 CHAPTER V. The night grew stormy, the hollow winds 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 traveled on silently and dejectedly for some hours, and were bewildered in the wilds when they suddenly heard the bell of a monastery, chiming for midnight prayer. Their hearts revived at the sound, which they endeavored to follow, but they had not gone far when the gale wafted it away, and they were abandoned to the certain 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 moonlight, which through broken 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 within. 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, suspicious of deceit, and apprehensive of robbers, refused with much firmness, and repeated that the convent was engaged in prayer. He had almost closed the gate when the duke, whom hunger and fatigue made desperate, 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 laughter, and of many voices in loud and mirthful jollity, attracted his steps. It led him through several passages to adore, 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, dressed 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 goblet of wine to his lips, and was roaring out, Profusion and Confusion, at the moment when the duke entered. His appearance caused general alarm. That part of the company, who were not too much intoxicated, arose from their seats, and the superior, dropping the goblet from his hands, endeavored to assume a look of austerity, which his rosy countenance belied. The duke received a reprimand delivered in the lisping accents of intoxication, 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 superior understood the distinction of his guest, his features relaxed into a smile of joyous welcome, and taking him by the hand, he placed him by his side. The table was quickly covered with luxurious provisions, and orders were given that the duke's people should be admitted and taken care of. He was regaled with a variety of the finest wines, and at length highly elevated by monastic hospitality. He 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 the 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, once it was obvious to the duke they designed to embark. He stayed not to finish the repast set before him, but instantly remounted to continue the pursuit. To the enquiries he made of the persons he chanced to meet favorable answers were returned for a time, but he was at length bewildered in uncertainty and traveled 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, however, as hard as their horses would carry them, and at length one of the attendants spied on the skirts of the waist a large mansion towards which they immediately directed their course. They were overtaken by the storm and at the moment when they reached the building a peel of thunder 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-accord with this 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 increased with much violence and threatened to detain the duke a prisoner in this present habitation 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 moldering in decay, and round the high and shattered windows the 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 bewildered in its intricacies, in endeavouring to find his way back he only perplexed himself more till at length he arrived at door which he believed led into the hall he first quitted. On opening it he discovered 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 lightning 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 odd 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 a distance and the moon now sinking behind a cloud left him in total darkness. He repeated the call more loudly and at length heard the approach of footsteps. A few moments relieved him from his anxiety for his people appeared. The storm was yet loud and the heavy insulphurous appearance of the atmosphere promised no speedy abatement of it. The duke endeavored to reconcile himself to pass the night in this 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 in the pavement before it and tried to endure the abstinence which he had so ill observed in the monastery on the preceding night. But to his great joy his attendance, 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 remains to his people. Having ordered them to watch by turns at the gate he wrapped his cloak round him and resigned himself to repose. The night passed without any disturbance. The morning arose fresh and bright. The heavens exhibited 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 beautiful romantic country 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 beauties of inanimate nature to objects more interesting, for he observed two persons whom he instantly recollected 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 unobserved. They were now almost within his power, but the difficulty was how to descend the rocks, whose dependuous heights and craggy steeps seemed to render them impassable. He examined them with a scrutinizing eye, and at length aspired, where the rock receded, a narrow winding sort of path. He dismounted, and some of his attendants doing the same, followed 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 himself against the furious assault of the duke. The combat was sustained with much vigor and dexterity on both sides for some minutes, when the duke received the point of his adversaries' sword and fell. The cavalier, endeavoring 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 mutual, but the accompanying feelings were in the different persons of a very opposite nature. In the duke astonishment was heightened by vexation and embittered by disappointment. In the lady it was softened by the joy of unexpected deliverance. The 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 designed 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 to depart. Relieved from their fears they joyfully set forward, leaving their late pursuers to the anguish of defeat and fruitless endeavor. He was remounted on his horse, and having dispatched two of his people in search of a house where he might obtain some relief, he proceeded slowly on his return to the castle of Mussini. 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 tenor 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 followed 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 pain he reached the village which his emissaries had discovered when fortunately he obtained some medical assistance. Here he was obliged by indisposition to rest. The anguish of his mind equalled that of his body. Those impetuous passions which so strongly marked his nature were roused and exasperated to a degree that operated powerfully upon his constitution, and threatened him with the most alarming consequences. The effect of his wound was heightened by the agitation of his mind, and a fever which quickly assumed a very serious aspect cooperated to endanger his life. CHAPTER VI The Castle of Mazzini was still the scene of dissension and misery. The impatience and astonishment of the Marquis being daily increased by the length and absence of the Duke he dispatched servants to the forest of Marantino to inquire the occasion of this circumstance. 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 in sorrow and anxiety in his dungeon, the rigor of the Marquis' conduct was unabated. He apprehended that his son, if liberated, would quickly discover the retreat 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 and gloomy ineffectual lamentation. The idea of Hippolytus, of Hippolytus murdered, arose to his imagination in busy intrusion, and subdued the strongest efforts of his fortitude. Julia, too, his beloved sister, unprotected, unfriended, might even at the moment he lamented her, be sinking under sufferings dreadful to humanity. The eerie schemes he once formed of future felicity resulting from the union of two persons so justly dear to him, with the gay visions of past happiness, floated upon his fancy, and the luster that 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 his sensation less painful, though 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, indisimal sound. It returned at intervals in hollow 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 around his dungeon and 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 satisfied whether any person beside himself was in the dungeon, 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 received no answer. Soon after all was still, and after listening for some time without hearing the sound renewed, he laid himself down to sleep. On the following day he mentioned to the man who brought him food, what he had heard, and inquired concerning the noise. The servant appeared very much terrified, but could give no information that might in the least account for the circumstance, till he mentioned the vicinity of the dungeon to the southern buildings. The dreadful relation formerly given by the Marquis instantly recurred to the mind of Ferdinand, who did not hesitate to believe that the moans he heard came from the restless spirit of the murdered Del Campo. At this conviction horror 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 horror 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 himself 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 honor, nay even his life, was bound up. His father had also confessed that he had himself there seen appearances which he could never again remember without 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 resisted, and he could not doubt that the spirit of the dead had for once been permitted to revisit the earth and to call down vengeance on the descendants of the murderer. This conviction occasioned him a degree of horror such as no apprehension of mortal powers could have excited, and he determined, if possible, to prevail on Peter to pass the hours of midnight with him in his dungeon. The strictness of Peter's fidelity yielded to the persuasions of Ferdinand, though no bribe could tempt him to incur the resentment of the Marquis by permitting an escape. Ferdinand passed the day in lingering anxious expectation, and the return of night brought Peter to the dungeon. His kindness exposed him to a danger which he had not foreseen, for when seated in the dungeon alone with his prisoner, how easily might that prisoner have conquered him and left him to pay his life to the fury of the Marquis. He was preserved by the humanity of Ferdinand who instantly perceived his advantage, but disdained to involve an innocent man in destruction and spurned the suggestion from his mind. Peter, whose friendship was stronger than his courage, trembled with apprehension as the hour drawn nigh in which the groans had been heard on the preceding night. He recounted to Ferdinand a variety of terrific circumstances which existed only in the heated imaginations 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 an issue from the South Tower on the night of Julius, 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 behavior of the Marquis, who laughed at the fears of his people, yet condescended to quiet them by a formal review of the buildings once their terror had originated. 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 proceeded from that. Because my lord, continued he, the door seemed to be held only in one place, and as for the noise, oh lord, I never shall forget what a noise it was. It was a thousand times louder than what any stones could make. Ferdinand listened to this narrative in silent wonder. Wonder not occasioned by the adventure described, but by the hardy-hood and rashness of the Marquis, who had thus exposed to the inspection of his people that dreadful spot which he knew from experience to be the haunt of the 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 started 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 seemed 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 valor of despair. The sounds were repeated at intervals for near an hour, when silence returned, and remained undisturbed during the rest of the night. Ferdinand was alarmed by no appearance, 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 expecting something very strange, perhaps the murder, perhaps the supernatural disappearance of his young lord, full of these wild apprehensions he dared not venture that they're alone, but persuaded some of the servants 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 he 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, uncalling aloud, he was answered by a voice from within. His absurd fear did not suffer him to recognize the voice of Ferdinand, neither did he suppose that Ferdinand had failed to escape. He therefore attributed the voice to the being he had heard on the preceding 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 imprudence, at the same time reproaching the other servants with their undutifulness in thus disturbing his peace. He reminded them of the condescension he had practiced 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 circulating these idle notions, should be rigorously punished and banished his dominions. They shrunk back at his 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 darted upon him a severe look which he perfectly comprehended. "'Now,' cried he, turning to his people, what do you see, my son, whom I myself placed here, and whose voice, which answered to your calls, you have transformed into unknown sounds. Speak, Ferdinand, and confirm what I say.' Ferdinand did so. "'What dreadful specter appeared to you last night?' resumed the Marquis, looking steadfastly 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 inadvertently betrayed to Peter a part of the secret entrusted to him, and he artfully interrogated Peter with seeming carelessness concerning the circumstances of the preceding night. From him he drew such answers as honorably acquitted Ferdinand of indiscretion, and relieved himself from tormenting apprehensions. The following night passed quickly away. Neither sound nor appearance disturbed the peace of Ferdinand. The Marquis, on the next day, thought proper to soften the severity of his sufferings, and he was removed from his dungeon to a room strongly graded, but exposed 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 consolation of Madame de Mennon. The Marchioness, whose passion for the Count de Vriesa had at length yielded to absence, and the presence of present circumstances 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 having one day left a book in the oak parlor, returned thither in search of it. As she opened the door of the apartment, she heard the voice of the cavalier in passionate exclamation, and on entering discovered him rising in some confusion from the feet of the Marchioness, 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 bosom that secret the discovery of which would most essentially have poisoned the piece 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 retaliation 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 whole attention was employed to dislodge from the castle the person to whom her character was committed. In this it was not difficult to succeed, 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 disdaining 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 unhearing her determination to retire, earnestly inquired for the motive of her conduct, she forebore to acquaint him with the real one and left him to incertitude and disappointment. To Amelia this design occasioned a distress which almost subdued the resolution of Madame. Her tears and entreaties spoke the artless energy of sorrow. In Madame she lost her only friend, and she too well understood 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 mother, Madame had been induced to undertake the education of her daughters, whose engaging dispositions had perpetuated a kind of hereditary affection. Regard for Amelia 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 distant part of the island, and there take up her residence in a convent. Amelia 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 Amelia wandered through the forsaken apartments where she had been accustomed to converse with Julia and to receive consolation and sympathy from her dear instructress, with a kind of anguish known only to those who had experienced a similar situation. Madame pursued her journey with a heavy heart, separated from the objects of her fondest affections and from the scenes and occupations for which long habit had formed claims upon her heart. She seemed without interest and without motive for exertion. The world appeared a wide 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 Kalini and in the interval death had swept away the few friends she left there. The future presented a melancholy scene, but she had the retrospective years spent in honourable endeavour and strict integrity to cheer her heart and encouraged her hopes. But her utmost endeavours were unable to express the anxiety with which the uncertain fate of Julia overwhelmed her. Wild and terrific images arose to her imagination. Fancy drew the scene. She deepened the shades and the terrific aspect of the objects she presented was heightened by the obscurity which involved them. End of Chapter Six Chapter Seven of a Sicilian Romance By Anne Radcliffe This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Chapter Seven Towards the close of day Madame de Mennon arrived at a small village situated among the mountains where she proposed to pass the night. The evening was remarkably fine and the romantic beauty of the surrounding scenery invited her to walk. She followed the windings of a stream which was lost at some distance amongst luxuriant groves of chestnut. 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 today yielded to her a view so various and sublime that she paused in thrilling and delightful wonder. A group of wild and grotesque rocks rose in a semicircular form, and their fantastic shapes exhibited nature in her most sublime and striking attitudes. Here her vast magnificence elevated the mind of the beholder to 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 assumed 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 sung in air, whose melancholy expression 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 around in search of the sweet warbler, and observed at some distance a peasant girl seated on a small projection of the rock, overshadowed by drooping sycamores. She moved slowly towards the spot, which she had almost reached, when the sound of her steps startled and silenced the siren, who, unperceiving a stranger, arose in an attitude to depart. The voice of Madame arrested her, and she approached. 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 whose sunk into her arms overcome with joy. When their first emotions were subsided and Julia had received answers to her enquiries concerning Ferdinand and Amelia, she led Madame to the place of her concealment. This was a solitary cottage in a close valley 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 extreme concern that the countenance of Julia no longer wore the smile of health and gaiety. Her fine features had received the impressions not only of melancholy 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 resource from misery but in flight, and of that I could not make you a confident without meaningly 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 situation. Rather, let me hear by what means you affected your escape, and what has since befallen you. Julia paused a moment, as if to stifle her rising emotion, 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 unacquainted, and proceed to those which more immediately attract your interest. Catarina, my faithful servant, 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 appointed my guard, was asleep, Niccolo crept into his chamber and stole from him the keys of my prison. He had previously procured a ladder of ropes. Oh, I can never forget my emotions, when in the dead hour of that night, which was meant to proceed to 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 Catarina to the saloon, the windows of which, being low and near to the terrace, suited our purpose. To the terrace we easily got, where Niccolo awaited us with the rope ladder. He fastened it to the ground, and having climbed to the top of the parapet, quickly slide it down on the other side. There he held it, while we ascended and descended, and I soon breathed the air of freedom again. But the apprehension of being retaken was still too powerful to permit a full enjoyment of my escape. It was my plan to proceed to the place of my faithful Catarina's nativity, where she had assured 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 entirely unknown to the Marquis, who had hired her at Naples only a few months before, without any enquiries 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 Niccolo, who returned to the castle to prevent suspicion, but with an intention to leave it at a less dangerous time, and repair to Farini to his good Catarina. 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. About a quarter of a league from the walls we stopped, and I assumed the habit in which you see me now. My own dress was fastened to some heavy stones, and Catarina threw it into the stream near the almond grove, whose murmurings you have so often admired. The fatigue and hardship I endured in this journey performed almost 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 disregarded. We arrived in safety at the cottage, which stood at a little distance from the village of Farini, and were received by Catarina's parents with some surprise 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 Catarina's mother I read a degree of surprise and admiration which declared she believed me to be of superior rank. I therefore thought it more prudent to win her fidelity by entrusting her with my secret than by endeavouring to conceal it, leave it to be discovered by her curiosity 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 sequestered spot. The cottage we are now in belongs to a sister of Catarina, upon whose faithfulness I have been hitherto fully justified in relying. But I am not even here secure from apprehension, since, for several days past, horsemen of a suspicious appearance have been observed near Marcy, which is only half a league from here. Here Julia closed her narration to which Madam had listened with a mixture of surprise and pity which her eyes sufficiently discovered. The last circumstance of the narrative seriously alarmed her. She acquainted Julia with the pursuit which the Duke had undertaken, and she did not hesitate to believe at a party of her people whom Julia had described. Madam therefore earnestly advised her to quit her present situation and to accompany her in disguise to the monastery of St. Augustine, where she would find a secure retreat, because, even if her place of refuge should be discovered, the superior authority of the church would protect her. Julia accepted the proposal with much joy, as it was necessary that Madam should sleep at the village where she had left her servants and horses. It was agreed that at break of day she should return to the cottage where Julia would await her. Madam took all 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 Madam 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 sunrise, having left her people at some little distance. Her heart foreboded evil when, unknocking at the door, no answer was returned. She knocked again and still all was silent. Through the casement she could discover no object amidst the gray obscurity of the dawn. She now opened the door, and to her inexpressible surprise and distress found the cottage empty. She proceeded to a small inner room where lay a part of Julia's apparel. The bed had no appearance of having been 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 it to those for her own safety, and she was undetermined whether to discover herself or remain in her present situation when she was relieved from her resolution by the appearance of Julia. On the return of the good woman who had accompanied Madame to the village on the preceding night, Julia went to the cottage at Farini. 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 prospects. They had prevailed upon her to spend the few intervening hours at this cottage 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 variegated hues, and the autumnal 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 purple grapes flushed through the dark green of the surrounding foliage and the prospect glowed with luxuriance. They now descended into a deep valley which appeared more like a scene of airy enchantment than reality. Along the bottom flowed a clear majestic stream whose banks were adorned with thick groves of orange incitron trees. Julia surveyed the scene in silent complacency, but her eye quickly caught in object which changed with instantaneous shock the tone of her feelings. She observed a party of horsemen winding down the side of a hill behind her. Their uncommon speed alarmed her and she pushed her horse into a gallop. Unlooking back, Madame de Menon clearly perceived they were in pursuit. Soon after, the men suddenly appeared from behind a dark grove within a small distance of them. And upon their nearer approach 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 reconducted to the hill from whence they had descended. Imagination only can paint the anguish of Julia's mind when she saw herself thus delivered up to the power of her enemy. Madame, in the surrounding troop, discovered none of the Marquis people and they were therefore evidently in the hands of the Duke. After travelling for some hours they quitted the main road and turned into a narrow winding dell, overshadowed by high trees which almost excluded the light. The gloom of the place inspired 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 feature of the fabric was gradually disclosed and struck upon her heart a horror such as she had never before experienced. The broken battlements and wreathed 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 fit only for the purposes of violence and destruction and the fortunate captives, when they stopped at its gates, felt the 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 indescribable torture to Julia and Madame. From the furious passions of the Duke exasperated by frequent disappointment Julia had every evil to apprehend and the loneliness of the spot he had chosen enabled him to perpetuate any designs however violent. For the first time she repented that she had left her father's house. 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 sudden blaze of light illuminating the fabric served to exhibit more forcibly its striking horrors. Julia ran to the window and in a sort of court below perceived a group of men dismounting 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 confused uproar of voices which sounded from the room beneath 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 sudden gleam of torchlight 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 have deceived yourselves and misled me. This is not my daughter. These words struck the sudden light of truth and joy upon the heart of Julia whom terror had before rendered almost lifeless and who had not perceived that the person entering was a stranger. Madam now stepped forward and an explanation ensued when it appeared that the stranger was the Marquis Marani the father of the fair fugitive whom the Duke had before mistaken for Julia. The appearance and the evident flight of Julia had deceived the bandidi 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 liberty surpassed, if possible, her preceding terrors. The Marquis made Madame and Julia all the reparation in his power by offering immediately to reconduct them to the main road and to guard them to some place of safety for the night. This offer was eagerly and thankfully accepted, and though faint from distress, fatigue, and want of sustenance, they joyfully remounted their horses and by torchlight quitted the mansion. After some hours traveling they arrived at a small town where they procured the accommodations so necessary to their support and repose. Here their guides quitted them to continue their search. They arose from the dawn and continued their journey continually terrified with the apprehension of encountering the Duke's people. At noon they arrived at Azulia from whence the monastery or abbey of St. Augustine 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 favourable 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 endeavored to calm her sorrows by devotion. She was received by the abate with a sort of paternal affection and by the nuns with officious kindness. Comforted by these circumstances and by the tranquil appearance of everything around her, she retired to rest and passed the night in peaceful slumbers. In her present situation she found much novelty to amuse and much serious matter to interest her mind. Untendered by distress she easily yielded to the pensive manners of her companions and to the serene uniformity of a monastic life. She loved to wander through the lonely cloisters and high arched aisles whose long perspectives retired in civil grandeur, diffusing a holy calm around. She found much pleasure in the conversation of the nuns, many of whom were uncommonly amiable and the dignified sweetness of whose manners formed a charm irresistibly attractive. The soft melancholy impressed upon their countenances portrayed 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 in effect they bestowed on Julia in the hope of winning her to become one of their order. Soothed by the presence of madam, the aciduity 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 notwithstanding all her efforts the idea of Hippolytus would at intervals return upon her memory with a force that at once subdued her fortitude and sunk her in her temporary 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 illness, attracted her curiosity and excited a strong degree of pity. The nun, by a sort of sympathy, seemed particularly inclined towards Julia, which she discovered by innumerable acts of kindness such as the heart can quickly understand and acknowledge, although description can never reach them. In conversation with her Julia endeavored 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 sublime by religion, shone forth with mild and lambent bluster. The Duke de L'Ovo, after having been detained for some weeks by the fever which his wounds had procured, and his irritated passions had much prolonged, arrived 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 recover Julia, the violence of his nature spurned the disguise of art and burst forth in contemptuous impeachment of the valor and discernment of the Duke, 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 difficulty which opposed it, admitted such concessions as in other circumstances he would have rejected, and thus each conquered by the predominant passion of the moment, submitted to be the slave of his adversary. Amelia 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, by regret for the lost society of Madame. The Marchioness, whose pleasures suffered a temporary suspense during the present confusion of the castle, exercised the ill-humored caprice, which disappointment and lassitude inspired upon her remaining subject. Amelia was condemned to suffer and to endure without the privilege of complaining. In reviewing 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 increased with his disappointments, for where could Julia, ignorant of the country and destitute of friends, have possibly found an asylum? He swore with a terrible 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 induced to emerge from concealment. Meanwhile Julia sheltered in the obscure recesses of Saint Augustine, endeavored to attain a degree of that tranquility which so strikingly characterized the scenes around her. The abbey of Saint Augustine was a large, magnificent mass of Gothic architecture whose gloomy battlements and majestic towers arose in proud sublimity from amid the darkness of the surrounding shades. It was founded in the 12th century and stood a proud monument of monkish superstition and princely magnificence. In the times when Italy was agitated by internal commotions and persecuted by foreign invaders, this edifice afforded an asylum to many noble Italian immigrants who were consecrated 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 formally characterized the priest, the nobleman, and the sovereign had now begun to yield to learning, the charms of refined conversation, political intrigue in private artifices. Thus do the scenes of life vary from the predominant passions of mankind and with the progress of civilization. The dark clouds of prejudice break away before 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 forcibly the vast and heavy masses that concealed the form of truth. Here prejudice, not reason, suspended the influence of the passions and scholastic learning, mysterious 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 windows stained with the coloring of monkish fictions, and shaded by the thick trees that environed the edifice, spread around a sacred gloom which inspired the beholder 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 Hippolytus. Superstition and Ode. High mid-elverna's awful steeps, eternal shades and silence dwell. Save when the gale resounding sweeps, sad strains are faintly heard to swell. And thrown amid the wild and pending rocks, involved in clouds and brooding future woe, the demon superstition nature shocks and waves her scepter 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 maddening force and death and vengeance close the ghastly band. Mark the purple streams that flow, mark the deep and passioned woe, frantic furies dying groan, virtue sigh and sorrow's moan. Wide, wide the phantoms swell the loaded air with shrieks of anguish, madness and despair. Seize your ruin, scepter's dire, cease your wild, terrific sway. Turn your steps and check your ire, yield to peace the morning day. She swept to the memory of times past, and there was a romantic sadness in her feelings, luxurious and indefinable. Madam behaved to Julia with the tenderest attention, and endeavored to withdraw her thoughts from their mournful subject by promoting that taste for literature and music which was so suitable to the powers of her mind. But an object seriously interesting now obtained that regard, which those of mere amusement failed to attract. Her favorite nun, for whom her love and esteem daily increased, seemed declining under the pressure of a secret grief. Julia was deeply affected with her situation, and though she was not empowered to administer consolation to her souros, she endeavored 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 sweetness, patience and resignation as affected all around her with pity and love. Her angelic mildness and steady fortitude characterized the beautification of a saint, rather than the death of a mortal. Julia watched every turn of her disorder with the utmost solitude, and her care was at length rewarded by the amendment 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 souros. 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 unexpectedly 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 the 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 degree 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 merit indeed continually dwelt on his tongue, and 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 recollection of his virtue elevates my mind and fills my heart with the 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 intimate, and our youthful intercourse occasioned an attachment which strengthened and expanded with our years. He solicited me of my father, but there appeared an insuperable barrier to our union. The family of my lover laboured under a circumstance of similar distress 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 immediately 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 full uniformity, who had no pursuit to interest, no variety to animate my drooping spirits, to me the effort of forgetfulness was ineffectual. The loved idea of Angelo still rose upon my fancy, and its powers of captivation, heightened by absence and perhaps even by despair, pursued 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 Maranelli, and he applied 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 endeavored to command, discovered the exact situation of my heart, and my father was affected. After long and awful pause he generously released me from my sufferings 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 entirely the disguise with which I had hitherto guarded my heart, my brother, my generous brother, I learned of the true state of its affections. 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 resign a part of the estate which had already descended to him in right of his mother. Alas, Hippolytus, continued Cornelia, deeply sighing, thy virtues deserved a better fate. Hippolytus, said Julia, in a tremulous accent. Hippolytus, count to Verisa? The same replied the nun in a tone of surprise. Julia was speechless. Tears, however, came to her relief. The astonishment of Cornelia for some moments surpassed expression. At length a gleam of recollection crossed her mind, and she too well understood the scene before her. Julia, after some time revived, when Cornelia tenderly approaching her, do I then embrace 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 Hippolytus paused upon the offer. The alteration in my health was too obvious to escape his notice. The conflict between pride and parental tenderness held him for some time in indecision, but the latter finally subdued every opposing feeling, and he yielded his consent to my marriage with Angelo. The sudden transition from grief to joy was almost too much for my feeble frame. Judge, then, what must have been the effect 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 generous 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 desired to retire from the world which had tempted me only with elusive visions of happiness, and to remove from those scenes which prompted recollection and perpetuated my distress. My father applauded my resolution, and I immediately was admitted and novitiate 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 glooms which surrounded me, and the chilling silence which prevailed when I uttered 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 all its recollections faded from my mind, and left it to the influence of a serene and holy enthusiasm which no words can describe. Soon after my novitiation I had the misfortune to lose my dear father. In the tranquility of this monastery, however, in the soothing kindness of my companions, 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 to which I look with no fearful apprehension but as a refuge from calamity, trusting that the power who has seen good to afflict me will pardon the imperfectness of my devotion and the two frequent wanderings of my thoughts to the object once so dear to me. As she spoke she raised her eyes which beamed with truth and meek assurance to heaven, and the fine devotional suffusion of her countenance seemed to characterize 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 about one crime to deplore, and that was the two tender remembrance of him for whom I mourned, and whose idea, impressed upon my heart, made it a blemished offering to God. I was interrupted in my confession by a sound of deep sobs, and rising 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 mattress, 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 handwriting of Angelo, that well-known hand which had so often awakened 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 myself 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, 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 procured, but his wounds exhibited the most alarming symptoms. During several months he languished between life and death, till at length his youth and constitution 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 consequence 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 attachment and despair. He devoted himself to a monastic life, and chose this abbey for the place of his residence, because it contained the object most dear to his affections. His letter informed me that he had purposely avoided discovering himself, endeavoring to be contented with the opportunities which occurred of silently observing me, till chance had occasioned the foregoing interview, but that since its effects had been so mutually painful he would relieve me from the apprehension of a similar distress by assuring me that I should see him no more. He was faithful to his promise, from that day I have never seen him, and am even ignorant whether he yet inhabits this asylum. The efforts of religious fortitude and the just fear of exciting curiosity having withheld me from inquiry. But the moment of our last interview has been equally fatal to my peace and to my health, and I trust I shall, ere very long, be released from the agonizing ineffectual struggles occasioned by the consciousness of sacred vows imperfectly performed, and by earthly affections not wholly subdued. Cornelia ceased, and Julia, who had listened to the narrative and deep attention, at once admired, loved, and pitied her. As the sister of Hippolytus her heart expanded towards her, and it was now inviolably attached by the fine ties of sympathetic sorrow, similarity of sentiment and suffering united them in the firmest bonds of friendship, and thus from reciprocation of thought and feeling flowed a pure and sweet consolation. Julia loved to indulge in the mournful pleasure of conversing of Hippolytus, and when thus engaged the hours crept unheeded by, a thousand questions she repeated concerning him, but to those most interesting to her she received no consolatory answer. Cornelia, who had heard of the fatal transaction of the castle of Mazzini, deplored with her its two certain consequence. End of chapter nine. CHAPTER TEN of A Sicilian Romance by Anne Radcliffe This lipervox recording is in the public domain. CHAPTER TEN Julia accustomed herself to walk in the fine evenings under the shade of the high trees that environed the abbey. The dewy coolness of the air refreshed her. The innumerable rosate tints, which the parting sunbeams reflected on the rocks above, and the fine vermal glow diffused over the romantic scene beneath, softly fading from the eye as the nightshades fell, excited sensations of a sweet and tranquil nature, and soothed her into a temporary forgetfulness of her sorrows. The deep solitude of the place subdued her apprehension, and one evening she ventured with Madame de Mennon 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 neighboring town to order provision. On the following evening they repeated their walk, and engaged in conversation, 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 returned 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 relics of a palace, whose beauty time had impaired only to heighten its sublimity. An arch of singular magnificence remained almost entire, beyond which appeared wild cliffs retiring in grand perspective. The sun, which was now setting, threw a trembling luster 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 chillness 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 attentively bent on her that she could have no doubt she was the subject of their discourse. Alarmed at this circumstance, Madame and Julia immediately retreated 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 monastery, 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 without any appearance of pursuit, but clearly as if observing 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 everything 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 also that he should be solicited to protect her from parental tyranny. This was a hazardous but a necessary step to provide against the certain danger which must ensue should the Marquis, if he demanded his daughter 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 la Ovo. Julia approved of this communication, though she trembled for the event, and requested Madame to plead her case with the abate. On the following morning, therefore, Madame solicited a private audience of the abate. She obtained permission to see him, and Julia, in trembling anxiety, watched her to the door of his apartment. Their 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 attachment. Meanwhile, Madame developed to the abate the distressful story of Julia. She praised her virtues, commended her accomplishments, and deplored her situation. She described the character of the Marquis and the Duke, and concluded with pathetically representing that Julia had sought, in this monastery, a last asylum from injustice and misery, and within treating that the abate would grant her his pity and protection. The abate, during this discourse, preserved a silent silence. His eyes were bent to the ground, and his aspect was thoughtful and solemn. When Madame ceased to speak, a pause of profound silence ensued, and she sat in anxious expectation. She endeavored 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 must involve him in serious consequences, since, from a character so determined as the Marquis, much violence might reasonably be expected. Should his daughter 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, Madame, 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 encourage her in disobedience and consequently sacrifice my sense of duty to what may be justly called a weak humanity. Madame listened to pompous declamation in silent sorrow and indignation. She made another effort to interest the abate in favor 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 reposed 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. Within heavy heart she returned to Julia, who read in her countenance at the moment she entered the room news of no happy import, when Madame 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 unfeeling 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 despair. Several days elapsed and no answer was returned from the abate. Julia too well understood this silence. One morning Cornelia entering her room with the 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 despair. Madame, though scarcely less distressed, retained a presence of mind. She understood too justly the character of the superior to doubt that he would hesitate 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 conference was concluded, when the gates would most probably be closed upon her, assuring her at the same time she would accompany her in the 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 attend the abate immediately. The distress which this message occasioned cannot easily be convinced. 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 summons. The coolness of her fortitude forsook her as she approached the abate's apartment, and she became less certain as to the occasion of the 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 startled her. Read this letter, he said, stretching forth his hand which held a letter, and tell me what the mortal deserves, who dares insult our holy order, and set our sacred prerogative at defiance. Madame distinguished the handwriting of the Marquis, and the words of the Superior threw her into the utmost astonishment. She took the letter. It was dictated by that spirit of proud vindictive rage which so strongly marked the character of the Marquis. Having discovered the retreat of Julia and believing the monastery afforded her a willing sanctuary from his pursuit, he accused the abate of encouraging his child an open rebellion to his will. He loaded him and his sacred order with a proborium, and threatened if she was not immediately resigned to the emissaries and 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 or 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 from her this proud invader of our rights and teach him at least to venerate the power he cannot conquer. I have dispatched 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 wild 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 fear 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 gratitude 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 goodness again attempted to retire, when the abate frowning in deep resentment his features inflamed with pride arose from his seat. Stay, said he, wince this impatience to fly from the presence of a benefactor. If my generosity fails to excite gratitude my resentment shall not fail to inspire awe. Since the lady Julia is insensible of my condescension she is unworthy 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, madam listened and 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 offense which I only have committed. Her heart will bless her generous benefactor, 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 madam, 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 madam to the fear of being discovered by the Marquis people. This fear had been confirmed by the report of Cornelia, who informed her that at that time several horsemen were waiting at the gates for the return of their companions. This was a dreadful circumstance to Julia, who perceived it was utterly impossible to quit the monastery without rushing upon certain destruction. She was lamenting her destiny when madam 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 coming interview, though each moment of delay which her fear solicited would by heightening the resentment of the abate only increase the danger she dreaded. At length by a strong effort she reanimated her spirits and went to the abate's closet to receive her sentence. 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, may 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 dispose 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 impious defiance of our high prerogative. What punishment is adequate to guilt like this? The father paused, his eyes sternly fixed on Julia, who pale and trembling could scarcely support herself 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 that posture. Your duplicity, he resumed, is not the least of your offenses. Had you relied upon our generosity for forgiveness and protection, an indulgence might have been granted. But under the disguise 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 offenses 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 presumed that they would protect me from injustice and with what other term than injustice should you, sir, distinguish the conduct of the marquee 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 resentment. 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 offense which Madame de Menin 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 resolved to be further solicited for that protection which he had already determined to grant. But this reproof of Julia touched him where he was most conscious 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 attitude. 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 marquee's menace in 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 impossible to punish the object of the first without denying himself the gratification of the latter, this reflection suspended his mind in a state of torture, and he sat wrapped 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 confirmed her in the apprehension of evil, and with all the artless eloquence of sorrow she endeavored to soften him to pity. He listened to her pleadings and sullen stillness, but each instant now cooled the reverber of his resentment to her, and increased his desire of opposing the marquee. 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 marquee 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 Madam Demenin who wept over her tears of thankfulness.