I, therefore, thought it more prudent to win her fidelity by entrusting her with my secret than, by endeavour|ing to conceal it, leave it to be discovered by her curi|osity or discernment. Accordingly I made known my quality and my distress, and received strong assurances of assistance and attachment. For further security I removed to this unsuspicious spot. The cottage we are now in belongs to a sister of Caterina 〈◊〉〈◊〉 whose faithfulness I have been hitherto fully just•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 rely|ing. But I am not even here secure from a••hen|sion, since for several days past horsemen of a suspicious appearance have been observed near Marcy, which is only half a league from hence."

Here Julia closed her narration, to which Madame had listened with a mixture of surprise and pity, which her eyes sufficiently discovered. The last circum|stance of the narrative seriously alarmed her. She acquainted Julia with the pursuit which the duke had undertaken; and she did not hesitate to believe it a party of his people whom Julia had described. Ma|dame, therefore, earnestly advised her 〈◊〉〈◊〉 quit her pre|sent situation, and to accompany her in disguise to the monastery of St. Augustin, where she would find a se|cure retreat; because, even if her place of refuge should be discovered, the superior authority of the church would protect her. Julia accepted the propo|sal with much joy. As it was necessary that Madame should sleep at the village where she had left her ser|vants and horses, it was agreed that at break of day she

should return to the cottage, where Julia would await her. Madame took an affectionate leave of Julia whose heart, in spite of reason sunk when she saw her depart though but for the necessary interval of repose.

At the dawn of day Madame arose. Her servants, who were hired for the journey were strangers to Julia, from them, therefore, she had nothing to apprehend. She reached the cottage before sun-rise, having left her people at some little distance. Her heart fore|boded evil, when, on knocking at the door, no answer was returned. She knocked again, and still all was si|lent. Through the casement she could discover no ob|ject, amidst the grey obscurity of the dawn. She now opened the door, and to her inexpressible astonish|ment and distress, found the cottage empty. She pro|ceeded to a small inner room, where lay a part of Julia's apparel. The bed had no appearance of being slept in, and every moment served to heighten and confirm•• her apprehensions. While she pursued the search, she suddenly heard the trampling of feet at the cottage door, and presently after some people entered.—Her fears for Julia now yielded to those for her own safety, and she was undetermined whether to discover herself, or remain in her present situation, when she was re|lieved from her irresolution and ••ress by the appear|ance of Julia.

On the return of the good woman, who had accom|companied Madame to the village on the preceding night, Julia went to the cottage at Farrini. Her grateful heart would not suffer her to depart without taking leave of her faithful friends, thanking them for their kindness, and informing them of her future pro|spects. They had prevailed upon her to spend the few intervening hours at this cot, whence she had just risen to meet Madame.

They now hastened to the spot where the horses were stationed, and commenced their journey. For some leagues they travelled in silence and thought, over a wild and picturesque country. The landscape was tinted with rich and vari••ated hues; and the au|tumnal lights, which streamed upon the hills, produced a spirited and beautiful effect upon the scenery. All the glories of the vintage rose to their view: the pur|ple grapes flushed through the dark green of the sur|rounding foliage, and the prospect glowed with warm luxuriance.

They now descended into a deep valley, which ap|peared more like a scene of airy enchantment than re|ality. Along the bottom flowed a clear majesti•• stream, whose ba••ks were adorned with thick groves of orange and citron trees. Julia surveyed the scene in silent complacency, but her eye quickly caught an ob|ject which changed with instantaneous shock the tone of her feelings. She observed a party of horsemen ••inding down the side of a hill behind them. Their uncommon speed alarmed her and she pushed her horse into a gallop. On looking back they clearly perceiv|ed themselves to be pursued. Soon after the men sud|denly appeared from behind a dark grove within a small distance of them; and upon their nearer ap|proach, Julia overcome with fatigue and fear, sunk breathless from her horse. She was saved from the ground by one of the pursuers, who caught her in his arms. Madame, with the rest of the party, were quickly overtaken; and as soon as Julia revived, they were bound, and re-conducted to the hill from whence ••ey had descended. Imagination only can paint the ••uish of Julia's mind, when she saw herself thus de|li••ed up to the power of her enemy. Madame, in the ••rrounding troop, discovered none of the mar|quis's

people, and they were therefore evidently in the hands of the duke. After travelling for some hours, they quitted ••he main road, and turned into a narrow winding dell, overshadowed by high trees, which al|most excluded the light. The gloom of the place in|spired terrific images. Julia trembled as she entered; and her emotion was heightened, when she perceived at some distance, through the long perspective of the trees, a large ruinous mansion. The gloom of the surrounding shades partly concealed it from her view▪ but, as she drew near, each forlorn and decaying fea|ture of the fabric was gradually disclosed, and struck upon her heart a horror such as she had never bef•• experienced. The broken battlements enwreath•• with ivy, proclaimed the fallen grandeur of the place while the shattered vacant window frames exhibited its desolation, and the high grass that overgrew the threshold, seemed to say how long it was since mortal foot had entered. The place appeared sit only 〈◊〉〈◊〉 purposes of violence and destruction: and the ••+tunate captives, when they stopped at its gates, felt 〈◊〉〈◊〉 full force of its horrors.

They were taken from their horses, and conveyed to an interior part of the building, which, if it had once been a chamber, no longer deserved the name. Here the guard said they were directed to detain them till the arrival of their lord, who had appointed this the place of rendezvous. He was expected to meet them in a few hours, and these were hours of indiscribable torture to Julia and Madame. From the furious pas|sions of the duke, exasperated by frequent disappoint|ment, Julia had every evil to apprehend; and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 loneliness of the spot he had chosen, enabled hi•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 perpetrate any designs, however violent. For the 〈◊〉〈◊〉 time, she repented that she had left her father's ••se.

Madame wept over her, but comfort she had none to give. The day closed—the duke did not appear, and the fate of Julia yet hung in perilous uncertainty. At length, from a window of the apartment she was in, she distinguished a glimmering of torches among the trees, and presently after the clattering of hoofs convinced her the duke was approaching. Her heart sunk at the sound; and throwing her arms round Madame's neck, she resigned herself to despair. She was soon roused by some men, who came to announce the arrival of their lord. In a few moments the place, which had lately been so silent, echoed with tumult; and a sud|•• blaze of light illumining the fabric, served to ex|••bit more forcibly its striking horrors. Julia ran to the window; and in a sort of court below, perceived a group of men dismounted from their horses. The torches shed a partial light; and while she anxiously looked around for the person of the duke, the whole party entered the mansion. She listened to a confus|•• ••proar of voices, which sounded from the room be|••th, and soon after it sunk into a low murmur, as if some matter of importance was in agitation. For some moments she sat in lingering terror, when she heard footsteps advancing towards the chamber, and a ••en gleam of torch-light flashed upon the walls. "Wretched girl! I have at last secured you!" said a cavalier, who now entered the room. He stopped as he perceived Julia; and turning to the men who stood without, "Are these," said he, "the fugitives you have taken?" "Yes, my lord."—"Then you ••ve deceived yourselves and misled me; this is not my ••ghter." These words struck the sudden light of 〈◊〉〈◊〉 and joy upon the heart of Julia, whom terror had ••efore rendered almost lifeless; and who had not p••ceived that the person entering was a stranger.

Madame now stepped forward, and an explanation en|sued, when it appeared that the stranger was the mar|quis Murani, the father of the fair fugitive whom the duke had before mistaken for Julia.

The appearance and evident flight of Julia, had de|ceived the banditti employed by this nobleman, into a belief that she was the object of their search, and had occasioned her this unnecessary distress. But the joy she now felt on finding herself thus unexpectedly at li|berty, surpassed, if possible, her preceding terrors. The marquis made Madame and Julia all the repara|tion in his power, by offering immediately to recon|duct them to the main road, and to guard them 〈◊〉〈◊〉 some place of safety for the night. This offer w•• eagerly and thankfully accepted; and though fai•• from distress, fatigue, and want of sustenance, they joyfully remounted their horses, and by torch-light quitted the mansion. After some hours travelling they arrived at a small town, where they procured the ac|commodation so necessary to their support and repo•• Here their guides quitted them to continue th•• search.

They arose with the dawn, and continued their journey, continually terrified with the apprehension of encountering the duke's people. At noon they arriv|ed at Azulia, from whence the monastery, or abbey of St. Augustin was distant only a few miles. Madame wrote to the Padre Abate, to whom she was somewhat related, and soon after received an answer very favour|able to her wishes. The same evening they repaired to the abbey, where Julia, once more relieved from the fear of pursuit, offered up a prayer of gratitude to Heaven, and endeavoured to calm her sorrows by de|votion. She was received by the abbot with a so•• of paternal affection, and by the nuns with officious kind|ness.

Comforted by these circumstances, and by the tranquil appearance of every thing around her, she re|tired to rest, and passed the night in peaceful slumbers.

In her present situation she found much novelty to amuse, and much serious matter to engage her mind. Entendered by distress, she easily yielded to the pen|sive manners of her companions, and to the serene uni|formity of a monastic life. She loved to wander through the lonely cloisters, and high-arched aisles, whose long perspectives retired in simple grandeur, diffusing a holy calm around. She found much plea|sure in the conversation of the nuns, many of whom were uncommonly amiable, and the dignified sweetness of whose manners formed a charm irresistibly attrac|tive. The soft melancholy impressed upon their coun|tenances, pourtrayed the situation of their minds, and excited in Julia a very interesting mixture of pity and esteem. The affectionate appellation of sister, and all that endearing tenderness which they so well know how to display, and of which they so well understand the effect, they bestowed on Julia, in the hope of win|ing her to become one of their order.

Soothed by the presence of Madame, the assiduity of the nuns, and by the stillness and sanctity of the place, her mind gradually recovered a degree of complacency to which it had long been a stranger. But notwith|standing all her efforts, the idea of Hippolitus would at intervals return upon her memory with a force that at once subdued her fortitude, and sunk her in a tem|porary despair.

Among the holy sisters, Julia distinguished one, the singular fervor of whose devotion, and the pensive air of whose countenance, softened by the languor of ill|ness, attracted her curiosity, and excited a strong de|gree of pity. The nun, by a sort of sympathy, seem|ed

particularly inclined towards Julia, which she dis|covered by innumerable acts of kindness, such as the heart can quickly understand and acknowledge, al|though description can never reach them. In conver|sation with her, Julia endeavoured, as far as delicacy would permit, to prompt an explanation of that more than common dejection which shaded those features, where beauty, touched by resignation and sublimed by religion, shone forth with mild and lambent lustre.

The duke de Luovo, after having been detained for some weeks by the fever which his wounds had produ|ced, and his irritated passions had much prolonged, ar|rived at the castle of Mazzini. When the marquis saw him return, and recollected the futility of those exertions, by which he had boastingly promised to re|cover Julia, the violence of his nature spurned the dis|guise of art, and burst forth in contemptuous impeach|ment of the valour and discernment of the duke, who who soon retorted with equal fury. The consequence might have been fatal, had not the ambition of the marquis subdued the sudden irritation of his inferior passions, and induced him to soften the severity of his accusations, by subsequent concessions. The duke, whose passion for Julia was heightened by the difficul|ty, which opposed it, admitted such concessions, as in other circumstances he would have rejected; and thus each conquered by the predominant passion of the mo|ment, submitted to be the slave of his adversary.

Emilia was at length released from the confinement she had so unjustly suffered. She had now the use of her old apartments, where, solitary and dejected, her hours moved heavily along, embittered by incessant anxiety for Julia, and by regret for the lost society of Madame. The marchioness, whose pleasures suffered a temporary suspense during the present confusion at

the castle, exercised the ill-humoured cap••ice, which disappointment and lassitude inspired, upon her remain|ing subject. Emilia was condemned to suffer, and to endure without the privilege of complaining. In re|viewing the events of the last few weeks, she saw those most dear to her banished, or imprisoned by the secret influence of a woman, every feature of whose character was exactly opposite to that of the amiable mother she had been appointed to succeed.

The search after Julia still continued, and was still unsuccessful. The astonishment of the marquis in|creased with his disappointments; for where could Julia, ignorant of the country, and destitute of friends, have possibly found an asylum? He swore with a ter|rible oath to revenge on her head, whenever she should be found, the trouble and vexation she now caused him. But he agreed with the duke to relinquish for a while the search; till Julia, gaining confidence from the observation of this circumstance, might gradually suppose herself secure from molestation, and thus be in|duced to emerge by degrees from concealment.

CHAPTER IX.

MEANWHILE Julia, sheltered in the obscure recesses of St. Augustin, endeavoured to attain a de|gree of that tranquillity which so strikingly characte|rized the scenes around her. The abbey of St. Au|gustin was a large magnificent mass of Gothic archi|tecture, whose gloomy battlements, and majestic tow|ers, arose in proud sublimity from amid the darkness of the surrounding shades. It was founded in the twelfth

century, and stood a proud monument of monkish su|perstition and princely munisicence. In the times when Italy was agitated by internal commotions, and persecuted by foreign invaders, this edifice afforded an asylum to many noble Italian emigrants, who here con|secrated the rest of their days to religion. At their death they enriched the monastery with the treasures which it had enabled them to secure.

The view of this building revived in the mind of the beholder the memory of past ages. The manners and characters which distinguished them arose to his fancy, and through the long lapse of years, he discriminated those customs and manners which formed so striking a contrast to the modes of his own times. The rude manners, the boisterous passions, the daring ambition, and the gross indulgences which formerly characterized the priest, the nobleman, and the sovereign, had then begun to yield to learning—the charms of refined con|versation—political intrigue and private artifices. Thus do the scenes of life vary with the predominant passions of mankind, and with the progress of civiliza|tion. The dark clouds of prejudice break away be|fore the sun of science, and gradually dissolving, leave the brightening hemisphere to the influence of his beams. But through the present scene appeared only a few scattered rays, which served to show more forci|bly the vast and heavy masses that concealed the form of truth. Here prejudice, not reason, suspended the influence of the passions; and scholastic learning, mys|terious philosophy, and crafty sanctity, supplied the place of wisdom, simplicity, and pure devotion.

At the abbey, solitude and stillness, conspired with the solemn aspect of the pile to impress the mind with religious awe. The dim glass of the high-arched win|dows, stained with the colouring of monkish fictions

and shaded by the thick trees that environed the abbey, spread around a sacred gloom, which inspired the be|holder with congenial feelings.

As Julia mused through the walks, and surveyed this vast monument of barbarous superstition, it brought to her recollection an ode which she often repeated with melancholy pleasure, as the composition of Hippolitus.

SUPERSTITION. AN ODE.

HIGH mid Alverna's awful craggy steeps, Eternal shades, and glooms, and silence dwell, Save, when the lonely gale resounding sweeps, Sad, solemn strains are faintly heard to swell;

Enthroned amid the wild impending rocks, Involved in clouds, and brooding future woe, The demon Superstition, Nature shocks, And waves her sceptre o'er the world below.

Around her throne, amid the mingling glooms, Wild—hideous forms are slowly seen to glide; She bids them fly to shade earth's brightest blooms, And spread the blast of desolation wide.

See! in the darkened air their fiery course! The sweeping ruin settles o'er the land, Terror leads on their steps with madd'ning force, And Death and Vengeance close the ghastly band!

Mark the purple streams that flow! Mark the deep empassioned woe! Frantic Fury's dying groan! Virtues's sigh, and Sorrow's moan! Wide—wide the phantoms swell the loaded air With shrieks of anguish—madness and despair!

Cease your ruin! spectres dire! Cease your wild terrific sway! Turn your steps—and check your ire, Yield to peace the mourning day!

She wept to the memory of times past, and there was a romantic sadness in her feelings, luxurious and indefinable. Madame behaved to Julia with the ten|derest attention, and endeavoured to withdraw her thoughts from their mournful subject, by promoting that taste for literature and music, which was so suita|ble to the powers of her mind.

But an object seriously interesting now obtained that regard, which those of mere amusement failed to at|tract. Her favourite nun, for whom her love and es|teem daily increased, seemed declining under the pres|sure of a secret grief. Julia was deeply affected with her situation, and though she was not empowered to administer consolation to her sorrows, she endeavour|ed to mitigate the sufferings of illness. She nursed her with unremitting care, and seemed to seize with avidity the temporary opportunity of escaping from herself. The nun appeared perfectly reconciled to her fate, and exhibited during her illness, so much sweet|ness, patience, and resignation, as affected all around her with pity and love. Her angelic mildness, and steady fortitude, characterized the beatification of a saint, rather than the death of a mortal. Julia watch|ed every turn of her disorder with the utmost solicitude, and her care was at length rewarded by the amend|ment of Cornelia. Her health gradually improved, and she attributed this circumstance to the assiduity and tenderness of her young friend, to whom her heart now expanded in warm and unreserved affection. At length Julia ventured to solicit what she had so long and so earnestly wished for, and Cornelia unfolded the history of her sorrows.

"Of the life which your care has prolonged," said she, "it is but just that you should know the events; though those events are neither new, or striking, and

possess little power of interesting persons unconnected with them. To me they have, however, been unex|pectedly dreadful in effect, and my heart assures me, that to you they will not be indifferent.

"I am the unfortunate descendant of an ancient and illustrious Italian family. In early childhood I was deprived of a mother's care, but the tenderness of my surviving parent made her loss, as to my welfare, almost unfelt. Suffer me here to do justice to the character of my noble father. He united in an eminent deg•• the mild virtues of social life, with the firm unbending qualities of the noble Romans, his ancestors, from whom he was proud to trace his descent. Their me|rit, indeed, continually dwelt on his tongue, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 their actions he was always endeavouring to imitate, as far as was consistent with the character of his times, and with the limited sphere in which he moved. The re|collection of his virtue elevates my mind, and fills my heart with a noble pride, which even the cold walls of a monastery have not been able to subdue.

"My father's fortune was unsuitable to his rank. That his son might hereafter be enabled to support the dignity of his family, it was necessary for me to assume the veil. Alas! that heart was unfit to be offered at an heavenly shrine, which was already devoted to an earthly object. My affections had long been engaged by the younger son of a neighbouring nobleman, whose character and accomplishments attracted my early love, and confirmed my latest esteem. Our families were in|timate, and our youthful intercourse occasioned an at|tachment, which strengthened and expanded with our years. He solicited me of my father, but there appear|ed an insuperable barrier to our union. The family of my lover laboured under circumstances of similar dis|tress with that of my own—it was noble—but poor!

My father, who was ignorant of the strength of my affection, and who considered a marriage formed in poverty as destructive to happiness, prohibited his suit.

"Touched with chagrin and disappointment, he im|mediately entered into the service of his Neapolitan majesty, and sought in the tumultuous scenes of glory, a refuge from the pangs of disappointed passion.

"To me, whose hours moved in one round of dull uniformity—who had no pursuit to interest—no varie•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 to animate my drooping spirits—to me the effort of forgetfulness was ineffectual. The loved idea of An|gelo still rose upon my fancy, and its powers of capti|vation, heightened by absence, and, perhaps, even by des•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 me with incessant grief. I concealed in silence the anguish that preyed upon my heart, and resigned myself a willing victim to monastic austerity. But I was now threatened with a new evil, terrible and unexpected. I was so unfortunate as to attract the admiration of the marquis Marinelli, and he appli|ed to my father. He was illustrious at once in birth and fortune, and his visits could only be unwelcome to me. Dreadful was the moment in which my father disclosed to me the proposal. My distress which I vainly endeavoured to command, discovered the exact situation of my heart, and my father was affected.

"After a long and awful pause, he generously releas|ed me from my distress, by leaving it to my choice to accept the marquis, or to assume the veil. I fell at his feet overcome by the noble disinterestedness of his conduct, and instantly accepted the latter.

"This affair removed intirely the disguise with which I had hitherto guarded my heart;—my brother—my generous brother! learned the true state of its affec|tions. He saw the grief which preyed upon my health; he observed it to my father, and he nobly—

oh how nobly! to restore my happiness, desired to re|sign a part of the estate which had already descended to him in right of his mother. "Alas! Hippolitus," continued Cornelia, deeply sighing, "thy virtues de|served a better fate."

"Hippolitus!" said Julia, in a tremulous accent, "Hippolitus, count de Vereza!" "The same," re|plied the nun, in a tone of surprise, Julia was speech|less; tears, however, came to her relief. The aston|ishment of Cornelia for some moments surpassed expres|sion; at length a gleam of recollection crossed her mind, and she too well understood the scene before her. Julia, after some time revived, when C••a tenderly approaching her, "Do I then 〈◊〉〈◊〉 my sister!" said she, "United in sentiment, are we also united in misfortune?" Julia answered with her sighs, and their tears flowed in mournful sympathy together. At length Cornelia resumed her narrative.

"My father, struck with the conduct of Hippoli|tus, paused upon the offer. The alteration in my health was too obvious to escape his notice; the con|flict between pride and parental tenderness, held him for some time in indecision, but the latter finally sub|dued every opposing feeling, and he yielded his con|sent to my marriage with Angelo. The sudden tran|sition from grief to joy, was almost too much for my feeble frame; judge then what must have been the ef|fect of the dreadful reverse, when the news arrived that Angelo had fallen in a foreign engagement! Let me obliterate, if possible, the impression of sensations so dreadful. The sufferings of my brother, whose ge|nerous heart could so finely feel for another's woe, were on this occasion inferior only to my own.

"After the first excess of my grief was subsided, I de|sired to retire from a world which, had tempted me

only with illusive visions of happiness, and to remove from those scenes which prompted recollection, and perpetuated my distress. My father applauded my re|solution, and I immediately was admitted a noviciate into this monastery, with the Superior of which my father had in his youth been acquainted.

"At the expiration of the year I received the veil, Oh! I well remember with what perfect resignation, with what comfortable complacency I took those vows which bound me to a life of retirement, and religious rest.

"The high importance of the moment, the solemnity of the ceremony, the sacred gloome which surrounded me, and the chilling silence that prevailed when I ut|tered the irrevocable vow—all conspired to impress my imagination, and to raise my views to heaven. When I knelt at the altar, the sacred flame of pure devotion glowed in my heart, and elevated my soul to sublimity. The world and thi•• its recollections ended from my mind, and left it to the influence of a serene and holy enthusiasm which no words can describe.

"Soon after my noviciation, I had the misfortune to lose my dear father. In the tranquility of this mo|nastery, however, in the soothing kindness of my com|panions, and in devotional exercises, my sorrows found relief, and the sting of grief was blunted. My repose was of short continuance. A circumstance occurred that renewed the misery, which can now never quit me but in the grave, so which I look with no fearful ap|prehension, but as a refuge from calamity, trusting that the power who has seen good to afflict me, will par|don the imperfectness of my devotion, and the too frequent wandering of my thoughts to the objects once so dear to me."

As she spoke she raised her eyes, which beamed with

truth and 〈◊〉〈◊〉 assurance, to heaven; and the fine de|votional ••usion of her countenance seemed to cha|racterize the beauty of an inspired saint.

"One day, Oh! never shall I forget it, I went as usual to the confessional to acknowledge my sins. I knelt before the father with eyes bent towards the earth, and in a low voice proceeded to confess. I had but one crime to deplore, and that was the too tender remembrance of him for whom I mourned, and whose idea impressed upon my heart, made it a blemished of|fering to God.

"I was interrupted in my confession by a sound of deep sobs, and raising my eyes, Oh God, what were my sensations, when in the features of the holy father, I discovered Angelo! His image faded like a vision from my sight, and I sunk at his feet. On recovering I found myself on my matrass attended by a sister, who I discovered by her conversation had no suspicion of the occasion of my disorder. Indisposition confined me to my bed for several days; when I recovered, I saw Angelo no more, and could almost have doubted my senses, and believed that an illusion had crossed my sight, till one day I found in my cell a written paper. I distinguished at the first glance the hand writing of Angelo, that well known hand which had so often a|wakened me to other emotions. I trembled at the sight; my beating heart acknowledged the beloved characters; a cold tremor shook my frame, and half breathless I seized the paper. But recollecting my|self, I paused—I hesitated: duty at length yielded to the strong temptation, and I read the lines. Oh! those lines! prompted by despair, and bathed in my tears! every word they offered gave a new pang to my heart, and swelled its anguish almost beyond endurance. I learned that Angelo, severely wounded in a foreign

engagement, had been left for dead upon the field I that his life was saved by the humanity of a common soldier of the enemy, who perceiving signs of existence conveyed him to a house. Assistance was soon pro|cured, but his wounds exhibited the most alarming symptoms. During several months he languished be|tween life and death, till at length his youth and con|stitution surmounted the conflict, and he returned to Naples. Here he saw my brother, whose distress and astonishment at beholding him occasioned a relation of past circumstances, and of the vows I had taken in con|sequence of the report of his death. It is unnecessary to mention the immediate effect of this narration; the final one exhibited a very singular proof of his attach|ment and despair;—he devoted himself to a monastie life, and chose this abbey for the place of his residence, because it contained the object most dear to his affec|tions. His letter informed me that he had purposely avoided discovering himself, endeavouring to be con|tented with the opportunities which occurred of silent|ly observing me, till chance had occasioned the fore|going interview.—But that since its effects had been so mutually painful, he would relieve me from the ap|prehension of a similar distress, by assuring me, that I should see him no more. He was faithful to his pro|mise; from that day I have never seen him, and an even ignorant whether he yet inhabits this asylum▪ the efforts of religious fortitude, and the just fear of exciting surprise, having withheld me from inquiry. But the moment of our last interview has been equal|ly fatal to my peace and to my health, and I trust I shall ere very long be released from the agonizing in|effectual struggles occasioned by the consciousness of sacred vows imperfectly performed, and by earthly af|fections not wholly subdued."

Cornelia ceased, and Julia, who had listened to the narrative in deep attention, at once admired, loved, and pitied her. As the sister of Hippolitus, her heart expanded towards her, and it was now inviola|bly attached by the fine ties of sympathetic sorrow. Similarity of sentiment and suffering, united them in the firmest bonds of friendship; and thus, from reci|procation of thought and feeling, flowed a pure and sweet consolation.

Julia loved to indulge in the mournful pleasure of conversing of Hippolitus, and when thus engaged, the hours crept unhe••ded by. A thousand questions she repeated concerning him, but to those most inter|esting to her, she received no consolatory answer. Cornelia, who had heard of the fatal transaction at the castle of Mazzini, deplored with her its too certain consequence.

CHAPTER X.

JULIA accustomed herself to walk in the fine even|ings under the shade of the high trees that environed the abbey. The dewy coolness of the air refreshed her. The innumerable roseat tints which the parting sun-beams reflected on the rocks above, and the fine vermeil glow diffused over the romantic scene beneath, softly fading from the eye, as the night-shades fell, excited sensations of a sweet and tranquil nature, and soothed her into a temporary forgetfulness of her sor|rows.

The deep solitude of the place subdued her appre|hension, and one evening she ventured with Madame de Menon to lengthen her walk. They returned to

the abbey without having seen a human being, except a friar of the monastery, who had been to a neighbour|ing town to order provision. On the following even|ing they repeated their walk; and engaged in conver|sation, rambled to a considerable distance from the abbey. The distant bell of the monastery sounding for vespers, reminded them of the hour, and looking round, they perceived the extremity of the wood. They were returning towards the abbey, when struck by the appearance of some majestic columns which were distinguishable between the trees, they paused. Curiosity tempted them to examine to what edifice pillars of such magnificent architecture could belong in a scene so rude, and they went on.

There appeared on a point of rock impending over the valley, the reliques of a palace, whose beauty time had impaired only to heighten its sublimity. An arch of singular magnificence remained almost entire, be|yond which appeared wild cliffs retiring in grand per|spective. The sun, which was now setting, threw a trembling lustre upon the ruins, and gave a finishing effect to the scene. They gazed in mute wonder upon the view; but the fast fading light, and the dewy chill|ness of the air warned them to return. As Julia gave a last look to the scene, she perceived two men leaning upon a part of the ruin at some distance, in earnest conversation. As they spoke, their looks were so at|tentively bent on her, that she could have no doubt she was the subject of their discourse. Alarmed at this circumstance, Madame and Julia immediately retreat|ed towards the abbey. They walked swiftly through the woods, whose shades, deepened by the gloom of evening, prevented their distinguishing whether they were pursued. They were surprised to observe the distance to which they had strayed from the monaste|ry,

whose dark towers were now obscurely seen rising among the trees that closed the perspective. They had almost reached the gates, when on looking back, they perceived the same men slowly advancing, with|out any appearance of pursuit, but clearly as if observ|ing the place of their retreat.

This incident occasioned Julia much alarm. She could not but believe that the men whom she had seen were spies of the marquis:—if so, her asylum was discovered, and she had every thing to apprehend. Madame now judged it necessary to the safety of Julia, that the Abate should be informed of her story, and of the sanctuary she had sought in his monastery, and al|so that he should be solicited to protect her from pa|rental tyranny. This was a hazardous, but a necessa|ry step to provide against the certain danger which must ensue, should the marquis, if he demanded his daugh|ter of the Abate, be the first to acquaint him with her story. If she acted otherwise, she feared that the Abate in whose generosity she had not confided, and whose pity she had not solicited, would, in the pride of his resentment, deliver her up, and thus would she become a certain victim to the duke de Luovo.

Julia approved of this communication, though she trembled for the event: and requested Madame to plead her cause with the Abate. On the following morning, therefore, Madame solicited a private audi|ence of the Abate; she obtained permission to see him, and Julia in trembling anxiety, watched her to the door of his apartment. The conference was long, and every moment seemed an hour to Julia, who, in fearful expectation, awaited with Cornelia the sentence which would decide her destiny. She was now the constant companion of Cornelia, whose declining,

health interested her pity, and strengthened her at|tachment.

Meanwhile Madame developed to the Abate the dis|tressful story of Julia. She praised her virtues, com|mended her accomplishments, and deplored her situa|tion. She described the characters of the marquis and the duke, and concluded with pathetically repre|senting, that Julia had sought in this monastery, a last asylum from injustice and misery, and with entreating that the Abate would grant her his pity and pro|tection.

The Abate during this discourse preserved a sullen silence; his eyes were bent to the ground, and his as|pect was thoughtful and solemn. When Madame ceased to speak, a pause of prosound silence ensued, and she sat in anxious expectation. She endeavoured to anticipate in his countenance the answer preparing, but she derived no comfort from thence. At length raising his head, and awakening from his deep reverie, he told her that her request required deliberation, and that the protection she solicited for Julia, might in|volve him in serious consequences, since from a cha|racter so determined as the marquis's, much violence might reasonably be expected. "Should his daugh|ter be refused him," concluded the Abate, "he may even dare to violate the sanctuary."

Madame shocked by the stern indifference of this reply, was a moment silent. The Abate went on. "Whatever I shall determine upon, the young lady has reason to rejoice that she is admitted into this holy house; for I will even now venture to assure her, that if the marquis fails to demand her, she shall be permitted to remain in this sanctuary unmolested. You, Madam, will be sensible of this indulgence, and of the value of the sacrifice I make in granting it;

for in thus concealing a child from her parent, I en|courage her in disobedience, and consequently sacrifice my sense of duty, to what may be justly called a weak humanity."

Madame listened to this pompous declamation in silent sorrow and indignation. She made another ef|fort to interest the Abate in favour of Julia, but he preserved his stern inflexibility, and repeating that he would deliberate upon the matter, and acquaint her with the result, he arose with great solemnity, and quitted the room.

She now half repented of the confidence she had re|posed in him, and of the pity she had solicited, since he discovered a mind incapable of understanding the first, and a temper inaccessible to the influence of the latter. With an heavy heart she returned to Julia, who read in her countenance, at the moment she enter|ed the room, news of no happy import. When Ma|dame related the particulars of the conference, Julia presaged from it only misery, and giving herself up for lost—she burst into tears. She severely deplored the confidence she had been induced to yield; for she now saw herself in the power of a man, stern and unfeel|ing in his nature; and from whom, if he thought it fit to betray her, she had no means of escaping. But she concealed the anguish of her heart; and to console Madame, affected to hope where she could only des|pair.

Several day ••apsed, and no answer was returned from the Abate. Julia too well understood this silence.

One morning Cornelia entering her room with a disturbed and impatient air, informed her that some emissaries from the marquis were then in the monastery,

having inquired at the gate for the Abate, with whom, they said, they had business of importance to transact. The Abate had granted them immediate audience, and they were now in close conference.

At this intelligence the spirits of Julia forsook her; she trembled, grew pale, and stood fixed in mute des|pair. Madame, though scarcely less distressed, retain|ed a presence of mind. She understood too justly the character of the Superior, to doubt that he would he|sitate in delivering Julia to the hands of the marquis. On this moment, therefore, turned the crisis of her fate!—this moment she might escape—the next she was a prisoner. She therefore advised Julia to seize the instant, and fly from the monastery before the con|ference was concluded, when the gates would most probably be closed upon her, assuring her, at the same time, she would accompany her in flight.

The generous conduct of Madame called tears of gratitude into the eyes of Julia, who now awoke from the state of stupefaction which distress had caused. But before she could thank her faithful friend, a nun entered the room with a summons for Madame to at|tend the Abate immediately. The distress which this message occasioned cannot easily be conceived. Madame advised Julia to escape while she detained the Abate in conversation, as it was not probable that he had yet issued orders for her detention. Leaving her to this attempt, with an assurance of following her from the abbey as soon as possible, Madame obeyed the sum|mons. The coolness of her fortitude forsook her as she approached the Abate's apartment, and she be|came less certa•• as to the occasion of this summons.

The Abate was alone. His countenance was pale with anger, and he was pacing the room with slow but agitated steps. The stern authority of his look

••tartled her. "Read this letter," said he, stretching forth his hand which held a letter, "and tell me what that mortal deserves, who dares insult our holy order, and se•• our sacred prerogative at defiance," Madame distinguished the hand writing of the marquis, and the word•• of the Superior threw h••r into the utmost asto|nishment. She took the letter. It was dictated by that spirit of proud vindictive rage, which so strongly marked the character of the marquis. Having dis|covered the retreat of Julia, and believing the monastery afforded her a willing sanctuary from his pursuit, he accused the Abate of encouraging his child in open re|bellion to his will. He loaded him and his sacred or|der with opprobrium, and threatened, if she was not immediately resigned to the emissaries in waiting, he would in person lead on a force which should compel the church to yield to the superior authority of the father.

The spirit of the Abate was roused by this menace; and Julia obtained from his pride, that protection which neither his principle nor his humanity would have granted. "The man shall tremble," cried he, "who dares defy our power, or question our sacred authority. The lady Julia is safe. I will protect her from this proud invader of our rights, and teach him at least to venerate the power he cannot conquer. I have dis|patched his emissaries with my answer."

These words struck sudden joy upon the heart of Madame de Menon, but she instantly recollected, that ere this time Julia had quitted the abbey, and thus the very precaution which was meant to ensure her safety, had probably precipitated her into the hand of her enemy. This thought changed her joy to anguish; and she was hurrying from the apartment in a sort of ••ild hope, that Julia might not yet be gone, when

the stern voice of the Abate arrested her. "Is it thus," cried he, "that you receive the knowledge of our generous resolution to protect your friend? Does such condescending kindness merit no thanks—demand no gratitude?" Madame returned in an agony of fea••, lest one moment of delay might prove fatal to Julia, if happily she had not yet quitted the monastery. She was conscious of her deficiency in apparent gra|titude, and of the strange appearance of her abrupt departure from the Abate, for which it was impossible to apologize, without betraying the secret, which would kindle all his resentment. Yet some atonement his present anger demanded, and these circumstances caused her a very painful embarrassment. She formed a hasty excuse; and expressing her sense of his good|ness, again attempted to retire, when the Abate frown|ing in deep resentment, his features inflamed with pride, arose from his seat. "Stay," said he, "whence this impatience to fly from the presence of a benefac|tor!—If my generosity fail to excite gratitude, my resentment shall not fail to inspire awe.—Since the lady Julia is insensible of my condescension, she is un|worthy of my protection, and I will resign her to the tyrant who demands her."

To this speech, in which the offended pride of the Abate overcoming all sense of justice, accused and threatened to punish Julia for the fault of her friend, Madame listened in dreadful impatience. Every word that detained her struck torture to her heart, but the concluding sentence occasioned new terror, and she started at its purpose. She fell at the feet of the Abate in an agony of grief. "Holy father," said she, "punish not Julia for the offence which I only have committed; her heart will bless her generous

protector, and for myself, suffer me to assure you that I am fully sensible of your goodness."

"If this is true," said the Abate, "arise, and bid the lady Julia attend me." This command increased the confusion of Madame, who had no doubt that her detention had proved fatal to Julia. At length she was suffered to depart, and to her infinite joy found Julia in her own room. Her intention of escaping had yielded immediately after the departure of Ma|dame, to the fear of being discovered by the marquis's people. This fear had been confirmed by the report of Cornelia, who informed her, that at that time se|veral horsemen were waiting at the gates for the return of their companions. This was a dreadful circum|stance to Julia, who perceived it was utterly impossible to quit the monastery, without rushing upon certain destruction. She was lamenting her destiny, when Madame recited the particulars of the late interview, and delivered the summons of the Abate.

They had now to dread the effect of that tender anxiety, which had excited his resentment; and Julia suddenly elated to joy by his first determination, was as suddenly sunk to despair by his last. She trembled with apprehension of the common interview, though each moment of delay, which her fear solicited, would by heightening the resentment of the Abate, only in|crease the danger she dreaded.

At length by a strong effort she reanimated her spi|rits, and went to the Abate's closet to receive her sen|tence. He was seated in his chair, and his frowning aspect chilled her heart. "Daughter," said he, "you have been guilty of heinous crimes. You have dared to dispute—nay, openly to rebel, against the lawful authority of your father. You have disobeyed the

will of him whose prerogative yields only to ours. You have questioned his right upon a point of all others the most decided—the right of a father to dis|pose of his child in marriage. You have even fled from his protection—and you have dared—insidiously, and meanly have dared, to screen your disobedience beneath this sacred roof. You have profaned our sanctuary with your crime. You have brought insult upon our sacred order, and have caused bold and im|pious defiance of our high prerogative. What punish|ment is adequate to guilt like this?"

The father paused—his eyes sternly fixed on Julia, who pale and trembling, could scarcely support her|self, and who had no power to reply. "I will be merciful, and not just," resumed he,—"I will soften the punishment you deserve, and will only deliver you to your father." At these dreadful words, Julia bursting into tears, sunk at the feet of the Abate, to whom she raised her eyes in supplicating expression, but was unable to speak. He suffered her to remain in this posture. "Your duplicity," he resumed, "is not the least of your offences. Had you relied upon our generosity for forgiveness and protection, an in|dulgence might have been granted;—but under dis|guise of virtue you concealed your crimes, and your necessities were hid beneath the mask of devotion."

These false aspersions roused in Julia the spirit of indignant virtue; she arose from her knees with an air of dignity, that struck even the Abate. "Holy father," said she, "my heart abhors the crime you mention, and disclaims all union with it. Whatever are my offences—from the sin of hypocrisy I am at least free; and you will pardon me if I remind you, that my confidence has already been such, as fully

justifies my claim to the protection I solicit. When I sheltered myself within these walls, it was to be pre|sumed that they would protect me from injustice; and with what other term than injustice would you, Sir, distinguish the conduct of the marquis, if the fear of his power did not overcome the dictates of truth?"

The Abate felt the full force of this reproof; but disdaining to appear sensible to it, restrained his resent|ment. His wounded pride thus exasperated, and all the malignant passions of his nature thus called into action, he was prompted to that cruel surrender which he had never before seriously intended. The offence which Madame de Menon had unintentionally given, his haughty spirit urged him to retaliate in punishment. He had, therefore, pleased himself with exciting a terror which he never meant to confirm, and he re|solved to be further solicited for that protection which he had already determined to grant. But this re|proof of Julia touched him where he was most con|scious of defect; and the temporary triumph which he imagined it afforded her, kindled his resentment into flame. He mused in his chair, in a fixed atti|tude.—She saw in his countenance the deep workings of his mind—she revolved the fate preparing for her, and stood in trembling anxiety to receive her sentence. The Abate considered each aggravating circumstance of the marquis's menace, and each sentence of Julia's speech; and his mind experienced, that vice is not only inconsistent with virtue, but with itself—for to gratify his malignity, he now discovered that it would be necessary to sacrifice his pride—since it would be im|possible to punish the object of the first, without deny|ing himself the gratification of the former. This

reflexion suspended his mind in a state of torture, and he sat wrapt in gloomy silence.

The spirit which lately animated Julia, had vanished with her words—each moment of silence increased her apprehension; the deep brooding of his thoughts con|firmed her in the apprehension of evil, and with all the artless eloquence of sorrow, she endeavoured to soften him to pity. He listened to her pleadings in sullen stillness. But each instant now cooled the fer|vour of his resentment to her, and increased his desire of opposing the marquis. At length the predominant feature of his character resumed its original influence, and overcame the workings of subordinate passion. Proud of his religious authority, he determined never to yield the prerogative of the church to that of the father, and resolved to oppose the violence of the mar|quis with equal force.

He therefore condescended to relieve Julia from her terrors, by assuring her of his protection: but he did this in a manner so ungracious, as almost to destroy the gratitude which the promise demanded. She hastened with the joyful intelligence to Madame de Menon, who wept over her, tears of thankfulness.

CHAPTER XI.

NEAR a fortnight had elapsed without producing an appearance of hostility from the marquis, when one night, long after the hour of repose, Julia was awakened by the bell of the monastery. She knew it was not the hour customary for prayer, and she listened to the sounds, which rolled through the deep silence of the fabric, with strong surprise and terror. Presently

she heard the doors of several cells creak on their hinges, and the sound of quick foot-steps in the pas|sages—and through the crevices of her door she dis|tinguished passing lights. The whispering noise of steps encreased, and every person of the monastery seemed 〈◊〉〈◊〉 awakened. Her terror heightened; it occurred to ••er that the marquis had surrounded the abbey with his people, in the design of forcing her from her retreat; and she arose in haste, with an inten|tion of going to the chamber of Madame de Menon, when she heard a gentle tap at the door. Her in|quiry of who was there, was answered in the voice of Madame, and her fears were quickly dissipated, for she learned the bell was a summons to attend a dying nun, who was going to the high altar, there to receive ex|treme unction.

She quitted the chamber with Madame. In her way to the church, the gleam of tapers on the walls, and the glimpse which her eye often caught of the friars in their long black habits, descending silently through the narrow winding passages, with the solemn toll of the bell, conspired to kindle imagination, and to im|press her heart with sacred awe. But the church ex|hibited a scene of solemnity, such as she had never before witnessed. Its gloomy aisles were imperfectly seen by the rays of tapers from the high altar, which shed a solitary gleam over the remote parts of the fabric, and produced large masses of ••ght and shade, striking and sublime in their effect.

While she gazed, she heard a distant chanting rise through the aisles; the sounds swelled in 〈◊〉〈◊〉 murmurs on the ear, and drew nearer and nearer, till a sudden blaze of light issued from one of the portals, and the procession entered. The organ instantly founded a high

and solemn peal, and the voices rising altogether, swelled the sacred strain. In front appeared the Padre Abate, with slow and measured steps, bearing the holy cross. Immediately followed a litter, on which lay the dying person covered with a white veil, borne along, and surrounded by nuns veiled in white, each carrying in her hand a lighted taper. Last came the friars, two and two, clothed in black, and each bearing a light.

When they reached the high altar the bier was rested, and in a few moments the anthem ceased. The Abate now approached to perform the unction; the veil of the dying nun was lifted—and Julia discovered her beloved Cornelia! Her countenance was already im|pressed with the image of death, but her eyes bright|ened with a faint gleam of recollection, when they fixed upon Julia, who felt a cold thrill run through her frame, and leaned for support on Madame. Julia now for the first time distinguished the unhappy lover of Cornelia, on whose features was depictured the an|guish of his heart, and who hung pale and silent over the bier. The ceremony being finished, the anthem struck up; the bier was lifted, when Cornelia faintly moved her hand, and it was again rested upon the steps of the altar. In a few minutes the music ceased; when lifting her heavy eyes to her lover, with an ex|pression of ineffable tenderness and grief, she attempted to speak, but the sounds died on her closing lips. A faint smile passed over her countenance, and was suc|ceeded by a fine devotional glow; she folded her hands upon her bosom, and with a look of meek resignation, raising towards heaven her eyes, in which now sunk the last sparkles of expiring life—her soul departed in a short deep sigh.

Her lover sinking back, endeavoured to conceal his emotions, but the deep sobs which agitated his breast, betrayed his anguish, and the tears of every spectator bedewed the sacred spot where beauty, sense, and in|nocence expired.

The organ now swelled in mournful harmony; and the voices of the assembly chanted in choral strain, a low and solemn requiem to the spirit of the departed.

Madame hurried Julia, who was almost as lifeless as her departed friend, from the church. A death so sudden, heightened the grief which separation would otherwise have occasioned. It was the nature of Cor|nelia's disorder, to wear a changeful but flattering as|pect. Though she had long been declining, her decay was so gradual and imperceptible, as to lull the appre|hension of her friends into security. It was otherwise with herself; she was conscious of the change, but for|bore to afflict them with the knowledge of the truth. The hour of her dissolution was sudden, even to her|self; but it was composed, and even happy. In the death of Cornelia, Julia seemed to mourn again tha•• of Hippolitus. Her decease appeared to dissolve the last tie which connected her with his memory.

In one of the friars of the convent, Madame was surprised to find the father who had confessed the dy|ing Vincent. His appearance revived the remem|brance of the scene she had witnessed at the castle of Mazzini; and the last words of Vincent, combined with the circumstances which had since occurred, re|newed all her curiosity and astonishment. But his ap|pearance excited more sensations than those of wonder. She dreaded, lest he should be corrupted by the mar|quis, to whom he was known, and thus be induced to use his interest with the Abate, for the restoration of Julia.

From the walls of the monastery, Julia now never ventured to stray. In the glooms of evening she some|times stole into the cloisters, and often lingered at the grave of Cornelia, where she wept for Hippolitus, as well as for her friend. One evening, during vespers, the bell of the convent was suddenly rang out; the Abate, whose countenance expressed at once astonish|and displeasure, suspended the service, and quitted the altar. The whole congregation repaired to the hall, where they learned that a friar, retiring to the convent, had seen a troop of armed men advancing through the wood; and not doubting they were the people of the marquis, and were approaching with hostile intention, had thought it necessary to give the alarm. The Abate ascended a turret, and thence discovered through the trees a glittering of arms, and in the succeeding moment a band of men issued from a dark part of the wood, into a long avenue which immediately fronted the spot where he stood. The clattering of hoofs was now distinctly heard; and Julia, sinking with terror, distinguished the marquis heading the troop, which soon after separating into two divisions, surrounded the monastery. The gates were immediately secured; and the Abate, descending from the turret, assembled the friars in the hall, where his voice was soon heard above every other part of the tumult. The terror of Julia made her utterly forgetful of the Padre's promise, and she wished to fly for concealment to the deep ca|verns belonging to the monastery, which wound under the woods. Madame, whose penetration furnished her with a just knowledge of the Abate's character, found|ed her security on his pride. She therefore dissuaded Julia from attempting to tamper with the honesty of a servant who had the ••eys of the vaults, and advised her

to rely entirely on the effort of the Abate's resentment towards the marquis. While Madame endeavoured to sooth her to composure, a message from the Abate, required her immediate attendance. She obeyed, and he bade her follow him to a room which was directly over the gates of the monastery. From thence she saw her father, accompanied by the duke de Luovo; and as her heart died away at the sight, the marquis called furiously to the Abate to deliver her instantly into his hands, threatening, if she was detained, to force the gates of the monastery. At this threat the counte|nance of the Abate grew dark; and leading Julia for|cibly to the window from which she had shrunk back, "Impious menacer!" said he, "eternal vengeance be upon thee! From this moment we expel thee from all the rights and communities of our church. Arrogant and daring as you are, your threats I defy." "Look here," said he, pointing to Julia, "and learn that you you are in my power; for if you dare to violate these sacred walls, I will proclaim aloud in the face of day, a secret which shall make your heart's blood run cold; a secret which involves your honour, nay, your very existence. Now triumph and exult in impious me|nace!" The marquis started involuntarily at this speech, and his features underwent a sudden change, but he endeavoured to recover himself, and to conceal his confusion. He hesitated for a few moments, uncer|tain how to act—to desist from violence was to confess himself conscious of the threatening secret▪ yet he dreaded to inflame the resentment of the Abate, whose menaces his own heart too surely seconded. At length —"All that you have uttered," said he, "I despise as the dastardly subterfuge of monkish cunning. Your new insults add to the desire of recovering my daughter,

and that of punishing you; I would proceed to instant violence, but that would now be an imperfect revenge. I shall therefore withdraw my forces, and appeal to a higher power. Thus shall you be compelled at once to restore my daughter, and retract your scandalous impeachment of my honour." Saying this, he turned his horse from the gates, and his people following him, quickly withdrew, leaving the Abate exulting in con|quest, and Julia lost in astonishment and doubtful joy. When she recounted to Madame the particulars of the conference, she dwelt with emphasis on the threats of the Abate; but Madame, though her amazement was heightened at every word, very well understood how the secret, whatever it was, had been obtained. The confessor of Vincent she had already observed in the monastery, and there was no doubt that he had disclosed whatever could be collected from the dying words of Vincent. She knew, also, that the secret would never be published, unless as a punishment for immediate violence, it being one of the first principles of a monastic duty, to observe a religious secrecy upon all matters intrusted to them in confession.

When the first tumult of Julia's emotions subsided, the joy which the sudden departure of the marquis oc|casioned, yielded to apprehension. He had threatened to appeal to a higher power, who would compel the Abate to surrender her. This menace excited a just terror, and there remained no means of avoiding the tyranny of the marquis, but by quitting the mo|nastery. She therefore requested an audience of the Abate; and having represented the danger of her present situation, she intreated his permission to depart in quest of a safer retreat. The Abate, who well knew the marquis was wholly in his power, laughed at the repetition of his menaces, and

denied her request, under pretence of his having now become responsible for her to the church. He bade her be comforted, and promised her his protection; but his assurances were given in so distant and haughty a manner, that Julia left him with fears, rather increas|ed than subdued. In crossing the hall, she observed a man hastily enter it from an opposite door. He was not in the habit of the order, but was muffled up in a cloak, and seemed to wish concealment. As she passed he raised his head, and Julia discovered—her father! He darted at her a look of vengeance; but, before she had time even to think, as if suddenly recollecting himself, he covered his face, and rushed by her. Her trembling frame could scarcely support her to the a|partment of Madame, where she sunk speechless upon a chair, and the horror of her look alone spoke the agony of her mind. When she was somewhat recover|ed, she related what she had seen, and her conversation with the Abate. But Madame was lost in equal per|plexity with herself, when she attempted to account for the marquis's appearance. Why, after his late daring menace, should he come secretly to visit the Abate, by whose connivance alone he could have gained admis|sion to the monastery? And what could have influ|enced the Abate to such a conduct? These circum|stances, though equally inexplicable, united to confirm a fear of treachery and surrender. To escape from the abbey was now impracticable, for the gates were con|stantly guarded; and even was it possible to pass them, certain detection awaited Julia without from the marquis's people, who were stationed in the woods. Thus encompassed with danger, she could only await in the monastery the issue of her destiny.

While she was lamenting with Madame her unhap|py state, she was summoned once more to attend the Abate. At this moment her spirits entirely forsook her; the crisis of her fate seemed arrived; for she did not doubt that the Abate intended to surrender her to the marquis, with whom she supposed he had negocia|ted the terms of accommodation. It was some time before she could recover composure sufficient to obey the summons; and when she did, every step that bore her towards the Abate's room, increased her dread. She paused a moment at the door, 'ere she had cour|age to open it; the idea of her father's immediate re|sentment arose to her mind, and she was upon the point of retreating to her chamber, when a sudden step within, near the door, destroyed her hesitation, and she entered the closet. The marquis was not there, and her spirits revived. The flush of triumph was diffused over the features of the Abate, though a shade of un|appeased resentment yet remained visible. "Daugh|ter," said he, "the intelligence we have to communi|cate may rejoice you. Your safety now depends sole|ly on yourself. I give your fate into your own hands, and its issue be upon your head." He paused, and she was suspended in wondering expectation of the coming sentence. "I here solemnly assure you of my protection, but it is upon one condition only—that you renounce the world, and dedicate your days to God." Julia listened with a mixture of grief and as|tonishment. "Without this concession on your part, I possess not the power, had I even the inclination, to protect you. If you assume the veil, you are safe with|in the pale of the church from temporal violence. If you neglect or refuse to do this, the marquis may ap|ply to a power from whom I have no appeal, and I shall be compelled at last to resign you."

"But to ensure your safety, should the veil be your choice, we will procure a dispensation from the usual forms of noviciation, and a few days shall confirm your vows." He ceased to speak; but Julia, agitat|ed with the most cruel distress, knew not what to reply. "We grant you three days to decide upon this matter," continued he, "at the expiration of which, the veil, or the duke de Luovo, awaits you." Julia quitted the closet in mute despair, and repaired to Madame, who could now scarcely offer her the humble benefit of consolation.

Meanwhile the Abate exulted in successful ven|geance, and the marquis smarted beneath the stings of disappointment. The menace of the former was too seriously alarming to suffer the marquis to prosecute violent measures; and he had therefore resolved, by opposing avarice to pride, to soothe the power which he could not subdue. But he was unwilling to entrust the Abate with a proof of his compliance and his fears, by offering a bribe in a letter, and preferred the more humiliating, but safer method, of a private interview. His magnificent offers created a temporary hesitation in the mind of the Abate, who, secure of his advantage, showed at first no disposition to be reconciled, and suf|fered the marquis to depart in anxious uncertainty. After maturely deliberating upon the proposals, the pride of the Abate surmounted his avarice; and he determined to prevail upon Julia effectually to destroy the hopes of the marquis, by consecrating her life to religion. Julia passed the night and the next day in a state of mental torture exceeding all description. The gates of the monastery beset with guards, and the woods surrounded by the marquis's people, made es|cape impossible. From a marriage with the duke,

whose late conduct had confirmed the odious idea which his character had formerly impressed, her heart recoiled in horror, and to be immured for life within the walls of a convent, was a fate little less dreadful. Yet such was the effect of that sacred love she bore the memory of Hippolitus, and such her aversion to the duke, that she soon resolved to adopt the veil. On the following evening she informed the Abate of her determination. His heart swelled with secret joy; and even the natural severity of his manner relaxed at the intelligence. He assured her of his approbation and protection, with a degree of kindness which he had never before manifested, and told her the ceremony should be performed on the second day from the pre|sent. Her emotion scarcely suffered her to hear his last words. Now that her fate was fixed beyond recall, she almost repented of her choice. Her fancy attached to it a horror not its own; and that evil, which, when offered to her decision, she had accepted with little hesitation, she now paused upon in dubious regret; so apt we are to imagine that the calamity most certain, is also the most intolerable!

When the marquis read the answer of the Abate, all the baleful passions of his nature were roused and in|flamed to a degree which bordered upon distraction. In the first impulse of his rage, he would have forced the gates of the monastery, and defied the utmost ma|lice of his enemy. But a moment's reflexion revived his fear of the threatened secret, and he saw that he was still in the power of the Superior.

The Abate procured the necessary dispensation, and preparations were immediately begun for the ap|proaching ceremony. Julia watched the departure of those moments which led to her fate with the calm

fortitude of despair. She had no means of escaping from the coming evil, without exposing herself to a worse; sl•• surveyed it therefore with a steady eye, and no longer shrunk from its approach.

On the morning preceding the day of her consecra|tion, she was informed that a stranger inquired for her at the grate. Her mind had been so long accustomed to the vicissitudes of apprehension, that fear was the e|motion which now occurred; she suspected, yet scarce|ly knew why, that the marquis was below, and hesi|tated whether to descend. A little reflexion deter|mined her, and she went to the parlour—where to her equal joy and surprise she beheld—Ferdinand!

During the absence of the marquis from his castle, Ferdinand, who had been informed of the discovery of Julia, effected his escape from imprisonment and had hastened to the monastery in the design of rescuing her. He had passed the woods in disguise, with much difficulty eluding the observation of the mar|quis's people, who were yet dispersed round the abbey. To the monastery, as he came alone, he had been ad|mitted without difficulty.

When he learned the conditions of the Abate's pro|tection, and that the following day was appointed for the consecration of Julia, he was shocked, and paused in deliberation. A period so short as was this inter|val, afforded little opportunity for contrivance, and less for hesitation. The night of the present day was the only time that remained for the attempt and execu|tion of a plan of escape, which if it then failed of suc|cess, Julia would not only be condemned for life to the walls of the monastery, but would be subjected to what|ever punishment the severity of the Abate, exasperated by the detection, should think fit to inflict. The

danger was desperate, but the occasion was desperate also.

The nobly disinterested conduct of her brother, struck Julia with gratitude and admiration; but des|pair of success, made her now hesitate whether she should accept his offer. She considered that his gene|rosity would most probably involve him in destruction with herself; and she paused in deep deliberation, when Ferdinand informed her of a circumstance which, till now, he had purposely concealed, and which at once dissolved every doubt and every fear. "Hippoli|tus," said Ferdinand, "yet lives." "Lives!" re|peated Julia faintly,—"lives! Oh! tell me where —how."—Her breath refused to aid her, and she sunk in her chair, overcome with the strong and various sen|sations that pressed upon her heart. Ferdinand, whom the grate with-held from assisting her, observed her si|tuation in extreme distress. When she recovered, he informed her that a servant of Hippolitus, sent no doubt by his lord to inquire concerning Julia, had been lately seen by one of the marquis's people in the neighbourhood of the castle. From him it was known that the count de Vereza was living, but that his life had been despaired of; and he was still confined, by dangerous wounds, in an obscure town on the coast of Italy. The man had steadily refused to mention the place of his lord's abode. Learning that the marquis was then at the abbey of St. Augustin, whither he pursued his daughter, the man disappeared from Maz|zini, and had not since been heard of.

It was enough for Julia to know that Hippolitus lived; her fears of detection, and her scruples con|cerning Ferdinand, instantly vanished; she thought only of escape—and the means which had lately ap|peared so formidable—so difficult in contrivance, and

••o dangerous in execution, now seemed easy, certain, and almost accomplished.

They consulted on the plan to be adopted; and agreed, that in attempting to bribe a servant of the monastery to their interest, they should incur a danger too eminent, yet it appeared scarcely practicable to succeed is their scheme without risquing this. After much consideration, they determined to entrust their secret to no person but to Madame. Ferdinand was to contrive to conceal himself to the dead of the night in the church, between which and the monastery were several doors of communication. When the inhabi|tants of the abbey were sunk in repose, Julia might without difficulty pass to the church, were Ferdinand awaiting her, they might perhaps escape either through an outer door of the fabric, or through a window, for which latter attempt Ferdinand was to provide ropes.

A couple of horses were to be stationed among the rocks beyond the woods, to convey the fugitives to a sea-port, whence they could easily pass over to Italy. Having arranged this plan, they separated in the anxious hope of meeting on the ensuing night.

Madame warmly sympathized with Julia in her pre|sent expectations, and was now somewhat relieved from the pressure of that self-reproach, with which the consideration of having withdrawn Julia from a secure asylum, had long tormented her. In learning that Hippolitus lived, Julia experienced a sudden renova|tion of life and spirits. From the languid stupefac|tion which despair had occasioned, she revived as from a dream, and her sensations resembled those of a person suddenly awakened from a frightful vision, whose thoughts are yet obscured in the fear and uncertainty which the passing images have impressed on his fancy. She emerged from despair; joy illumined her counte|nance;

yet she doubted the reality of the scene which now opened to her view. The hours rolled heavily along till the evening, when expectation gave way to fear, for she was once more summoned by the Abate. He sent for her to administer the usual necessary ex|hortation on the approaching solemnity; and having detained her a considerable time in tedious and severe discourse, dismissed her with a formal benediction.

CHAPTER XII.

THE evening now sunk in darkness, and the hour was fast approaching which would decide the fate of Julia. Trembling anxiety now subdued every other sensation; and as the minutes passed, her fears en|creased. At length she heard the gates of the mo|nastery fastened for the night; the bell rang the signal for repose; and the passing footsteps of the nuns told her they were hastening to obey it. After some time, all was silent. Julia did not yet dare to venture forth; she employed the present interval in interesting and affectionate conversation with Madame de Menon, to whom, notwithstanding her situation, her heart bade a sorrowful adieu.

The clock struck twelve, when she arose to depart. Having embraced her faithful friend with tears of mingled grief and anxiety, she took a lamp in her hand and with cautious, fearful steps, descended through the long winding passages to a private door, which opened into the church of the monastery. The church was gloomy and desolate; and the feeble rays of the lamp she bore, gave only light enough to discover its chilling grandeur. As she passed silently along the

••isles, she cast a look of anxious examination around— but Ferdinand was no where to be seen. She paused in timid hesitation, fearful to penetrate the gloomy obscurity which lay before her, yet dreading to return.

As she stood examining the place, vainly looking for Ferdinand, yet fearing to call lest her voice should betray her, a hollow groan arose from a part of the church very near her. It chilled her heart, and she remained fixed to the spot. She turned her eyes a little to the left, and saw light appear through the chinks of a sepulchre at some distance. The groan was repeated—a low murmuring succeeded, and while she yet gazed, an old man issued from the vault with a lighted taper in his hand. Terror new subdued her, and she uttered an involuntary shriek. In the suc|ceeding moment, a noise was heard in a remote part of the fabric; and Ferdinand rushing forth from his con|cealment, ran to her assistance. The old man, who appeared to be a friar, and who had been doing pe|nance at the monument of a saint, now approached. His countenance expressed a degree of surprise and terror almost equal to that of Julia's, who now knew him to be the confessor of Vincent. Ferdinand seized the father, and laying his hand upon his sword, threa|tened him with death if he did not instantly swear to conceal for ever his knowledge of what he then saw, and also assist them to escape from the abbey.

"Ungracious boy!" replied the father in a calm voice, "desist from this language, nor add to the fol|lies of youth the crime of murdering, or terrifying a defenceless old man. Your violence would urge me to become your enemy, did not previous inclination tempt me to be your friend. I pity the distresses of the lady Julia, to whom I am no stranger, and will cheerfully give her all the assistance in my power."

At these words Julia revived, and Ferdinand, re|proved by the generosity of the father, and conscious of his own inferiority, shrunk back. "I have no words to thank you," said he, "or to entreat your pardon for the impetuosity of my conduct; your know|ledge of my situation must plead my excuse." "It does," replied the father, "but we have no time to lose;—follow me."

They followed him through the church to the cloisters, at the extremity of which was a small door, which the friar unlocked.—It opened upon the woods.

"This path," said he, "leads thro' an intricate part of the woods, to the rocks that rise on the right of the abbey; in their recesses you may secrete yourselves till you are prepared for a longer journey. But extinguish your light; it may betray you to the marquis's people, who are dispersed about this spot. Farewell! my chil|dren, and God's blessing be upon ye."

Julia's tears declared her gratitude; she had no time for words. They stepped into the path, and the fa|ther closed the door. They were now liberated from the monastery, but danger awaited them without, which it required all their caution to avoid. Ferdinand knew the path which the friar had pointed out, to be the same that led to the rocks where his horses were stationed, and he pursued it with quick and silent steps. Julia, whose fears conspired with the gloom of night to magnify and transform every object around her, imagined at each step that she took, she perceived the figures of men, and fancied every whisper of the breeze the sound of pursuit.

They proceeded swiftly, till Julia breathless and exhausted could go no farther. They had not rested many minutes, when they heard a rustling among the bushes at some distance, and soon after distinguished a

low sound of voices. Ferdinand and Julia instantly renewed their flight, and thought they still heard voices advance upon the wind. This thought was soon confirmed, for the sounds now gained fast upon them, and they distinguished words which served only to heighten their apprehensions when they reached the extremity of the woods. The moon, which was now up, suddenly emerging from a dark cloud, discovered to them several men in pursuit; and also showed to the pursuers the course of the fugitives. They endea|voured to gain the rocks where the horses were con|cealed, and which appeared in view. These they reached when the pursuers had almost overtaken them —but their horses were gone! Their only remaining chance of escape was to fly into the deep recesses of the rock. They, therefore, entered a winding cave from whence branched several subterraneous avenues, at the extremity of one of which they stopped. The voices of men now vibrated in tremendous echoes through the various and secret caverns of the place, and the sound of footsteps seemed fast approaching. Julia trembled with terror, and Ferdinand drew his sword, determined to protect her to the last. A con|fused volley of voices now sounded up that part of the cave where Ferdinand and Julia lay concealed. In a few moments the steps of the pursuers suddenly took a different direction, and the sounds sunk gradually away, and were heard no more. Ferdinand listened at|tentively for a considerable time, but the stillness of the place remained undisturbed. It was now evident that the men had quitted the rock, and he ventured forth to the mouth of the cave. He surveyed the wilds around as far as his eye could penetrate, and distin|guished no human being; but in the pauses of the wind he still thought he heard a sound of distant

voices. As he listened in anxious silence, his eye caught the appearance of a shadow, which moved upon the ground near where he stood. He started back within the cave, but in a few minutes again ventured forth. The shadow remained stationary; but having watched it for some time, Ferdinand saw it glide along till it disappeared behind a point of rock. He had now no doubt that the cave was watched, and that it was one of his late pursuers whose shade he had seen. He returned, therefore, to Julia, and remained near an hour hid in the deepest recess of the rock; when, no sound having interrupted the profound silence of the place, he at length once more ventured to the mouth of the cave. Again be threw a fearful look around, but discerned no human form. The soft moon-beam stept upon the dewy landscape, and the solemn stillness of midnight wrapt the world. Fear heightened to the fugitives the sublimity of the hour. Ferdinand now led Julia forth, and they passed silently along the shelving foot of the rocks.

They continued their way without farther inter|ruption; and among the cliffs at some distance from the cave, discovered to their inexpressible joy their horses, who having broken their fastenings, had strayed thither, and had now laid themselves down to rest. Ferdinand and Julia immediately mounted; and des|cending to the plains, took the road that led to a small-sea port at some leagues distance, whence they could embark for Italy.

They travelled for some hours through gloomy forests of beech and chesnut; and their way was only faintly illuminated by the moon, which shed a trem|bling lustre through the dark foliage, and which was seen but at intervals, as the passing clouds yielded to the power of her rays. They reached at length the

••kirts of the forest. The grey dawn now appeared, and the chill morning air bit shrewdly. It was with inexpressible joy that Julia observed the kindling at|mosphere; and soon after the rays of the rising sun touching the tops of the mountains, whose sides were yet involved in dark vapours.

Her fears dissipated with the darkness. The sun now appeared amid clouds of inconceivable splendour; and unveiled a scene which in other circumstances Julia would have contemplated with rapture. From the side of the hill, down which they were winding, a vale appeared, from whence arose wild and lofty mountains, whose sides were cloathed with hanging woods, except where here and there a precipice projected its bold and rugged front. Here a few half withered trees hung from the crevices of the rock, and gave a picturesque wildness to the object; there clusters of half seen cot|tages, rising from among tufted groves, embellished the green margin of a stream which meandered in the bottom, and bore its waves to the blue and distant mai••▪

The freshness of morning breathed over the scene, and vivified each colour of the landscape. The bright dew drops hung trembling from the branches of the trees, which at intervals oveshadowed the road; and the sprightly music of the birds saluted the rising day. Notwithstanding her anxiety, the scene diffused a soft complacency over the mind of Julia.

About noon they reached the port, where Ferdinand was fortunate enough to obtain a small vessel; but the wind was unfavourable, and it was past midnight be|fore it was possible for them to embark.

When the dawn appeared, Julia returned to the deck; and viewed with a sigh of unaccountable regret, the receding coast of Sicily. But she observed with high admiration, the light gradually spreading through

the atmosphere, darting a feeble ray over the surface of the waters, which rolled in solemn soundings upon the distant shores. Fiery beams now marked the clouds, and the east glowed with encreasing radiance, till the sun rose at once above the waves, and illumi|nating them with a flood of splendour, diffused gaiety and gladness around. The bold concave of the heavens, uniting with the vast expanse of the ocean, formed a coup d'oeil, striking and sublime. The mag|nificence of the scenery inspired Julia with delight; and her heart dilating with high enthusiasm, she forgot the sorrows which had oppressed her.

The breeze wasted the ship gently along for some hours, when it gradually sunk into a calm. The glaffy surface of the waters was not curled by the lightest air, and the vessel floated heavily on the bosom of the deep. Sicily was yet in view, and the present delay agitated Julia with wild apprehension. Towards the close of day a light breeze sprang up, but it blew from Italy, and a train of dark vapours emerged from the verge of the horizon, which gradually accumu|lating, the heavens became entirely overcast. The evening shut in suddenly: the rising wind, the heavy clouds that loaded the atmosphere, and the thunder which murmured afar off, terrified Julia, and threatened a violent storm.

The tempest came on, and the captain vainly sounded for anchorage: it was deep sea, and the vessel drove furiously before the wind. The darkness was interrupted only at intervals, by the broad expanse of vivid lightnings, which quivered upon the waters, and disclosing the horrible gaspings of the waves, served to render the succeeding darkness more awful. The thunder which burst in tremendous crashes above, the loud roar of the waves below, the noise of the sailors,

and the sudden cracks and groanings of the vessel, conspired to heighten the tremendous sublimity of the scene.

Far on the rocky shores the surges sound, The lashing whirlwinds cleave the vast profound; While high in air, a••id the rising storm, Driving the blast, ••ts Danger's black'ning form.

Julia lay fainting with terror and sickness in the cabin, and Ferdinand though almost hopeless himself, was endeavouring to support her, when a loud and dreadful crash was heard from above. It seemed as if the whole vessel had parted. The voices of the sailors now rose together, and all was confusion and uproar. Ferdinand ran up to the deck, and learned that the main mast, borne away by the wind, had fallen upon the deck, whence it had rolled overboard.

It was now past midnight, and the storm continued with unabated f••ry. For hours the vessel had been driven before the blast; and the captain now de|claring it was impossible she could weather the tempest much longer, ordered the long boat to be in readiness. His orders were scarcely executed, when the ship bulged upon a reef of rocks, and the impetuous waves rushed into the vessel:—a general groan ensued. Fer|dinand flew to save his sister, whom he carried to the boat, which was nearly filled by the captain and most of the crew. The sea ran so high that it appeared impracticable to reach the shore; but the boat had not moved many yards, when the ship went to pieces. The captain now perceived by the flashes of lightning, a high rocky coast at about the distance of half a mile. The men struggled hard at the oars; but almost as often as they gained the summit or a wave, it dashed them back again, and made the labour •• little avail.

After much difficulty and fatigue they reached the coast, where a new danger presented itself. They be|held a wild rocky shore, whose cliffs appeared inacces|sible, and which seemed to afford little possibility of landing. A landing, however was at last effected; and the sailors, after much search, discovered a kind of path-way cut in the rock, which they all ascended in safety.

The dawn now faintly glimmered, and they surveyed the coast, but could discover no human habitation. They imagined they were on the shores of Sicily, but possessed no means of confirming this conjecture. Terror, sickness, and fatigue had subdued the strength and spirit of Julia, and she was obliged to rest upon the rocks.

The storm now suddenly subsided, and the total calm which succceded to the wild tumult of the winds and waves, produced a striking and sublime effect. The air was hushed into a deathlike stillness, but the waves were yet violently agitated; and by the en|creasing light, parts of the wreck were seen floating wide upon the face of the deep. Some sailors who had missed the boat were also discovered clinging to pieces of the vessel, and making towards the shore. On observing this, their shipmates immediately des|cended to the boat; and putting off to sea, rescued them from their perilous situation. When Julia was somewhat re-animated, they proceeded up the country in search of a dwelling.

They had travelled near half a league, when the savage features of the country began to soften, and gradually changed to the picturesque beauty of Sici|lian scenery. They now discovered at some distance a villa, seated on a gentle eminence crowned with woods.

It was the first human habitation they had seen since they embarked for Italy; and Julia, who was almost sinking with fatigue, beheld it with delight. The captain and his men hastened towards it to make known their distress, while Ferdinand and Julia slowly followed. They observed the men enter the villa, one of whom quickly returned to acquaint them with the hospitable reception his comrades had received.

Julia with difficulty reached the edifice, at the door of which she was met by a young cavalier, whose pleasing and intellige•• countenance immediately interested her in his ••••vour. He welcomed the strangers with a benevolent politeness, that dissolved at once every uncomfortable feeling which their situation had excited, and produced an instantaneous easy con|fidence. Through a light and elegant hall, rising into a dome, supported by pillars of white marble, and adorned with busts; he led them to a magnificent vesti|bule, which opened upon a lawn. Having seated them at a table spread with refreshments; he left them, and they surveyed with surprise, the beauty of the adjacent scene.

The lawn, which was on each side bounded by hanging woods, descended in gentle declivity to a fine lake, whose smooth surface reflected the surrounding shades. Beyond appeared the distant country, rising on the left into bold romantic mountains, and on the right, exhibiting a soft and glowing landscape, whose tranquil beauty formed a striking contrast to the wild sublimity of the opposite craggy heights. The blue and distant ocean terminated the view.

In a short time the cavalier returned, conducting two ladies of a very engaging appearance, whom he presented as his wife and sister. They welcomed Julia

with graceful kindness; but fatigue soon obliged her to retire to rest, and a consequent indisposition en|creased so rapidly, as to render it impracticable for her to quit her present abode on that day. The cap|tain and his men proceeded on their way, leaving Ferdinand and Julia at the villa, where she experienced every kind and tender affection.

The day which was to have devoted Julia to a clois|ter, was ushered in at the abbey with the usual cere|monies. The church was ornamented, and all the inhabitants of ••he monastery prepared to attend. The Padre Abate now exulted in the success of his scheme, and anticipated in imagination, the rage and vexation of the marquis, when he should discover that his daugh|ter was lost to him for ever.

The hour of celebration arrived, and he entered the church with a proud firm step, and with a countenance which depictured his inward triumph; he was pro|ceeding to the high altar, when he was told that Julia was no where to be found. Astonishment for a while suspended other emotions,—he yet believed it im|possible that she could have effected an escape, and or|dered every part of the abbey to be searched—not forgetting the secret caverns belonging to the monas|tery, which wound beneath the woods. When the search was over, and he became convinced she was fled; the deep workings of his disappointed passions fer|mented into rage which exceeded all bounds. He denounced the most terrible judgments upon Julia; and calling for Madame de Menon, charged her with having insulting her holy religion, in being accessary to the flight of Julia. Madame endured these re|proaches with calm dignity, and preserved a steady silence; but she secretly determined to leave the

monastery, and seek in another, the repose which she could never hope to find in this.

The report of Julia's disappearance spread rapidly beyond the walls, and soon reached the ears of the marquis, who rejoiced in the circumstance, believing that she must now inevitably fall into his hands.

After his people, in obedience to his orders, had carefully searched the surrounding woods and rocks, he withdrew them from the abbey; and having dis|persed them various ways in search of Julia, he return|ed to the castle of Mazzini. Here new vexation a|waited him, for he now first learned that Ferdinand had escaped from confinement.

The mystery of Julia's flight was now resolved; for it was evident by whose means she had effected it, and the marquis issued orders to his people to secure Ferdinand wherever he should be found.

CHAPTER XIII.

HIPPOLITUS, who had languished under a long and dangerous illness produced by his wounds, but heightened and prolonged by the distress of his mind, was detained in a small town on the coasts of Calabria, and was yet ignorant of the death of Cornelia. He scarcely doubted that Julia was now devoted to the duke, and this thought was at times poison to his heart. After his arrival in Calabria, immediately on the recovery of his senses, he dispatched a servant back to the castle of Mazzini, to gain secret intelligence of what had passed after his departure. The eagerness with which we endeavour to escape from misery,

taught him to encourage a remote and romantic hope, that Julia yet lived for him. Yet even this hope at length languished into despair, as the time elapsed which should have brought his servant from Sicily. Days and weeks passed away in the utmost anxiety to Hippolitus, for still his emissary did not appear; and at last, concluding that he had been either seized by rob|bers, or discovered and detained by the marquis, the count sent off a second emissary to the castle of Maz|zini. By him he learned the news of Julia's flight, and his heart dilated with joy; but it was suddenly checked, when he heard the marquis had discovered her retreat in the abbey of St. Augustin. The wounds which still detained him in confinement now became intolerable. Julia might yet be lost to him for ever. But even his present state of fear and uncertainty was bliss compared with the anguish of despair, which his mind had long endured.

As soon as he was sufficiently recovered, he quitted Italy for Sicily, in the design of visiting the monastery of St. Augustin, where it was possible Julia might yet remain. That he might pass with the secrecy neces|sary to his plan, and escape the attacks of the mar|quis, he left his servants in Calabria and embarked alone.

It was morning when he landed at small port of Sicily, and proceeded towards the abbey of St. Au|gustin. As he travelled, his imagination revolved the scenes of his early love, the distress of Julia, and the sufferings of Ferdinand, and his heart melted at the retrospect. He considered the probabilities of Julia's having found protection from her father in the pity of the Padre Abate; and even ventured to indulge him|self in a flattering, fond anticipation of the moment, when Julia should again be restored to his sight.

He arrived at the monastery, and his grief may easily be imagined, when he was informed of the death of his beloved sister, and of the flight of Julia. He quitted St. Augustin's immediately, without even knowing that Madame de Menon was there, and sat out for a town at some leagues distance, where he de|signed to pass the night.

Absorbed in the melancholy reflexions which the late intelligence excited, he gave the reins to his horse, and journeyed on unmindful of his way. The even|ing was far advanced, when he discovered that he had taken a wrong direction, and that he was bewildered in a wild and solitary scene. He had wandered too far from the road to hope to regain it, and he had beside no recollection of the objects left behind him. A choice of errors only, lay before him. The view on his right hand exhibited high and savage mountains, covered with heath and black fir; and the wild deso|lation of their aspect, together with the dangerous ap|pearance of the path that wound up their sides, and which was the only apparent track they afforded, de|termined Hippolitus not to attempt their ascent. On his left lay a forest, to which the path he was then in led; its appearance was gloomy, but he preferred it to the mountains; and since he was uncertain of its extent, there was a possibility that he might pass it, and reach a village before the night was set in.—At the worst, the forest would afford him a shelter from the winds; and however he might be bewildered in its labyrinths, he could ascend a tree, and rest in security till the return of light should afford him an opportunity of extricating himself. Among the mountains there was no possibility of meeting with other shelter than what the habitation of man afforded, and such a shelter there was little probability of finding. Innumerable dan|gers

also threatened him here, from which he would be secure on level ground.

Having determined which way to pursue, he pushed his horse into a gallop, and entered the forest as the last rays of the sun trembled on the mountains. The thick foliage of the trees threw a gloom around, which was every moment deepened by the shades of evening. The path was uninterrupted, and the count continued to pursue it till all distinction was confounded in the veil of night. Total darkness now made it impossible for him to pursue his way. He dismounted, and fastening his horse to a tree, climbed among the branches, pur|posing to remain there till morning.

He had not been long in this situation, when a con|fused sound of voices from a distance roused his atten|tion. The sound returned at intervals for some time, but without seeming to approach. He descended from the tree, that he might the better judge of the direc|tion whence it came; but before he reached the ground, the noise was ceased, and all was profoundly silent. He continued to listen, but the silence remain|ing undisturbed, he began to think he had been de|ceived by the singing of the wind among the leaves; and was preparing to re-ascend, when he perceived a faint light glimmer through the foliage from afar. The sight revived a hope that he was near some place of hu|man habitation; he therefore unfastened his horse, and led him towards the spot whence the ray issued. The moon was now risen, and threw a checquered gleam over his path sufficient to direct him.

Before he had proceeded far, the light disappeared. He continued however his way as nearly as he could guess, towards the place whence it had issued; and af|ter much toil, found himself in a spot where the trees formed a circle round a kind of rude lawn. The

moonlight discovered to him an edifice which appear|ed to have been formerly a monastery, but which now exhibited a pile of ruins, whose grandeur, heightened by decay, touched the beholder with reverential awe. Hippolitus paused to gaze upon the scene; the sacred stillness of night encreased its effect, and a secret dread, he knew not wherefore, stole upon his heart.

The silence and the character of the place made him doubt whether this was the spot he had been seek|ing; and as he stood hesitating whether to proceed or to return, he observed a figure standing under an arch-way of the ruin; it carried a light in its hand, and passing silently along, disappeared in a remote part of the building. The courage of Hippolitus for a moment deserted him. An invincible curiosity, how|ever, subdued his terror, and he determined to pursue, if possible, the way the figure had taken.

He passed over loose stones through a sort of court, till he came to the arch-way; here he stopped, for fear returned upon him. Resuming his courage, how|ever, he went on, still endeavouring to follow the way the figure had passed, and suddenly found himself in an enclosed part of the ruin, whose appearance was more wild and desolate than any he had yet seen. Seized with unconquerable apprehension, he was re|tiring, when the low voice of a distressed person struck his ear. His heart sunk at the sound, his limbs trem|bled, and he was utterly unable to move.

The sound which appeared to be the last groan of a dying person, was repeated. Hippolitus made a strong effort, and sprang forward, when a light burst upon him from a shattered casement of the building, and at the same instant he heard the voices of men!

He advanced softly to the window, and beheld in a

small room, which was less decayed than the rest of the edifice, a group of men, who from the savageness of their looks, and from their dress, appeared to be ban|ditti. They surrounded a man who lay on the ground wounded, and bathed in blood, and who it was very evident had uttered the groans heard by the count.

The obscurity of the place prevented Hippolitus from distinguishing the features of the dying man. From the blood which covered him, and from the sur|rounding circumstances, he appeared to be murdered; and the count had no doubt that the men he beheld were the murderers. The horror of the scene entire|ly overcame him; he stood rooted to the spot, and saw the assassins rifle the pockets of the dying person, who in a voice scarcely articulate, but which despair seemed to aid, supplicated for mercy. The ruffians answered him only with execrations, and continued their plunder. His groans and his sufferings served only to aggravate their cruelty. They were proceeding to take from him a miniature picture, which was fastened round his neck, and had been hitherto concealed in his bosom; when by a sudden effort he half raised himself from the ground, and attempted to save it from their hands. The effort availed him nothing; a blow from one of the villains laid the unfortunate man on the floor with|out motion. The horrid barbarity of the act seized the mind of Hippolitus so entirely, that forgetful of his own situation, he groaned aloud, and started with an instantaneous design of avenging the deed. The noise he made alarmed the banditti, who looking whence it came, discovered the count through the casement. They instantly quitted their prize, and rushed towards the door of the room. He was now re|turned to a sense of his danger, and endeavoured to es|cape

to the exterior part of the ruin; but terror be|wildered his senses, and he mistook his way. Instead of regaining the arch-way, he perplexed himself with fruitless wanderings, and at length found himself only more deeply involved in the secret recesses of the pile.

The steps of his pursuers gained fast upon him, and he continued to perplex himself with vain efforts at es|cape, till at length, quite exhausted, he sunk on the ground, and endeavoured to resign himself to his fate. He listened with a kind of stern despair, and was sur|prised to find all silent. On looking round, he per|ceived by a ray of moon-light which streamed through a part of the ruin from above, that he was in a sort of vault, which, from the small means he had of judging, he thought was extensive.

In this situation he remained for a considerable time, ruminating on the means of escape, yet scarcely be|lieving escape was possible. If he continued in the vault, he might continue there only to be butchered; but by attempting to rescue himself from the place he was now in, he must rush into the hands of the ban|ditti. Judging it, therefore, the safer way of the two to remain where he was, he endeavoured to await his fate with fortitude, when suddenly the loud voices of the murderers burst upon his ear, and he heard steps advancing quickly towards the spot where he lay.

Despair instantly renewed his vigour; he started from the ground, and throwing round him a look of eager desperation, his eye caught the glimpse of a small door, upon which the moon-beam now fell. He made towards it, and passed it just as the light of a torch gleamed upon the walls of the vault.

He groped his way along a winding passage, and at length came to a flight of steps. Notwithstanding the darkness, he reached the bottom in safety.

He now for the first time stopped to listen—the sounds of pursuit were ceased, and all was silent! Continuing to wander on in ineffectual endeavours to escape, his hands at length touched cold iron, and he quickly perceived it belonged to a door. The door however was fastened, and resisted all his efforts to open it. He was giving up the attempt in despair, when a loud scream from within, followed by a dead and heavy noise, roused all his attention. Silence en|sued. He listened for a considerable time at the door, his imagination filled with images of horror, and ex|pecting to hear the sound repeated. He sought for a decayed part of the door, through which he might discover what was beyond; but he could find none; and after waiting some time without hearing any far|ther noise, he was quitting the spot, when in passing his arm over the door, it struck against something hard. On examination he perceived to his extreme surprise that the key was in the lock. For a moment he hesi|tated what to do; but curiosity overcame other con|siderations, and with a trembling hand he turned the key. The door opened into a large and desolate a|partment, dimly lighted by a lamp that stood on a table, which was almost the only furniture of the place. The count had not advanced several steps before he per|ceived an object, which fixed all his attention. This was the figure of a young woman lying on the floor appar|ently dead. Her face was concealed in her robe; and the long auburn tresses which fell in beautiful luxuri|ance over her bosom, served to veil a part of the glow|ing beauty which the disorder of her dress would have revealed.

Pity, surprise, and admiration struggled in the breast of Hippolitus; and while he stood surveying the ob|ject which excited these different emotions, he heard a

step advancing towards the room. He flew to the door by which he had entered, and was fortunate enough to reach it before the entrance of the persons whose steps he heard. Having turned the key, he stopped at the door to listen to their proceedings. He distinguished the voices of two men, and knew them to be those of the assassins. Presently he heard a piercing shriek, and at the same instant the voices of the ruffians grow loud and violent. One of them exclaimed that the lady was dying, and accused the other of having frightened her to death, swearing with horrid imprecations that she was his, and he would defend her to the last drop of his blood. The dispute grew higher; and neither of the ruffians would give up his claim to the unfortunate object of their altercation.

The clashing of swords was soon after heard, toge|ther with a violent noise. The screams were repeated, and the oaths and execrations of the disputants re|doubled. They seemed to move towards the door, behind which Hippolitus was concealed; suddenly the door was shook with great force, a deep groan followed, and was instantly succeeded by a noise like that of a person whose whole weight falls at once to the ground. For a moment all was silent. Hippo|litus had no doubt that one of the ruffians had des|troyed the other, and was soon confirmed in the be|lief—for the survivor triumphed with brutal exultation over his fallen antagonist. The ruffian hastily quitted the room, and Hippolitus soon after heard the distant voices of several persons in loud dispute. The sounds seemed to come from a chamber over the place where he stood; he also heard a trampling of feet from above, and could even distinguish, at intervals, the words of the disputants. From these he gathered enough to learn that the affray which had just hap|pened,

and the lady who had been the occasion of it, were the subjects of discourse. The voices frequently rose together, and confounded all distinction.

At length the tumult began to subside, and Hippo|litus could distinguish what was said. The ruffians agreed to give up the lady in question to him who had fought for her; and leaving him to his prize, they all went out in quest of farther prey. The situation of the unfortunate lady excited a mixture of pity and indignation in Hippolitus, which for some time en|tirely occupied him; he revolved the means of ex••ri|cating her from so deplorable a situation, and in these thoughts almost forgot his own danger. He now heard her sighs; and while his heart melted to the sounds, the farther door of the apartment was thrown open, and the wretch to whom she had been allotted, rushed in. Her screams now redoubled, but they were of no avail with the ruffian who had seized her in his arms; when the count, who was unarmed, in|sensible to every impulse but that of a generous pity, burst into the room, but became fixed like a statue when he beheld his Julia struggling in the grasp of the ruffian. On discovering Hippolitus, she made a sudden spring, and liberated herself; when, running to him, she sunk lifeless in his arms.

Surprise and fury sparkled in the eyes of the ruffian, and he turned with a savage desperation upon the count; who, relinquishing Julia, snatched up the sword of the dead ruffian, which lay upon the floor, and defended himself. The combat was furious, but Hippolitus laid his antagonist senseless at his feet. He flew to Julia, who now revived, but who for some time could speak only by her tears. The transitions of various and rapid sensations, which her heart experienced, and the strangely mingled emotions of joy and terror that

agitated Hippolitus, can only be understood by expe|rience. He raised her from the floor, and endeavoured to soothe her to composure, when she called wildly upon Ferdinand. At his name the count started, and instantly remembered the dying cavalier, whose coun|tenance the glooms had concealed from his view. His heart thrilled with secret agony, yet he resolved to withhold his terrible conjectures from Julia, of whom he learned that Ferdinand, with herself, had been taken by banditti in the way from the villa which had offered them so hospitable a reception after the ship-wreck. They were on the road to a port whence they designed again to embark for Italy, when this misfortune over|took them. Julia added that Ferdinand had been im|mediately separated from her; and that, for some hours, she had been confined in the apartment where Hippolitus found her. The count with difficulty con|cealed his terrible apprehensions for Ferdinand, and vainly strove to soften Julia's distress. But there was no time to be lost—they had yet to find a way out of the edifice, and before they could accomplish this, the banditti might return. It was also possible that some of the party were left to watch this their abode during the absence of the rest, and this was another circum|stance of reasonable alarm.

After some little consideration, Hippolitus judged it most prudent to seek an outlet through the passage by which he entered; he therefore took the lamp, and led Julia to the door. They entered the avenue, and locking the door after them, sought the flight of steps down which the count had before passed; but having pursued the windings of the avenue a considera|ble time without finding them, he became certain he had mistaken the way. They, however, found ano|ther flight, which they descended, and entered upon

a passage so very narrow and low, as not to admit of a person walking upright. This passage was closed by a door, which on examination was found to be chiefly of iron. Hippolitus was startled at the sight, but on applying his strength found it gradually yield, when the imprisoned air rushed out, and had nearly extinguished the light. They now entered upon a dark abyss; and the door which moved upon a spring, suddenly closed upon them. On looking around they beheld a large vault▪ and it is not easy to imagine their horror on discovering they were in a receptacle for the murdered bodies of the unfortunate people who had fallen into the hands of the banditti.

The count could scarcely support the fainting spirits of Julia; he ran to the door which he endeavoured to open, but the lock are so constructed that it could be moved only on the other side, and all his efforts were useless. He was constrained, therefore, to seek for another door, but could find none. Their situation was the most deplorable that can be imagined: for they were now inclosed in a vault str••wn with the dead bodies of the murdered, and must there become the victims of f••mine, or of the sword. The earth was in several places thrown up, and marked the boundaries of new made graves. The bodies which remained un|buried were probably left either from hurry o•• negli|gence, and exhilated a spectacle too shocking for huma|nity. The sufferings of Hippolitus were increased by those of Julia, who was sinking with horror, and who he endeavoured to support to a part of the vault which fell into •• re••••is—wh••••e stood a bench.

They had 〈◊〉〈◊〉 been long in this situation, when they heard a noise which ••pp••d gradually, and which did not appear 〈…〉〈…〉 from the avenue they had passed.

The noise increased, and they could distinguish voices. Hippolitus believed the murderers were re|turned; that they had traced his retreat, and were coming towards the vault by some way unknown to him. He prepared for the worst—and drawing his sword, resolved to defend Julia to the last. Their apprehension, however, was soon dissipated by a tram|pling of horses, which sound had occasioned his alarm, and which now seemed to come from a court-yard above, extremely near the vault. He distinctly heard the voices of the banditti, together with the moans and supplications of some person, whom it was evi|dent they were about to plunder. The sound ap|peared so very near, that Hippolitus was both shocked and surprised; and looking round the vault, he per|ceived a small grated window placed very high in the wall, which he concluded overlooked the place where the robbers were assembled. He recollected that his light might betray him; and horrible as was the al|ternative, he was compelled to extinguish it. He now attempted to climb to the grate, through which he might obtain a view of what was passing without. This at length he effected, for the ruggedness of the wall afforded him a footing. He beheld in a ruinous court, which was partially illuminated by the glare of torches, a group of banditti surrounding two persons who were bound on horse-back, and who were suppli|cating for mercy.

One of the robbers exclaiming with an oath that this was a golden night, bade his comrades dispatch, add|ing he would go to find Paulo and the lady.

The effect which the latter part of this sentence had upon the prisoners in the vault, may be more easily imagined than described. They were now in total darkness in this mansion of the murdered, without

means of escape, and in momentary expectation of sharing a fate similar to that of the wretched objects around them. Julia overcome with distress and ter|ror, sunk on the ground; and Hippolitus, descending from the grate, became insensible of his own danger in his apprehension for her.

In a short time all without was confusion and up|roar; the ruffian who had left the court returned with the alarm that the lady was fled, and that Paulo was murdered. The robbers quitted their booty to go in search of the fugitive, and to discover the murderer, dreadful vociferations resounded through every recess of the pile.

The tumult had continued a considerable time, which the prisoners had passed in a state of horrible suspence, when they heard the uproar advancing to|wards the vault, and soon after a number of voices shouted down the avenue. The sound of steps quick|ened. Hippolitus again drew his sword, and placed himself opposite the entrance, where he had not stood long, when a violent push was made against the door; it flew open, and a party of men rushed into the vault.

Hippolitus kept his position, protesting he would destroy the first who approached. At the sound of his voice they stopped; but presently advancing, commanded him in the king's name to surrender. He now discovered what his agitation had prevented hi•• from observing sooner, that the men, before him were not banditti, but the officers of justice. They had received information of this haunt of villainy from the son of a Sicilian nobleman, who had fallen into the hands of this banditti and had afterwards escaped from from their power.

The officers came attended by a guard, and were every way prepared to prosecute a strenuous search through these horrible recesses.

Hippolitus inquired for Ferdinand, and they all quitted the vault in search of him. In the court, to which they now ascended, the greater part of the banditti were secured by a number of the guard. The count accused the robbers of having secreted his friend, whom he described, and demanded to have liberated.

With one voice they denied the fact, and were re|solute in persisting that they knew nothing of the per|son described. This denial confirmed Hippolitus in his former terrible surmise; that the dying cavalier whom he had seen, was no other than Ferdinand, and he became furious. He bade the officers prosecute their search, who, leaving a guard over the banditti they had secured, followed him to the room, where the late dreadful scene had been acted.

The room was dark and empty, but the traces of blood were visible on the floor; and Julia, though ig|norant of the particular apprehension of Hippolitus, almost swooned at the sight. On quitting the room, they wandered for some time among the ruins, with|out discovering any thing extraordinary, till, in pass|ing under the arch-way by which Hippolitus had first entered the ruins, their footsteps returned a deep sound, which convinced them that the ground beneath was hollow. On close examination, they perceived by the light of their torch, a trap-door, which with some difficulty they lifted, and discoveved beyond a narrow flight of steps. They all descended into a low winding passage, where they had not been long, when they heard a trampling of horses above, and a loud and sudden uproar.

The officers apprehending that the banditti had overcome the guard, rushed back to the trap-door▪ which they had scarcely lifted, when they heard a clashing of swords, and a confusion of unknown voices. Looking onward, they beheld through the arch, in an inner sort of court, a large party of banditti who were just arrived, rescuing their comrades, and con|tending furiously with the guard.

On observing this, several of the officers sprang for|ward to the assistance of their friends; and the rest, subdued by cowardice, hurried down the steps, letting the trap door fall after them with a thundering noise. They gave notice to Hippolitus of what was passing above, who hurried Julia along the passage in search of some outlet o•• concealment. They could find neither; and had not long pursued the windings of the way, when they heard the trap door lifted, and the steps of persons descending. Despair gave strength to Julia, and winged her flight. But they were now stopped by a door which closed the passage, and the sound of distant voices murmured along the walls.

The door was fastened by strong iron bolts, which Hippolitus vainly endeavoured to draw. The voices drew near. After much labour and difficulty the bolts yielded—the door unclosed—and light dawned upon them through the mouth of a cave, into which they now entered. On quitting the cave they found themselves in the forest, and in a short time reached the borders. They now ventured to stop, and looking back perceived no person in pursuit.

CHAPTER XIV.

WHEN Julia had rested, they followed the track before them, and in a short time arrived at a village where they obtained security and refreshment.

But Julia, whose mind was occupied with dreadful anxiety concerning Ferdinand, became indifferent to all around her. Even the presence of Hippolitus, which but lately would have raised her from misery to joy, failed to soothe her distress. The steady and noble attachment of her brother had sunk deep in her heart, and reflexion only aggravated her affliction. Yet the banditti had steadily persisted in affirming that he was not concealed in their recesses; and this circumstance, which threw a deeper shade over the fears of Hippo|litus, imparted a glimmering of hope to the mind of Julia.

A more immediate interest at length forced her mind from this sorrowful subject. It was necessary to de|termine upon some line of conduct, for she was now in an unknown spot, and ignorant of any place of refuge. The count, who trembled at the dangers which en|vironed her, and at the probabilities he saw of her being torn from him for ever, suffered a consideration of them to overcome the dangerous delicacy which at this mournful period required his silence. He entreated her to destroy the possibility of separation, by con|senting to become his immediately. He urged that a priest could be easily procured from a neighbouring convent, who would confirm the bonds which had so long united their hearts, and who would thus at once arrest the destiny that so long had threatened his hopes.

This proposal, though similar to the one she had before accepted; and though the certain means of

rescuing her from the fate she dreaded, she now turned from in sorrow and dejection. She loved Hippolitus with a steady and tender affection, which was still heightened by the gratitude he claimed as her deli|verer; but she considered it a prophanation of the memory of that brother who had suffered so much for her sake, to mingle joy with the grief which her un|certainty▪ concerning him occasioned. She softened her refusal with a tender grace, that quickly dissipated the jealous doubt arising in the mind of Hippolitus, and encreased his fond admiration of her character.

She desired to retire for a time to some obscure con|vent, there to await the issue of the event, which at present involved her in perplexity and sorrow.

Hippolitus struggled with his feelings and forbore to press farther the suit on which his happiness, and almost his existence now depended. He inquired at the village for a neighbouring convent, and was told that there was none within twelve leagues, but that near the town of Palini, at about that distance, were two. He procured horses, and leaving the officers to return to Palermo for a stronger guard, he, accom|panied by Julia, entered on the road to Palini.

Julia was silent and thoughtful; Hippolitus gra|dually sunk into the same mood, and he often cast a cautious look around as they travelled for some hours along the foot of the mountains. They stopped to dine under the shade of some beech trees; for, fearful of discovery, Hippolitus had provided against the ne|cessity of entering many inns. Having finished their repast, they pursued their journey; but Hippolitus now began to doubt whether he was in the right direction. Being destitute, however, of the means of certainty upon this point, he followed the road before him, which now wound up the side of a steep hill, whence

they descended into a rich valley, where the shepherd's pipe sounded sweetly from afar among the hills. The evening sun shed a mild and mellow lustre over the landscape, and softened each feature with a vermil glow that would have inspired a mind less occupied than Julia's, with sensations of congenial tranquillity.

The evening now closed in; and as they were doubt|ful of the road, and sound it would be impossible to reach Palini that night, they took the way to a village, which they perceived at the extremity of the valley.

They had proceeded about half a mile, when they heard a sudden shout of voices echoed from among the hills behind them; and looking back, perceived faintly through the dusk a party of men on horseback making towards them. As they drew nearer, the words they spoke were distinguishable, and Julia heard her own name sounded. Shocked at this circumstance, she had now no doubt that she was discovered by a party of her father's people, and she sted with Hippolitus along the valley. The pursuers, however, were almost come up with them, when they reached the mouth of a ca|vern, into which she ran for concealment. Hippolitus drew his sword; and awaiting his enemies, stood to defend the entrance.

In a few moments Julia heard the clashing of swords. Her heart trembled for Hippolitus; and she was upon the point of returning to resign herself at once to the power of her enemies, and thus avert the danger that threatened him, when she distinguished the loud voice of the duke.

She shrunk involuntarily at the found, and pursuing the windings of the cavern, fled into its inmost re|cesses. Here sh•• had not been long when the voices sounded through ••he cave, and drew near. It was

now evident that Hippolitus was conquered, and that her enemies were in search of her. She threw round a look of unutterable anguish, and perceived very near, by a sudden gleam of torch-light, a low and deep recess in the rock. The light, which belonged to her purs••ers, grew stronger; and she entered the rock on her knees, for the overhanging crags would not suffer her to pass otherwise; and having gone a few yards, perceived that it was terminated by a door. The door yielded to her touch, and she suddenly found herself in a highly vaulted cavern, which received a feeble light from the moon-beams that streamed through an open|ing in the rock above.

She closed the door, and paused to listen. The voices grew louder, and more distinct, and at last approached so near that she distinguished what was said. Above the rest she heard the voice of the duke. "It is impossible she can have quitted the cavern," said he, "and I will not leave it till I have found her. Seek to the left of that rock, while I examine beyond this point."

These words were sufficient for Julia; she fled from the door across the cavern before her, and having ran a considerable way without coming to a termination, stopped to breathe. All was now still; and as she looked around, the gloomy obscurity of the place struck upon her fancy all its horrors. She imperfectly surveyed the vastness of the cavern in wild amazement, and feared that she had precipitated herself again into the power of banditti, for whom alone this place ap|peared a ••it receptacle. Having listened a long time without hearing a return of voices, she sought to find the door by which she had entered, but the gloom, and vast extent of the cavern, made the endeavour hopeless, and the attempt unsuccessful. Having wandered a considerable time through the v••id,

she gave up the effort, endeavoured to resign herself to her fate, and to compose her distracted thoughts. The remembrance of her former wonderful escape inspired her with confidence in the mercy of God. But Hip|politus and Ferdinand were now both lost to her— lost perhaps for ever—and the uncertainty of their fate gave force to fancy, and poignancy to sorrow.

Towards morning, grief yielded to nature, and Julia sunk to repose. She was awakened by the sun, whose rays darting obliquely through the opening in the rock, threw a partial light across the cavern. Her senses were yet bewildered by sleep, and she started in affright on beholding her situation; as recollection gradually stole upon her mind, her sorrows returned, and she sickened at the fatal retrospect.

She arose, and renewed her search for an outlet. The light, imperfect as it was, now assisted her, and she found a door, which she perceived was not the one by which she had entered. It was firmly fastened; she discovered, however, the bolts and the lock that held it, and at length unclosed the door. It opened upon a dark passage, which she entered.

She groped along the winding walls for some time, when she perceived the way was obstructed. She now discovered that a door interrupted her progress, and sought for the bolts which might fasten it. These she found•• and strengthened by desperation forced them back The door opened, and she beheld in a small room, which received its feeble light from a window above, the pale and emaciated figure of a woman, seat|ed, with half closed eyes, in a kind of elbow chair. On perceiving Julia, she started from her seat, and her countenance expressed a wild surprise. Her features, which were worn by sorrow, still retained the traces of

beauty, and in her air was a mild dignity that excited in Julia an involuntary veneration.

She seemed as if about to speak, when fixing her eyes earnestly and steadily upon Julia, she stood for a moment in eager gaze, and suddenly exclaiming, "My daughter!" fainted away.

The astonishment of Julia would scarcely suffer her to assist the lady, who lay senseless on the floor. A mul|titude of strange imperfect ideas rushed upon her mind, and she was lost in confusion and perplexity; but as she examined the features of the stranger, which were now re-kindling into life, she thought she discovered the resemblance of Emilia!

The lady breathing a deep sigh, unclosed her eyes; she raised them to Julia, who hung over her in speechless astonishment, and fixing them upon her with a tender earnest expression—they filled with tears. She pressed Julia to her heart, and a few moments of exquisite, un|utterable emotion followed. When the lady grew more composed, "Thank heaven!" said she, "my prayer is granted. I am permitted to embrace one of my children before I die. Tell me what brought you hither. Has the marquis at last relented, and allowed me once more to behold you, or has his death dissolved my wretched bondage?"

Truth now glimmered upon the mind of Julia, but so faintly, that instead of enlightening, it served only to encrease her perplexity.

"Is the marquis Mazzini living?" continued the lady. These words were not to be doubted; Julia threw herself at the feet of her mother, and embracing her knees in an energy of joy, answered only in sobs.

The marchioness eagerly inquired after her children. "Emilia is living," answered Julia, "but my dear brother—" "Tell me," cried the marchioness with

quickness. An explanation ensued. When she was informed concerning Ferdinand, she sighed deeply, and raising her eyes to heaven, endeavoured to assume a look of pious resignation; but the struggle of mater|nal feeling was visible in her countenance, and almost overcame her powers of resistance.

Julia gave a short account of the preceding adven|tures, and of her entrance into the cavern; and found to her inexpressible surprise, that she was now in a sub|subterranean abode belonging to the southern build|ings of the castle of Mazzini! The marchioness was beginning her narrative, when a door was heard to un|lock above, and the sound of a footstep followed.

"Fly!" cried the marchioness, "secrete yourself if possible, for the marquis is coming." Julia's heart sunk at these words; she paused not a moment, but re|tired through the door by which she had entered. This she had scarcely done, when another door of the cell was unlocked, and she heard the voice of her fa|ther. Its sounds thrilled her with universal tremor; the dread of discovery so strongly operated upon her mind, that she stood in momentary expectation of see|ing the door of the passage unclosed by the marquis; and she was deprived of all power of seeking refuge in the cavern.

At length the marquis, who came with food, quitted the cell, and re-locked the door, when Julia stole forth from her hiding place. The marchioness again em|braced, and wept over her daughter. The narrative of her sufferings upon which she now entered, entirely dissipated the mystery which had so long enveloped the southern buildings of the castle.

"Oh! why," said the marchioness, "is it my task to discover to my daughter the vices of her father? In relating my sufferings, I reveal his crime••!

It is now about fifteen years, as near as I can guess from the small means I have of judging, since I entered this horrible abode. My sorrows, alas! be|gan not here; they commenced at an earlier period. But it is sufficient to observe, that the passion whence originated all my misfortunes, was discovered by me long before I experienced the more baleful effect of its influence.

"Seven years had elapsed since my marriage, when the charms of Maria de Vellorno, a young lady sin|gularly beautiful, inspired the marquis with a passion as violent as it was irregular. I observed with a deep and silent anguish, the cruel indifference of my lord towards me, and the rapid progress of his passion for another. I severely examined my past conduct, which I am thankful to say presented a retrospect of only blameless actions; and I endeavoured by meek sub|mission, and tender assiduities, to recall that affec|tion which was, alas! gone for ever. My meek sub|mission was considered as marks of a servile and insen|sible mind; and my tender assiduities, to which his heart no longer responded, created only disgust, and exalted the proud spirit it was meant to conciliate.

"The secret grief which this change occasioned, consumed my spirits, and preyed upon my constitution, till at length a severe illness threatened my life. I be|held the approach of death with a steady eye, and even welcomed it as the pass-port to tranquillity; but it was destined that I should linger through new scenes of misery.

"One day, which it appears was the paroxysm of my disorder, I sunk into a state of total torpidity, in which I lay for several hours. It is impossible to de|scribe my feelings, when, on recovering, I found my|self in this hideous abode. For some time I doubted

my senses, and afterwards believed that I had quitted this world for another; but I was not suffered to con|tinue in my error, the appearance of the marquis bringing me to a perfect sense of my situation.

"I now understood that I had been conveyed by his direction to this recess of horror, where it was his will I should remain. My prayers, my supplications were ineffectual; the hardness of his heart repelled my sorrows back upon myself; and as no entreaties could prevail upon him to inform me where I was, or of his reason for placing me here, I remained for many years ignorant of my vicinity to the castle, and of the motive for my confinement.

"From that fatal day, until very lately, I saw the marquis no more—but was attended by a person who had been for some years dependant upon his bounty, and whom necessity, united to an insensible heart, had doubtless induced to accept this office. He generally brought me a week's provisions, at stated intervals, and I remarked that his visits were always in the night.

"Contrary to my expectation, or my wish, nature did that for me which medicine had refused, and I recovered as if to punish with disappointment and anxiety my cruel tyrant. I afterwards learned, that in obedience to the marquis's order, I had been car|ried to this spot by Vincent during the night, and that I had been buried in effigy at a neighbouring church, with all the pomp of funeral honour due to my rank."

At the name of Vincent, Julia started; the doubtful words he had uttered on his death-bed were now ex|plained—the cloud of mystery which had so long in|volved the southern buildings broke at once away; and each particular circumstance that had excited her former terror, arose to her view entirely unveiled by the words of the marchioness—The long and total

desertion of this part of the fabric—the light that had appeared through the casement—the figure she had seen issue from the tower—the midnight noises she had heard—were circumstances evidently dependant on the imprisonment of the marchioness; the latter of which incidents were produced either by Vincent, or the marquis, in their attendance upon her.

When she considered the long and dreadful suffer|ings of her mother, and that she had for many years lived so near her ignorant of her misery, and even her existence—she was lost in astonishment and pity.

"My days," continued the marchioness, "passed in a dead uniformity, more dreadful than the most acute vicissitudes of misfortune, and which would cer|tainly have subdued my reason, had not those firm principles of religious faith, which I imbibed in early youth, enabled me to withstand the still, but forceful, pressure of my calamity.

"The insensible heart of Vincent at length began to soften by my misfortunes. He brought me several articles of comfort, of which I had hitherto been desti|tute, and answered some questions I put to him con|cerning my family. To release me from my present situation, however his inclination might befriend me, was not to be expected, since his life would have paid the forfeiture of what would be termed his duty.

"I now first discovered my vicinity to the castle. I learned also, that the marquis had married Maria de Vellorno, with whom he resided at Naples, but that my daughters were left at Mazzini. This last intelli|gence awakened in my heart the throbs of warm ma|ternal tenderness, and on my knees I supplicated to see them. So earnestly I entreated, and so solemnly I promised to return quietly to my prison, that at length,

prudence yielded to pity, and Vincent consented to my 〈◊〉〈◊〉.

"On the succeeding day he came to the cell, and informed me my children were going into the woods, and that I might see them f••m a window near which they would pass. My nerves thrilled at these words, and I could scarcely support myself to the spot I so eagerly sought. He led me through long and intricate pas|sages, as I guessed by the frequent turnings, for my eyes were bound, till I reached a hall of the south buildings. I followed to a room above, where the full light of day once more burst upon my sight, and al|most overpowered me. Vincent placed me by a win|dow, which looked towards the woods. Oh! what moments of painful impatience were those in which I awaited your arrival!"

"At length you appeared. I saw you—I saw my children—and was neither permitted to clasp them to my heart, or to speak to them! You was leaning on the arm of your sister, and your countenances spoke the sprightly happy innocence of youth.—Alas! you knew not the wretched fate of your mother, who then gazed upon you! Although you were at too great a distance for my weak voice to reach you, with the utmost difficulty, I avoided throwing open the win|dow, and endeavouring to discover myself. The re|membrance of my solemn premise, and that the life of Vincent would be sacrificed by the act, alone restrain|ed me. I struggled for some time with emotions too powerful for my nature, and fainted away.

"On recovering I called wildly for my children, and went to the window—but you were gone! Not all the entreaties of Vincent could for some time re|move me from this station, where I waited in the fond expectation of seeing you again—but you appeared no

more! At last I returned to my cell in an extasy of grief which I tremble even to remember.

"This interview, so eagerly sought, and so re|luctantly granted, proved a source of new misery— instead of calming, it agitated my mind with a restless wild despair, which bore away my strongest powers of resistance. I raved incessantly of my children, and incessantly solicited to see them again—Vincent, how|ever, had found but too much cause to repent of his first indulgence, to grant me a second.

"About this time a circumstance occurred which promised me a speedy release from calamity. Above a week elapsed, and Vincent did not appear. My little stock of provision was exhausted, and I had been two days without food, when I again heard the doors that led to my prison creek on their hinges. An un|known step approached, and in a few minutes the mar|quis entered my cell! My blood was chilled at the sight, and I closed my eyes as I hoped for the last time. The sound of his voice recalled me. His countenance was dark and sullen, and I perceived that he trembled. He informed me that Vincent was no more, and that henceforward, his office, he should take upon himself. I forbore to reproach—where reproach would only have produced new sufferings, and withheld supplica|tion where it would have exasperated conscience and inflamed revenge. My knowledge of the marquis's second marriage I concealed.

"He usually attended me when night might best conceal his visits; though these were irregular in their return. Lately, from what motive I cannot guess, he has ceased his nocturnal visits, and comes only in the day.

"Once when midnight encreased the darkness of my prison, and seemed to render silence even more

awful, touched by the sacred horrors of the hour, I poured forth my distress in loud lamentation. Oh! never can I forget what I felt, when I heard a distant voice answer to my moan! A wild surprise, which was strangely mingled with hope, seized me, and in my first emotion I should have answered the call, had not a recollection crossed me, which blasted at once every half-raised sensation of joy. I remembered the dread|ful vengeance which the marquis had sworn to execute upon me if I ever, by any means, endeavoured to make known the place of my concealment; and though life had long been a burden to me, I dared not to incur the certainty of being murdered. I also well knew that no person who might discover my situation could effect my enlargement; for I had no relations to de|liver me by force, and the marquis, you know, has not only power to imprison, but also the right of life and death in his own domains. I, therefore, forbore to answer the call, though I could not entirely repress my lamentation. I long perplexed myself with en|deavouring to account for this strange circumstance, and am to this moment ignorant of its cause."

Julia remembering that Ferdinand had been con|sined in a dungeon of the castle, it instantly occurred to her that his prison, and that of the marchioness, were not far distant; and she scrupled not to believe that it was his voice which her mother had heard. She was right in this belief, and it was indeed the marchioness whose groans had formerly caused Ferdinand so much alarm, both in the marble hall of the south buildings, and in his dungeon.

When Julia co••municated her opinion, and the marchioness believed that she had heard the voice of her son—her emotion was extreme, and it was some time before she could resume her narration.

"A short time since," continued the marchioness, "the marquis brought me a fortnight's provision, and told me that I should probably see him no more till the expiration of that term. His absence at this pe|riod you have explained in your account of the trans|actions at the abbey of St. Augustin. How can I ever sufficiently acknowledge the obligations I owe to my dear and invaluable friend Madame de Menon! Oh! that it might be permitted me to testify my gratitude."

Julia attended to the narrative of her mother in silent astonishment, and gave all the sympathy which sorrow could demand. "Surely" cried she, "the providence on whom you have so firmly relied, and whose inflictions you have supported with a fortitude so noble, has conducted me through a labyrinth of misfortunes to this spot, for the purpose of delivering you! Oh! let us hasten to fly this horrid abode—let us seek to escape through ••he cavern by which I entered."

She paused, in earnest expectation awaiting a reply. "Whither can I fly?" said the marchioness, deeply sighing. This question spoken with the emphasis of despair, affected Julia to tears, and she was for a while silent.

"The marquis," resumed Julia, "would know not where to seek you, or if he found you beyond his own domains, would fear to claim you. A convent may afford for the present a safe asylum; and what|ever shall happen, surely no fate you may hereafter encounter can be more dreadful than the one you now experience."

The marchioness assented to the truth of this, yet her broken spirits, the effect of long sorrow and con|finement, made her hesitate how to act; and there was a kind of placid despair in her look, which too faith|fully

depictured her feelings. It was obvious to Julia that the cavern she had passed wound beneath the range of mountains on whose opposite side stood the castle of Mazzini. The hills thus rising, formed a screen which must entirely conceal their emergence from the mouth of the cave, and their flight▪ from those in the castle. She represented these circumstances to her mother, and urged them so forcibly, that the lethargy of despair yielded to hope, and the marchioness com|mitted herself to the conduct of her daughter.

"Oh! let me lead you to light and life!" cried Julia with warm enthusiasm. "Surely heaven can bless me with no greater good than by making me the deliverer of my mother!" They both knelt down; and the marchioness with that affecting eloquence which true piety inspires, and with that confidence which had supported her through so many miseries, committed herself to the protection of God, and im|plored his favour on their attempt.

They arose, but as they conversed farther on their plan, Julia recollected that she was destitute of money —the banditti having robbed her of all! The sudden shock produced by this remembrance almost subdued her spirits; never till this moment had she understood the value of money. But she commanded her feel|ings, and resolved to conceal this circumstance from the marchioness, preferring the chance of any evil they might encounter from without, to the certain misery of this terrible imprisonment.

Having taken what provision the marquis had brought, they quitted the cell, and entered upon the dark passage, along which they passed with cautious steps. Julia came first to the door of the cavern, but who can paint her distress when she found it was fas|tened! All her efforts to open it were ineffectual.—

The door which had closed after her, was held by a spring lock, and could be opened on this side only with a key. When she understood this circumstance, the marchioness, with a placid resignation which seemed to exalt her above humanity, addressed herself again to heaven, and turned back to her cell. Here Julia indulged without reserve, and without scruple, the excess of her grief. The marchioness wept over her. "Not for myself," said she, "do I grieve,— I have too long been inured to misfortune to sink under its pressure. This disappointment is intrinsically, perhaps, little—for I had no certain refuge from cala|mity —and had it even been otherwise, a few years only of suffering would have been spared me. It is for you, Julia, who so much lament my fate; and who in being thus delivered to the power of your father, are sacrificed to the duke de Luovo—that my heart swells."

Julia could make no reply, but by pressing to her lips the hand which was held forth to her. She saw all the wretchedness of her situation; and her fearful uncertainty concerning Hippolitus and Ferdi|nand, formed no inferior part of her affliction.

"If," resumed the marchioness, you prefer impri|sonment with your mother, to a marriage with the the duke, you may still secrete yourself in the passage we have just quitted, and share the provision which is brought me."

"O! talk not, madame, of a marriage with the duke," said Julia; "surely any fate is preferable to that. But when I consider that in remaining here, I am condemned only to the sufferings which my mo|ther has so long endured, and that this confinement will enable me to soften, by ••ender sympathy, the as|perity of her misfortunes, I ought to submit to my

present situation with complacency, even did a marri|age with the duke appear less hateful to me."

"Excellent girl!" exclaimed the marchioness, clasping Julia to her bosom; "the sufferings you la|ment are almost repaid by this proof of your goodness and affection! Alas! that I should have been so long deprived of such a daughter!"

Julia now endeavoured to imitate the fortitude of her mother, and tenderly concealed her anxiety for Ferdinand and Hippolitus, the idea of whom incessant|ly haunted her imagination. When the marquis brought food to the cell, she retired to the avenue leading to the cavern, and escaped discovery.

CHAPTER XV.

THE marquis, meanwhile, whose indefatigable search after Julia failed of success, was successively the slave of alternate passions, and he poured forth the spleen of disappointment on his unhappy domestics.

The marchioness, who may now more properly be called Maria de Vellorno, inflamed, by artful insinua|tions, the passions already irritated, and heightened with cruel triumph his resentment towards Julia and Madame de Menon. She represented, what his feel|ings too acutely acknowledged,—that by the obstinate disobedience of the first, and the machinations of the last, a priest had been enabled to arrest his authority as a father—to insult the sacred honour of his nobility— and to overturn at once his proudest schemes of power and ambition. She declared it her opinion, that the Abate was acquainted with the place of Julia's present retreat, and upbraided the marquis with want of spirit in thus submitting to be outwitted by a priest, and for|bearing

an appeal to the pope, whose authority would comp••l the Abate to restore Julia.

This reproach stung to the very soul of the marquis; he felt all its force, and was at the same time conscious of his inability to obviate it. The effect of his crimes now fell in severe punishment upon his own head. The threatened secret, which was no other than the im|prisonment of the marchioness, arrested his arm of vengeance, and compelled him to submit to insult and disappointment. But the reproach of Maria sunk deep in his mind; it fomented his pride into redoubled fury, and he now repelled with disdain the idea of sub|mission.

He revolved the means which might effect his pur|pose —he saw but one—this was the death of the mar|chioness.

The commission of one crime often requires the per|petration of another. When once we enter on the labyrinth of vice, we can seldom return, but are led on through correspondent mazes to destruction. To ob|viate the effect of his first crime, it was now necessary the marquis should commit a second, and conceal the imprisonment of the marchioness by her murder. Him|self the only living witness of her existence, when she was removed, the allegations of the Padre Abate would by this means be unsupported by any proof, and he might then boldly appeal to the pope for the resto|ration of his child.

He mused upon his scheme, and the more he accus|tomed his mind to contemplate it, the less scrupulous he became. The crime from which he would former|ly have shrunk, he now surveyed with a steady eye. The fury of his passions, unaccustomed to resistance, uniting with the force of what ambition termed ne|cessity —urged him to the deed, and he determined up|on

the murder of his wife. The means of effecting his purpose were easy and various; but as he was not yet so entirely hardened as to be able to view her dy|ing pangs, and embrue his own hands in her blood, he chose to dispatch her by means of poison, which he re|solved to mingle in her food.

But a new affliction was preparing for the marquis, which attacked him where he was most vulnerable; and the veil which had so long overshadowed his rea|son was now to be removed. He was informed by Baptista of the infidelity of Maria de Vellorno. In the first emotion of passion, he spurned the informer from his presence, and disdained to believe the circumstance. A little reflexion changed the object of his resentment; he recalled the servant, whose faithfulness he had no reason to distrust, and condescended to interrogate him on the subject of his misfortune.

He learned that an intimacy had for some time sub|sisted between Maria and the cavalier de Vincini; and that the assignation was usually held at the pavillion on the sea shore, in an evening. Baptista farther declar|ed, that if the marquis desired a confirmation of his words, he might obtain it by visiting this spot at the hour mentioned.

This information lighted up the wildest passions of his nature; his former sufferings faded away before the stronger influence of the present misfortune, and it seemed as if he had never tasted misery till now. To suspect the wife upon whom he doated with romantic fondness, on whom he had centered all his firmest hopes of happiness, and for whose sake he had committed the crime which embittered even his present moments, and which would involve him in still deeper guilt—to find her ungrateful to his love, and a traitoress to his ho|nour—produced a misery more poignant than any his

imagination had conceived. He was torn by con|tending passions, and opposite resolutions:—now he resolved to expiate her guilt with her blood—and now he melted in all the softness of love. Vengeance and honour bade him strike to the heart which had betrayed him, and urged him instantly to the deed—when the idea of her beauty—her winning smiles—her fond en|dearments stole upon his fancy, and subdued his heart; he almost wept to the idea of injuring her, and in spite of appearances, pronounced her faithful. The suc|ceeding moments plunged him again in uncertainty; his tortures acquired new vigour from cessation, and again he experienced all the phrenzy of despair. He was now resolved to end his doubts by repairing to the pavillion; but again his heart wavered in irresolution how to proceed should his fears be confirmed. In the mean time he determined to watch the behaviour of Maria with severe vigilance.

They met at dinner, and he observed her closely, but discovered ••••t the smallest impropriety in her con|duct. Her smiles and her beauty again wound their fascinations round his heart, and in the excess of their influence he was almost tempted to repair the injury which his late suspicions had done her, by confessing them at her feet. The appearance of the cavalier de Vincini, however, renewed his suspicions; his heart throbbed wildly, and with restless impatience he watch|ed the return of evening, which would remove his sus|pence.

Night at length came. He repaired to the pavillion, and secreted himself among the trees that embowered it. Many minutes had not passed, when he heard a sound of low whispering voices steal from among the trees, and foot-steps approaching down the alley. He

stood almost petrified with terrible sensations, and pre|sently heard some persons enter the pavillion. The marquis now emerged from his hiding place; a faint light issued from the building. He stole to the win|dow, and beheld within, Maria and the cavalier de Vincini. Fired at the sight, he drew his sword, and sprang forward. The sound of his step alarmed the cavalier, who, on perceiving the marquis, rushed by him from the pavillion, and disappeared among the woods. The marquis pursued, but could not overtake him; and he returned to the pavillion with an inten|tion of plunging his sword in the heart of Maria, when he discovered her senseless on the ground. Pity now suspended his vengeance; he paused in agonizing gaze upon her, and returned his sword into the scabbard.

She revived, but on observing the marquis, scream|ed and relapsed. He hastened to the castle for assist|ance; inventing, to conceal his disgrace, some pre|tence for her sudden illness, and she was conveyed to her chamber.

The marquis was now not suffered to doubt her in|fidelity, but the passion which her conduct abused, her faithlessness could not subdue; he still doated, with absurd fondness, and even regretted that uncer|tainty could no longer flatter him with hope. It seem|ed as if his desire of her affection encreased with his knowledge of the loss of it; and the very circum|stance which should have roused his aversion, by a strange perversity of disposition, appeared to heighten his passion, and to make him think it impossible he could exist without her.

When the first energy of his indignation was sub|sided, he determined, therefore, to reprove and to pun|ish, but hereafter to restore her to favour.

In this resolution he went to her apartment, and re|prehended her falsehood in terms of just indignation.

Maria de Vellorno, in whom the late discovery had roused resentment, instead of awakening penitence, had exasperated pride without exciting shame, heard the upbraidings of the marquis with impatience, and re|plied to them with acrimonious violence.

She boldly asserted her innocence, and instantly in|vented a story, the plausibility of which might have de|ceived a man who had evidence less certain than his senses to contradict it. She behaved with a haughti|ness the most insolent; and when she perceived that the marquis was no longer to be misled, and that her violence failed to accomplish its purpose, she had re|course to tears and supplications. But the artifice was too glaring to succeed; and the marquis quitted her apartment in an agony of resentment.

His former fascinations, however, quickly returned, and again held him in suspension between love and vengeance. That the vehemence of his passion how|ever, might not want an object, he ordered Baptista to discover the retreat of the cavalier de Vincini, on whom he meant to revenge his lost honour. Shame forbade him to employ others in the search.

This discovery suspended for a while the operations of that fatal scheme, which had before employed the thoughts of the marquis; but it had only suspended— not destroyed them. The late occurrence had anni|hilated his domestic happiness; but his pride now rose to rescue him from despair, and he centered all his fu|ture hopes upon ambition. In a moment of cool re|flexion, he considered that he had derived neither hap|piness nor content from the pursuit of dissipated plea|sures, to which he had hitherto sacrificed every op|posing consideration. He resolved, therefore, to aban|don

the gay schemes of dissipation which had former|ly allured him, and dedicate himself entirely to ambi|tion, in the pursuits and delights of which he hoped to bury all his cares. He therefore became more earnest than ever for the marriage of Julia with the duke de Luovo, through whose means he designed to involve himself in the interests of the state, and determined to recover her at whatever consequence. He resolved without further delay to appeal to the pope; but to do this with safety, it was necessary that the marchio|ness should die; and he returned therefore to the con|sideration and execution of his diabolical purpose.

He mingled a poisonous drug with the food he de|signed for her; and when night arrived, carried it to the cell. As he unlocked the door, his hand trembled; and when he presented the food, and looked conscious|ly for the last time upon the marchioness, who receiv|ed it with humble thankfulness, his heart almost re|lented. His countenance, over which was diffused the paleness of death, expressed the secret movements of his soul, and he gazed upon her with eyes of stiffen|ed horror. Alarmed by his looks, she fell upon her knees to supplicate his pity.

Her attitude recalled his bewildered senses; and en|deavouring to assume a tranquil aspect, he bade her rise, and instantly quitted the cell, fearful of the in|stability of his purpose. His mind was not yet suf|ficiently hardened by guilt to repel the arrows of con|science, and his imagination responded to her power. As he passed through the long dreary passages from the prison, solemn and mysterious sounds seemed to speak in every murmur of the blast which crept along their windings, and he often started and looked back.

He reached his chamber, and having shut the door, surveyed the room in fearful examination. Ideal

forms flitted before his fancy, and for the first time in ••is life he feared to be alone. Shame only with held him from calling Baptista. The gloom of the hour, and the death-like silence that prevailed, assisted the horrors of his imagination. He half repented of the deed, yet deemed it now too late to obviate it; and he threw himself on his bed in terrible emotion. His head grew dizzy, and a sudden faintness overcame him; he hesitated, and a length arose to ring for assist|ance, but found himself unable to stand.

In a few moments he was somewhat revived, and rang his bell; but before any person appeared, he was seized with terrible pains, and staggering to his bed, sunk senseless upon it. Here Baptista, who was the first person that entered his room, found him strug|gling, seemingly in the agonies of death The whole castle was immediately roused, and the confusion may be more easily imagined than described. Emilia amid the general alarm came to her father's room▪ but the sight of him overcame her, and she was carried from his presence. By the help of proper applications the marquis recovered his senses, and his pains had a short cessation.

"I am dying," said he, in a faultering acce••t; "send instantly for the marchioness and my son."

Ferdinand in escaping from the hands of the bandit|ti, it was now seen had fallen into the power of his fa|ther. He had been since confined in an apartment of the castle, and was now liberated to obey the summons. The countenance of the marquis exhibited a ghastly image; Ferdinand, when he drew near the bed, sud|denly shrunk back, overcome with horror. The mar|quis now beckoned his attendants to quit the room, and they were preparing to obey, when a violent noise was heard from without; almost in the same instant

the door of the apartment was thrown open, and the servant who had been sent for the marchioness, rushed in. His look alone declared the horror of his mind, for words he had none to utter. He stared wildly, and pointed to the gallery he had quitted. Ferdinand, seized with new terror, rushed the way he pointed to the apartment of the marchioness. A spectacle of hor|ror presented itself, Maria lay on a couch lifeless, and bathed in blood. A poignard, the instrument of her destruction, was on the floor; and it appeared from a letter which was found on the couch beside her, that she had died by her own hand. The paper con|contained these words:

TO THE MARQUIS DE MAZZINI.

YOUR words have stabbed my heart. No power on earth could restore the peace you have destroyed. I will escape from my torture. When you read this, I shall be no more. But the triumph shall no longer be your's—the draught you have drank was given by the hand of the injured

MARIA DE MAZZINI.

It now appeared that the marquis was poisoned by the vengeance of the woman for whom he had resigned his conscience. The consternation and distress of Fer|dinand cannot easily be conceived: he hastened back to his father's chamber, but determined to conceal the dreadful catastrophe of Maria de Vellorno. This pre|caution, however, was useless; for the servants, in the consternation of terror, had revealed it, and the mar|quis had fainted.

Returning pains recalled his senses, and the agonies he suffered were too shocking for the beholders. Me|dical endeavours were applied, but the poison was too

powerful for antidote. The marquis's pains at length subsided; the poison had exhausted most of its rage, and he became tolerably easy. He waved his hand for the attendants to leave the room; and beckoning to Ferdinand, whose senses were almost stunned by this accumulation of horror, bade him sit down beside him. "The hand of death is now upon me," said he; "I would employ these last moments in revealing a deed, which is more dreadful to me than all the bo|dily agonies I suffer. It will be some relief to me to discover it." Ferdinand grasped the hand of the mar|quis in speechless terror. "The retribution of hea|ven is upon me," resumed the marquis. "My punishment is the immediate consequence of my guilt. Heaven has made that woman the instrument of its justice, whom I made the instrument of my crimes;— that woman for whose sake I forgot conscience, and braved vice—for whom I imprisoned an innocent wife, and afterwards murdered her."

At these words every nerve of Ferdinand thrilled; he let go the marquis's hand, and started back. "Look not so fiercely on me," said the marquis, in a hallow voice; "your eyes strike death to my soul; my conscience needs not this additional pang." "My mother!" exclaimed Ferdinand—"my mother! Speak, tell me"—"I have no breath," said the marquis. "Oh! —Take these keys—the south tower—the trap-door.—"Tis possible—Oh—"

The marquis made a sudden spring upwards, and fell lifeless on the bed. The attendants were called in, but he was gone for ever. His last words struck with the force of lightning upon the mind of Ferdi|nand; they seemed to say that his mother might yet exist. He took the keys; and ordering some of the servants to follow, hastened to the southern building;

he proceeded to the tower, and the trap-door beneath the stair-case was lifted. They all descended into a dark passage, which conducted them through several intricacies to the door of the cell. Ferdinand in trem|bling horrible expectation, applied the key; the door opened, and he entered—but what was his surprise when he found no person in the cell! He concluded that he had mistaken the place, and quitted it for farther search; but having followed the windings of the passage, by which he entered, without discover|ing any other door, he returned to a more exact ex|amination of the cell. He now observed the door whichled to the cavern, and he entered upon the avenue, but no person was found there, and no voice answered to his call. Having reached the door of the cavern, which was fastened▪ he returned lost in grief, and me|ditating upon the last words of the marquis. He now thought that 〈◊〉〈◊〉 mistaken their import, and that the words '•• possible, were not meant to apply to the life of the marchioness. He concluded that the murder had been committed at a distant period; and he resolved, therefore, to have the ground of the cell dug up, and the remains of his mother sought for.

When the first violence of the emotions excited by the late scenes was subsided, he inquired concerning Maria de Vellorno.

It appeared that on the day preceding this horrid transaction, the marquis had passed some hours in her apartment; that they were heard in loud dispute;— that the passion of the Marquis grew high;—that he upbraided her with her past conduct, and threate••ed her with a formal separation. When the marquis quitted her she was heard walking quick through the room, in a passion of tears, she often suddenly stopped in vehement but incoherent exclamation; and at last

threw herself on the floor, and was for some time en|tirely still. Here her woman found her, upon whose en|trance she arose hastily, and reproved her for appearing uncalled. After this she remained silent and sullen.

She descended to supper, where the marquis met her alone at table. Little was said during the repast, at the conclusion of which the servants were dismissed; and it was believed that during the interval between supper, and the hour of repose, Maria de Vellorno contrived to mingle poison with the wine of the marquis. How she had procured this poison was never discovered.

She retired early to her chamber; and her woman observing that she appeared much agitated, inquired if she was ill. To this she returned a short answer in the negative, and her woman was soon afterwards dis|missed. But she had hardly shut the door of the room, when she heard her lady's voice recalling her. She returned, and received some trifling order, and observed that Maria looked uncommonly pale; there was be|sides, a wildness in her eyes which frightened her, but she did not dare to ask any questions. She again quit|ted the room, and had only reached the extremity of the gallery, when her mistress's bell rang. She hastened back. Maria inquired if the ma••quis was gone to bed, and if all was quiet. Being answered in the affirmative, she replied, "This is a still hour, and a dark one!—Good night!"

Her woman having once more left the room, stop|ped at the door to listen; but all within remaining si|lent, she retired to rest.

It is probable that Maria perpetrated the fatal act soon after the dismission of her woman; for when she was found two hours afterwards, she appeared to have been dead some time. On examination, a wound was discovered on her left side, which had doubtless pene|trated

to the heart, from the suddenness of her death, and from the effusion of blood which had followed.

These terrible events so deeply affected Emilia, that she was confined to her bed by a dangerous illness. Ferdinand struggled against the shock with manly for|titude. But amid all the tumult of the present scenes, his uncertainty concerning Julia, whom he had left in the hands of banditti, and whom he had been with|held from seeking or rescuing, formed perhaps the most affecting part of his distress.

The late marquis de Mazzini, and Maria de Vellor|no, were interred with the honour due to their rank in the church of the convent of St. Nicolo. Their lives exhibited a boundless indulgence of violent and luxurious passions, and their deaths marked the conse|quences of such indulgence, and held forth to man|kind a singular instance of divine vengeance.

CHAPTER XVI.

IN turning up the ground of the cell, it was disco|vered that it communicated with the dungeon in which Ferdinand had been confined, and where he had heard those groans which occasioned him so much terror.

The story which the marquis formerly related to his son concerning the southern buildings, it was now evi|dent was fabricated for the purpose of concealing the imprisonment of the marchioness. In the choice of his subject, he certainly discovered some art; for the circumstance related was calculated, by impressing terror, to prevent further inquiry into the recesses of these buildings. It served also to explain by super|natural evidence the cause of those sounds, and of that appearance which had been there observed, but which were in reality occasioned only by the marquis.

The event of the examination in the cell threw Fer|dinand into new perplexity. The marquis had con|fessed that he poisoned his wife—yet her remains were not to be found; and the place which he signi|fied to be that of her confinement, bore no vestige of her having been there. There appeared no way by which she could have escaped from her prison; for both the door which opened upon the cell, and that which terminated the avenue beyond, were fastened when tried by Ferdinand.

But the young marquis had no time for useless spe|culation—serious duties called upon him. He believed that Julia was still in the power of banditti; and on the conclusion of his father's funeral, 〈◊〉〈◊〉 set forward himself to Palermo to give informatio•• 〈◊〉〈◊〉 the abode of the robbers, and to repair with the officers of jus|tice, accompanied by a part of his own people, to the rescue of his sister. On his arrival at Palermo he was informed that a banditti, whose retreat had been among the ruins of a monastery, situated in the forest of Marentino, was already discovered; that their abode had been searched; and themselves secured for examples of public justice—but that no captive lady had been found amongst them. This latter intelli|gence excited in Ferdinand a very serious distress, and he was wholly unable to conjecture her fate. He ob|tained leave, however, to interrogate those of the robbers, who were imprisoned at Palermo, but could draw from them no satisfactory or certain information.

At length he quitted Palermo for the forest of Ma|rentino, thinking it possible that Julia might be heard of in its neighbourhood. He travelled on in melan|choly and dejection, and evening overtook him long before he reached the place of his destination. The night came on heavily in clouds, and a violent storm of wind and rain arose. The road lay through a wild

and rocky country, and Ferdinand could obtain no shelter. His attendants offered him their cloaks, but he refused to expose a servant to the hardship he would not himself endure. He travelled for some miles in a heavy rain; and the wind, which howled mournfully among the rocks, and whose solemn pauses were fill|ed by the distant ro••ings of the sea, heightened the desolation of the scene. At length he discerned amid the darkness from a far, a red light waving in the wind; it varied with the blast, but never totally dis|appeared. He pushed his horses into a gallop, and made towards it.

The flame continued to direct his course; and on a nearer approach, he perceived by the red reflexion of its fires, streaming a long radiance upon the waters beneath—a light-house situated upon a point of rock which over-hung the sea. He knocked for admittance, and the door was opened by an old man, who bade him welcome.

Within appeared a cheerful blazing fire, round which were seated several persons, who seemed like himself to have sought shelter from the tempest of the night. The sight of the fire cheered him, and he ad|vanced towards it, when a sudden scream seized his attention; the company rose up in confusion, and in the same instant he discovered Julia and Hippolitus. The joy of that moment is not to be described, but his attention was quickly called off from his own situ|ation to that of a lady, who during the general trans|port had fainted. His sensat••••ns on learning she was his mother can only be conceived.

She revived. "My son!" said she, in a languid voice, as she pressed him to her heart. "Great God, I am recompensed! Surely this moment may repay a life of misery!" He could only receive her caresses in silence; but the sudden tears which started in his

eyes, spoke a language too expressive to be misunder|stood.

When the first emotion of the scene was passed, Ju|lia inquired by what means Ferdinand had come to this spot. He answered her generally, and avoided for the present entering upon the affecting subject of the late events at the castle of Mazzini. Julia related the history of her adventures since she parted with her brother. In her narration it appeared that Hippoli|tus, who was taken by the duke de Luovo, at the mouth of the cave, had afterwards escaped, and re|turned to the cavern in search of Julia. The low re|cess in the rock, through which Julia had passed, he perceived by the light of his flambeau. He pene|trated to the cavern beyond, and from thence to the prison of the marchioness. No colour of language can paint the scene which followed; it is sufficient to say that the whole party agreed to quit the cell at the re|turn of night. But this being a night on which it was known the marquis would visit the prison, they agreed to defer their departure till after his appearance, and thus elude the danger to be expected from an early discovery of the escape of the marchioness.

At the sound of footsteps above, Hippolitus and Julia had secreted themselves in the avenue; and im|mediately on the marquis's departure they all repaired to the cavern, leaving in the hurry of their flight, un|touched, the poisonous food he had brought. Having escaped from thence they proceeded to a neighbouring village, where horses were procured to carry them to|wards Palermo. Here after a tedious journey they arrived, in the design of embarking for Italy. Con|trary winds had detained them till the day on which Ferdinand left that city, when apprehensive and weary of delay, they hired a small vessel, and determined to

brave the winds. They had soon reason to repent their temerity; for the vessel had not been long at sea when the storm arose, which threw them back upon the shores of Sicily, and brought them to the light|house, where they were discovered by Ferdinand.

On the following morning Ferdinand returned with his friends to Palermo, where he first disclosed the late fatal events of the Castle. They now settled their fu|ture plans; and Ferdinand hastened to the castle of Mazzini to fetch Emilia, and to give orders for the re|moval of his household to his palace at Naples, where he designed to fix his future residence. The distress of Emilia, whom he found recovered from her indisposi|tion, yielded to joy and wonder, when she heard of the existence of her mother, and the safety of her sister. She departed with Ferdinand for Palermo, where her friends awaited her, and where the joy of the meeting was considerably heightened by the appearance of Ma|dame de Menon, for whom the marchioness had dis|patched a messenger to St. Augustin's. Madame had quitted the abbey for another convent, to which how|ever the messenger was directed. This happy party now embarked for Naples.

From this period the castle of Mazzini, which had been the theatre of a dreadful catastrophe, and whose scenes would have revived in the minds of the chief personages connected with it, painful and shocking re|collections—was abandoned.

On their arrival at Naples, Ferdinand presented to the king a clear and satisfactory account of the late events at the castle, in consequence of which the mar|chioness was confirmed in her rank, and Ferdinand was received as the the sixth marquis de Mazzini.

The marchioness, thus restored to the world, and to happiness, resided with her children in the palace at Naples, where after time had somewhat mellowed the

remembrance of the late calamity, the nuptials of Hip|politus and Julia were celebrated. The recollection of the difficulties they had encountered, and of the dis|tress they had endured for each other, now served only to heighten by contrast the happiness of the present period.

Ferdinand soon after accepted a command in the Neapolitan army; and amidst the many heroes of that warlike and turbulent age, distinguished himself for his valour and ability. The occupations of war engaged his mind, while his heart was occupied in promoting the happiness of his family.

Madame de Menon, whose generous attachment to the marchioness had been fully proved, found in the re|storation of her friend a living witness of her marri|age, and thus recovered those estates which had been unjustly with-held from her. But the marchioness and her family, grateful to her friendship, and attach|ed to her virtues, prevailed upon her to spend the re|mainder of her life at the palace of Mazzini.

Emilia, wholly attached to her family, continued to reside with the marchioness, who saw her race renewed in the children of Hippolitus and Julia. Thus sur|rounded by her children and friends, and engaged in forming the minds of the infant generation, she seemed to forget that she had ever been otherwise than happy."

Here the manuscript annals conclude. In review|ing this story, we perceive a singular and striking in|stance of moral retribution. We learn also, that those who do only THAT WHICH IS RIGHT, endure nothing in misfortune but a trial of their virtue, and from trials well endured, derive the surest claim to the protection of heaven.

FINIS.