 CHAPTER XI. John was nowhere to be found. The earl went himself in quest of him, but without success. As he returned from the terrace, chagrined and disappointed, he observed two persons cross the platform at some distance before him, and he could perceive by the dim moonlight which fell upon the spot that they were not of the castle. He called to them. No answer was returned, but at the sound of his voice they quickened their pace and almost instantly disappeared in the darkness of the ramparts. Surprised at this phenomenon, the earl followed with hasty steps and endeavored to pursue the way they had taken. He walked on silently, but there was no sound to direct his steps. When he came to the extremity of the rampart, which formed the north angle of the castle, he stopped to examine the spot and to listen if anything was stirring. No person was to be seen, and all was hushed. After he had stood some time surveying the rampart, he heard the low, restrained voice of a person unknown, but the distance prevented his distinguishing the subject of the conversation. The voice seemed to approach the place where he stood. He drew his sword and watched in silence their motions. They continued to advance, till suddenly stopping, they turned and took a long survey of the fabric. Their discourse was conducted in a low tone, but the earl could discover by the vehemence of their gesture and the caution of their steps that they were upon some design dangerous to the peace of the castle. Having finished their examination they turned again towards the place where the earl still remained. The shade of a high turret concealed him from their view, and they continued to approach till they arrived within a short space of him when they turned through a ruined archway of the castle, and were lost in the dark recesses of the pile. Astonished at what he had seen, Osbert hastened to the castle, wince he dispatched some of his people in search of the unknown fugitives. He accompanied some of his domestics to the spot where they had last disappeared. They entered the archway which led to a decayed part of the castle. They followed over broken pavement the remains of a passage which was closed by a low, obscure door almost concealed from sight by the thick ivy which overshadowed it. On opening this door they descended a flight of steps which led under the castle, so extremely narrow and broken as to make the descent both difficult and dangerous. The powerful damps of long pent up vapors extinguished their light, and the earl and his attendants were compelled to remain in utter darkness while one of them went round to the habitable part of the castle to reloom the lamp. While they awaited in silence the return of light a short breathing was distinctly heard at intervals near the place where they stood. The servants shook with fear, and the earl was not wholly unmoved. They remained entirely silent, listening its return when a sound of footsteps slowly stealing through the vault startled them. The earl demanded who passed. He was answered only by the deep echoes of his voice. They clashed their swords and had advanced when the steps hastily retired before them. The earl rushed forward pursuing the sound. Till overtaking the person who fled he seized him, a short scuffle ensued. The strength of Osbert was too powerful for his antagonist who was nearly overcome. When the point of a sword from an unknown hand pierced his side he relinquished his grasp and fell to the ground. His domestics, whom the activity of their master had outran, now came up. But the assassins, whoever they were, had accomplished their escape, for the sound of their steps was quickly lost in the distance of the vaults. They endeavored to raise the earl who lay speechless on the ground, but they knew not how to convey him from that place of horror, for they were yet in total darkness and unacquainted with the place. In this situation every moment of delay seemed an age. Some of them tried to find their way to the entrance, but their efforts were defeated by the darkness, and the ruinous situation of the place. The light at length appeared and discovered the earl insensible and weltering in his blood. He was conveyed into the castle, where the horror of the countess on seeing him born into the hall may be easily imagined. By the help of proper applications he was restored to life, his wound was examined and found to be dangerous. He was carried to bed in a state which gave very faint hopes of recovery. The astonishment of the countess on hearing the adventure was equaled only by her distress. All her conjectures concerning the designs and the identity of the assassin were vague and uncertain. She knew not on whom to fix the stigma, nor could discover any means by which to penetrate this mysterious affair. The people who had remained in the vaults to pursue the search now returned to Matilda. Every recess of the castle and every part of the ramparts had been explored, yet no one could be found, and the mystery of the proceeding was heightened by the manner in which the men had effected their escape. Mary watched over her brother in silent anguish, yet she strove to conceal her distress that she might encourage the countess to hope. The countess endeavored to resign herself to the event with a kind of desperate fortitude. There is a certain point of misery beyond which the mind becomes callous and acquires a sort of artificial calm. Excess of misery may be said to blast the vital powers of feeling, and by a natural consequence consumes its own principle. Thus it was with Matilda a long succession of trials had reduced her to a state of horrid tranquility, which followed the first shock of the present event. It was not so with Laura, young in misfortune and gay in hope, she saw happiness fade from her grasp, with a warmth of feeling untouched by the chill of disappointment. When the news of the Earl's situation reached her, she was overcome with affliction and pined in silent anguish. The count hastened to Osbert, but grief sat heavy at his heart, and he had no power to offer to others the comfort which he wanted himself. A fever which was the consequence of his wounds added to the danger of the Earl and to the despair of his family. During this period, Allen had not been seen at the castle, and his absence at this time raised in Mary a variety of distressing apprehensions. Osbert inquired for him and wished to see him. The servant who had been sent to his father's cottage brought word that it was some days since he had been there, and that nobody knew whether he was gone. The surprise was universal, but the effect it produced was various and opposite. A collection of strange and non-commitent circumstances now forced a suspicion on the mind of the Countess, which her heart and the remembrance of the former conduct of Allen at once condemned. She had heard of what passed between the Earl and him in the gallery. His immediate absence, the event which followed, and his subsequent flight formed a chain of evidence which compelled her with the utmost reluctance to believe him concerned in the affair which had once more involved her house in misery. Mary had too much confidence in her knowledge of his character to admit a suspicion of this nature. She rejected with instant disdain the idea of uniting Allen with dishonor, and that he should be guilty of an action so base as the present, soared beyond all the bounds of possibility. Yes, she felt a strange solicitude concerning him, and apprehension for his safety tormented her incessantly. The anguish in which he had quitted the apartment, her brother's injurious treatment, and his consequent absence, all conspired to make her fear that despair had driven him to commit some act of violence on himself. The Earl, in the delirium of the fever, raved continually of Laura and of Allen. They were the sole subjects of his ramblings, seizing one day the hand of Mary, who sat mournfully by his bedside, and looking for some time pensively in her face. "'Weep not, my Laura,' said he, "'malcum, nor all the powers on earth shall tear you from me. His walls, his guards, what are they? I'll rest you from his hold, or perish. I have a friend whose valor will do much for us. A friend, oh, name him not. These are strange times, beware of trusting. I could have given him my very life, but not, I will not name him.' Then starting to the other side of the bed, and looking earnestly towards the door, with an expression of sorrow not to be described. Not all the miseries which my worst enemy has heaped upon me, not all the horrors of imprisonment and death, have ever touched my soul with a sting so sharp as thy unfaithfulness. Mary was so much shocked by this scene that she left the room and retired to her own apartment to indulge the agony of grief it occasioned. The situation of the Earl grew daily more alarming, and the fever, which had not yet reached its crisis, kept the hopes and fears of his family suspended. In one of his lucid intervals, addressing himself to the Countess in the most pathetic manner, he requested that as death might probably soon separate him forever from her he most loved. He might see Laura once again before he died. She came, and weeping over him a scene of anguish ensued, too poignant for description. He gave her his last vows. She took of him a last look, and with a breaking heart tearing herself away, was carried to Dunbane in a state of danger little inferior to his. The agitation he had suffered during this interview caused a return of frenzy more violent than any fit he had yet suffered. Exhausted by it, he at length sunk into asleep, which continued without interruption for near four and twenty hours. During this time his repose was quiet and profound, and afforded the Countess and Mary, who watched him alternately, the consolations of hope. When he awoke he was perfectly sensible, and in a very altered state from that he had been in a few hours before. The crisis of the disorder was now past, and from that time it rapidly declined till he was restored to perfect health. The joy of Laura, whose health gradually returned with returning peace, and that of his family, was such as the merits of the Earl deserved. This joy, however, suffered a short interruption from the Count of Saint Morin, who entered one morning the apartment of the Baroness with letters in his hand, came to acquaint her that he had just received news of the death of a distant relation, who had bequeathed him some estates of value to which it was necessary he should immediately lay claim, and that he was therefore obliged, however reluctantly, to set off for Switzerland without delay. Though the Baroness rejoiced with all his friends at his good fortune, she regretted with them the necessity of his abrupt departure. He took leave of them, and particularly of Mary, for whom his passion was still the same, with much emotion, it was some time ere the space he had left in their society was filled up, and ere they resumed their wanted cheerfulness. Preparations were now making for the approaching nuptials, and the day of their celebration was at length fixed. The ceremony was to be performed in a chapel belonging to the castle of Dunbane, by the chaplain of the Baroness. Mary only was to attend as bride-maid, and the Countess also, with the Baroness, was to be present. The absence of the Count was universally regretted, for from his hand the Earl was to have received his bride. The office was now to be supplied by a neighbouring lair, whom the family of the Baroness had long esteemed. At the earnest request of Laura, Mary consented to spend the night preceding the day of marriage at the castle of Dunbane. The day so long and so anxiously expected by the Earl at length arrived. The morning was extremely fine, and the joy which glowed in his heart seemed to give additional splendour to the scene around him. He set off, accompanied by the Countess, for the castle of Dunbane. He anticipated the joy with which he should soon retrace the way he then travelled, with Laura by his side, whom death alone could then separate from him. On their arrival they were received by the Baroness, who inquired for Mary, and the Countess and Osbert were thrown into the utmost consternation, when they learned that she had not been seen at the castle. The nuptials were again deferred. The castle was a scene of universal confusion. The Earl returned home instantly to dispatch his people in search of Mary. On inquiry he learned that the servants who had attended her had not been heard of since their departure with their lady. Still more alarmed by this intelligence he rode himself in pursuit, yet not knowing which course to take. Several days were employed in a fruitless search. No footstep of her flight could be traced. CHAPTER XII. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. CHAPTER XII. Mary in the meantime suffered all the terror which her situation could excite. On her way to Dunbane she had been overtaken by a party of armed men who seized her bridle, and after engaging her servants in a feigned resistance carried her off senseless. On recovering she found herself traveling through a forest whose glooms were deepened by the shades of night. The moon which was now up, glancing through the trees, served to show the dreary aspect of the place and the number of men who surrounded her, and she was seized with a terror that almost deprived her of reason. They traveled all night during which a profound silence was observed. At the dawn of day she found herself on the skirts of a heath to whose wide desolation her eye could discover no limits. Before they entered on the waist they halted at the entrance of a cave, formed in a rock which was overhung with pine and fir, where, spreading their breakfast on the grass, they offered refreshments to Mary whose mind was too much distracted to suffer her to partake of them. She implored them in the most moving accents to tell her from whom they came and whether they were carrying her. But they were insensible to her tears and her entreaties, and she was compelled to await in silent terror the extremity of her fate. They pursued their journey over the wilds and towards the close of day approached the ruins of an abbey whose broken arches and lonely towers arose in gloomy grandeur through the obscurity of evening. It stood the solitary inhabitant of the waist, a monument of mortality and of ancient superstition, and the frowning majesty of its aspect seemed to command silence and veneration. The chilly dews fell thick and Mary fatigued in body and harassed in mind lay almost expiring on her horse when they stopped under an arch of the ruin. She was not so ill as to be insensible to the objects around her, the awful solitude of the place, and the solemn aspect of the fabric whose effect was heightened by the falling glooms of evening chilled her heart with horror, and when they took her from the horse she shrieked in the agonies of a last despair. They bore her over loose stones to a part of the building which had been formerly the cloisters of the abbey, but which was now fallen to decay and overgrown with ivy. There was, however, at the extremity of these cloisters a nook which had withstood with hardier strength the ravages of time. The roof was here entire and the shattered staunchens of the casements still remained. Hither they carried Mary and laid her almost lifeless on the grassy pavement, while some of the ruffians hastened to light a fire of the heath and sticks they could pick up. They took out their provisions and placed themselves round the fire, where they had not long been seated when the sound of distant thunder foretold an approaching storm. A violent storm accompanied with peals which shook the pile came on. They were sheltered from the heaviness of the rain, but the long and vivid flashes of lightning which glanced through the casements alarmed them all. The shrieks of Mary were loud and continued, and the fears of the ruffians did not prevent their uttering dreadful implications at her distress. One of them, in the fury of his resentment, swore she should be gagged, and seizing her resistless hands to execute the purpose, her cries redoubled. The servants who had betrayed her were not yet so entirely lost to the feelings of humanity as to stand regardless of her present distress. Though they could not resist the temptations of a bribe, they were unwilling their lady should be loaded with unnecessary misery. They opposed the ruffians, a dispute ensued, and the violence of the contest arose so high that they determined to fight for the decision. Amid the peals of thunder, the oaths and execrations of the combatants added terror to the scene. The strength of the ruffians were superior to that of their opponents, and Mary, beholding victory, deciding against herself uttered a loud scream when the attention of the whole party was surprised by the sound of a footstep in the cloister. Immediately after a man rushed into the place and drawing his sword demanded the cause of the tumult. Mary, who lay almost expiring on the ground, now raised her eyes. But what were her sensations when she raised them to Alan, who now stood before her petrified with horror? Before he could fly to her assistance, the attacks of the ruffians obliged him to defend himself. He parried their blows for some time, but he must inevitably have yielded to the force of numbers, had not the trampling of feet which fast approached, called off for a moment their attention. In an instant the place was filled with men. The astonishment of Alan was, if possible, now increased, for the earl followed by a party, now entered. The earl, when he perceived Alan, stood at the entrance aghast. But resuming his firmness he bade him defend himself. The loud voice of Osbert recalled Mary, and observing their menacing attitudes she collected just strength sufficient to throw herself between them. Alan dropped his sword and raised her from the ground when the earl rudely pushed him away and snatched her to his heart. Hear me, Osbert, was all she could say. Declare who brought her hither, said the earl sternly to Alan. I know not, replied he. You must ask those men whom your people have secured. If my life is hateful to you, strike, and spare me the anguish of defending it against the brother of Mary. The earl hesitated in surprise, and the generosity of Alan called a blush into his face. He was going to have replied, but was interrupted by some of his men, who had been engaged in a sharp contest with the Ruffians, two of whom they had secured, and now brought to their lord. The rest were fled. In the person of one of them the earl discovered his own servant, who sinking in his presence with conscious guilt fell on his knees imploring mercy. Wretch, said the earl, seizing him, and holding his sword over his head, declare by whose authority you have acted and all you know of the affair. Remember, your life depends on the truth of your assertations. I'll tell the truth, my lord, replied the trembling wretch, and nothing else as I hope for mercy. About three weeks ago—no, it is not so much—about a fortnight ago, when I was sent on a message to the Lady Malcolm, the Count de Saint Moran's gentleman, the Count de Saint Moran re-echoed the whole company. But proceed, said Osbert. The Count de Saint Moran's gentleman called me into a private room, where he told me to wait for his master, who would soon be there. Be quick, said the earl. Proceed to facts. I will, my lord. The Count came and said to me, Robert, I have observed you, and I think you can be faithful. He said so, my lord. God forgive me. Well, well, proceed. Where was I? Oh, he said, I think you can be faithful. Good God, this is beyond endurance. You trifle, rascal with my patience to give your associates time for escape. Be brief, or you die. I will, my lord, as I hope for life. He took from his pocket a handful of gold, which he gave me. Can you be secret, Robert? Said he. Yes, my lord. Count. Said I. God forgive me. Then observe what I say to you. You often attend your young lady in her rides to Dunbayne. What, then, it was the Count de Saint Moran who commissioned you to undertake this scheme? Not me only, my lord. Answer my question. Was the Count the author of this plot? He was, my lord. And where is he? said Osbert in a stern voice. I know not as I am a living creature. He embarked, as you know, my lord, not far from the castle of Dunbayne, and we were traveling to a distant part of the coast to meet him when we were all to have set sail for Switzerland. You cannot be ignorant of the place of your destination, said the Earl, turning to the other prisoner. Where is your employer? That is not for me to tell, said he in a sullen tone. Reveal the truth, said the Earl, turning towards him the point of his sword. Or we will find a way to make you. The place where we were to meet the Count had no name. You know the way to it. I do. Then lead me thither. Never. Never. Your life shall answer the refusal, said Osbert, pointing the sword to his breast. Strike, said the Count, throwing off the cloak which had concealed him. Strike and rid me of a being which passion has made hateful to me. Strike and make the first moment of my entering this place a last of my guilt. A faint scream was uttered by Mary. The small remains of her strength forsook her and she sunk on the pavement. The Earl started a few steps back and stood suspended in wonder. The looks of the whole group defied description. Take a sword, said the Earl, recovering himself and defend your life. Never, my lord, never. Though I have been hurried by the force of passion to rob you of a sister, I will not aggravate my guilt by the murder of the brother. Your life has already been once endangered through my means, though not by my design. Heaven knows the anguish which that accident cost me. The impetuousity of passion impaled me onward with irresistible fury. It urged me to violate the sacred duties of gratitude, of friendship and of humanity. To live in shame and in the consciousness of guilt is a living death. With your sword, do justice to yourself and virtue and spare me the misery of long comparing what I am and what I was. Away, you trifle, said the Earl, defend yourself. The Count repeated his refusal. And you villain, said Osbert, turning to the man who had confessed the plot. You pretended ignorance of the presence of the Count. Your perfidy shall be rewarded. As I now plead for mercy, my lord, I knew not he was here. The fellow speaks truth, said the Count. He was ignorant of the place where he was to meet me. I was approaching this spot to discover myself to the dear object of my passion when your people surprised and took me. Mary confirmed the testimony of the Count by declaring that she had not till that moment seen him since she quit to the Castle of Dunbane. She pleaded for his life and also for the servants who had opposed the cruelty of their comrades. I am no assassin, said the Earl. Let the Count take a sword and fight me on equal terms. Shall virtue be reduced to an equality with vice, said the Count? No, my lord. Plunge your sword in my heart and expiate my guilt. The Earl still urged him to defense, and the Count still persisted in refusal. Touched by the recollection of past friendship, and grieved that a soul like the Count's should ever be under the dominion of vice, Osbert threw down his sword and overcome with a sort of tenderness. Go, my lord, your person is safe. And if it is necessary to your peace, stretching forth his hand, take my forgiveness. The Count overcome by his generosity and by a sense of his own unworthiness shrunk back. Forbear, my lord, to wound by your goodness. A mind already too sensible of its own debasement, nor excite by your generosity, a remorse too keen to be endured. Your reproaches I can bear. Your vengeance I solicit. But your kindness inflicts a torture too exquisite for my soul. Never, my lord, continued he, the big tear swelling in his eye. Never more shall your friendship be polluted by my unworthiness. Since you will not satisfy justice by taking my life, I go to lose it in the obscurity of distant regions. Yet ere I go, suffer me to make one last request to you, and to that dear lady whom I have thus injured, and on whom my eyes now gaze for the last time, suffer me to hope that you will blot from your memory the existence of Sant Moran. He concluded the sentence with a groan which vibrated upon the hearts of all present, and without waiting for a reply, hurried from the scene. The Earl had turned away his head in pity. And when he again looked round to reply, perceived that the Count was departed, he followed his steps through the cloister. He called, but he was gone. Alan had observed the Count with a mixture of pity and admiration. And he sighed for the weakness of human nature. How, said the Earl, returning eagerly to Alan, how can I recompense you for my injurious suspicions and my injurious treatment? How can you forgive? Or I forget my injustice. But the mystery of this affair and the doubtful appearance of circumstances must speak for me. Oh, let us talk no more of this, my lord, replied Alan with emotion. Let us only rejoice at the safety of our dear lady and offer her the comfort she is so much in want of. The fire was rekindled, and the Earl's servants laid before him some wine and other provisions. Mary, who had not tasted any food since she left the castle, now took some wine. It revived her and enabled her to take other nourishment. She inquired what happy circumstance had enabled the Earl to trace her out. Ever since I discovered your flight, said he, I have been in pursuit of you. Chance directed me over these wilds, when I was driven by the storm to seek shelter among these ruins. The light and an uproar of voices drew me to the cloister, where, to my unutterable astonishment, I discovered you and Alan. Spare me the remembrance of what followed. Mary wished to inquire what brought Alan to the place, but delicacy kept her silent. Osbert, however, whose anxiety for his sister had hitherto allowed him to attend, only to her, now relieved her from the pain of lengthened suspense. By what strange accident was you brought hither, said he to Alan, and what motive has induced you so long to absent yourself from the castle? At the last question Alan blushed, and an involuntary sigh escaped him. Mary understood the blush and the sigh, and awaited his reply in trembling emotion. I fled, my lord, from your displeasure, and to tear myself from an object too dangerous. Alas, for my peace, I sought to wear away in absence a passion which must ever be hopeless, but which I now perceive is interwoven with my existence. But forgive, my lord, the intrusion of a subject which is painful to us all. With some money and a few provisions I left my father's cottage, and since that time have wandered over the country a forlorn and miserable being, passing my nights in the huts which chanced through in my way, and designing to travel onward and to enlist myself in the service of my country. Night overtook me on these wastes, and as I walked on, comfortless and bewildered. I was alarmed by distant cries of distress. I quickened my pace, but the sound which should have directed my steps was ceased, and chilling silence ensued. As I stood musing and uncertain which course to take, I observed a feeble light break through the gloom. I endeavored to follow its rays. It led me to these ruins, whose solemn appearance struck me with a momentary dread. A confused murmur of voices from within struck my ear. As I stood, hesitating whether to enter, I again heard those shrieks which had alarmed me. I followed the sound. It led me to the entrance of this cloister at the extremity of which I discovered a party of men engaged in fight. I drew my sword and rushed forward, and the sensations which I felt on perceiving the Lady Mary cannot be expressed. Still, still heaven destines you the deliverer of Mary," said the Earl, gratitude swelling in his eyes. Oh, that I could remove that obstacle which withholds you from your just reward. A responsive sigh stole from Alan, and he remained silent. Never was the struggle of opposing feelings more violent than that which now agitated the bosom of the Earl. The worth of Alan arose more conspicuously bright from every shade with which misfortune had veiled it. His noble and disinterested enthusiasm in the cause of justice had attached him to the Earl, and had engaged him in a course of enterprises and of dangers which it required valor to undertake, and skill and perseverance to perform, and which had produced services for which no adequate reward could be found. He had rescued the Earl from captivity and death, and had twice preserved Mary in dangers. All these circumstances arose in strong reflection to the mind of Osbert. But the darkness of prejudice and ancient pride opposed their influence and weakened their effect. The joy which Mary felt on seeing Alan in safety, and still worthy of the esteem she had ever bore him, was dashed by the bitterness of reflection, and reflection imparted a melancholy which added to the languor of illness. At the dawn of day they quitted the abbey and set forward on their return to the castle. The Earl insisted upon Alan's accompanying them. On the way the minds of the party were variously and silently engaged. The Earl ruminated on the conduct of Alan and the late scene. Mary dwelt chiefly on the virtues of her lover, and on the dangers she had escaped. And Alan mused on his defeated purposes and anticipated future trials. The Earl's thoughts, however, were not so wholly occupied as to prevent his questioning the servant who had been employed by the Count concerning the further particulars of his scheme. The words of the Count, importing that he had once already endangered his life, had not escaped the notice of the Earl, though they were uttered in a moment of too much distraction to suffer him to demand an explanation. He now inquired of the man concerning the mysterious scene of the vaults. You, I suppose, are not ignorant who were the persons from whom I received my wound. I, my Lord, had no concern in that affair, wicked as I am. I could not raise my hands against your life. But you know who did. I, I, yes, my Lord, I was afterwards told, but they did not mean to hurt your lordship, not mean to hurt me. What then were their designs? And who were the people? That accident happened long before the Count ever spoke to me of his purpose. Indeed, my Lord, I had no hand in it, and heaven knows how I grieved for your lordship and, well, well, inform me who were the persons in the vaults and what were their design. I was told by a fellow servant, but he made me promise to be secret. But it is proper your lordship should know all, and I hope your lordship will forgive me for having listened to it. Robert, said he, as we were talking one day of what had happened, Robert, said he, there is more in this matter than you or anybody thinks. But it is not for me to tell all I know. With that I begged he would tell me what he knew. He still kept refusing. I promised him faithfully I would not tell. And so at last he told me, why there is my Lord Count there, he is in love with our young lady, and to be sure as sweet a lady she is, as ever eyes looked upon. But she don't like him. And so finding himself refused, he is determined to marry her at any rate, and means some night to get into the castle and carry her off. What then? Was it the Count who wounded me? Be quick in your relation. No, my lord, it was not the Count himself, but two of his people whom he had sent to examine the castle, and particularly the windows of my young lady's apartment from whence he designed to have carried her, when everything was ready for execution. Those men were let within the walls, through a way underground, which leads into the vaults, by my fellow servant. As I afterwards was told, and they escaped through the same way, their meeting with your lordship was accidental, and they fought only in self-defense, for they had no orders to attack anybody. And who is the villain that connived at this scheme? It was my fellow servant who fled with the Count's people, whom he himself let within the ramparts. Forgive me, my lord, but I did not dare tell. He threatened my life if I betrayed the secret. After a journey of fatigue and unpleasant reflections, they arrived on the second morning at the castle of Offlin. The Countess, during the absence of her son, had endured a state of dreadful suspense. The Baroness, in her friendship, had endeavored to soothe her distress by her constant presence. She was engaged in this amiable office, when the trampling of horses in the court reached the ears of Matilda. It is my son, said she, rising from her chair. It is my son. He brings me life or death. She said no more, but rushed into the hall, and in a moment after clasp, her almost expiring daughter to her bosom. The transport of the scene repelled utterance, sobs and tears were all that could be given. The general joy, however, was suddenly interrupted by the Baroness, who had followed Matilda into the hall, and who now fell senseless to the ground. Delight yielded to surprise and to the business of assisting the object of it. On recovering, the Baroness looked wildly round her. Was it a vision that I saw or a reality? The whole company moved their eyes round the hall, but could discover nothing extraordinary. It was himself, his very air, his features, that benign countenance which I have so often contemplated in imagination. Her eyes still seemed insert to some ideal object, and they began to doubt whether a sudden frenzy had not seized her brain. Ah, again, said she, and instantly relapsed. Their eyes were now turned towards the door on which she had gazed. It was Allen who entered, with water which he had brought for the Countess, and on whom the attention of all present was centered. He approached ignorant of what had happened, and his surprise was great when the Baroness, reviving, fixed her eyes mournfully upon him, and asked him to uncover his arm. It is, it is my Philip! said she, with strong emotion. I have indeed found my long lost child. That strawberry on his arm confirms the decision. Send for the man who calls himself your father, and for my servant Patrick. The sensations of the mother and the son may be more easily conceived than described. Those of Mary were little inferior to theirs, and the whole company awaited with trembling eagerness the arrival of the two persons whose testimony was to decide this interesting affair. They came. This young man you call your son, said the Baroness. I do, and please your ladyship. He replied with a degree of confusion which belied his words. When Patrick came, his instant surprise on seeing the old man declared the truth. Do you know this person? said the Baroness to Patrick. Yes, my lady, I know him too well. It was to him I gave your infant son. The old man started with surprise. Is that youth the son of your ladyship? Yes. Then God forgive me for having thus long detained him from you. But I was ignorant of his birth, and received him into my cottage as a foundling, suckered by Lord Malcolm's compassion. The whole company crowded round them. Alan fell at the feet of his mother, and bathed her hand with his tears. Gracious God, for what hast thou reserved me? He could say no more. The Baroness raised him, and again pressed him in transport to her heart. It was some time before either of them could speak. And all present were too much affected to interrupt the silence. At length the Baroness presented Lara to her brother. Such a mother, and have I such a sister? said he. Lara wept silently upon his neck the joy of her heart. The Earl was the first who recovered composure sufficient to congratulate Alan and embracing him. Oh, happy moment when I can indeed embrace you as my brother. The whole company now poured forth their joy and their congratulations. All but Mary, whose emotions almost overcame her, and were too powerful for utterance. The company now adjourned to the drawing room, and Mary withdrew to take that repose she so much required. She was sufficiently recovered in a few hours to join her friends in the banqueting room. After the transports of the scene were subsided, I have yet much to hope and much to fear, said Philip Malcolm, who was yet Alan in everything but in name. You madam addressing the Baroness, you will willingly become my advocate with her whom I have so long and so ardently loved. May I hope continued he taking tenderly the hand of Mary who stood trembling by that you have not been insensible to my long attachment, and that you will confirm the happiness which is now offered me. A smile of ineffable sweetness broke through the melancholy which had long plowed at her features, and which even the present discovery had not been able entirely to dissipate, and her eye gave the consent which her tongue refused to utter. The conversation for the remainder of the day was occupied by the subject of the discovery and with a recital of Mary's adventure. It was determined that on the morrow the marriage of the Earl should be concluded. On this happy discovery the Earl ordered the gates of the castle to be thrown open, mirth and festivity resounded through the walls, and the evening closed in universal rejoicings. On the following morning the chapel of the castle was decorated for the marriage of the Earl, who with Laura came attended by Philip, now Baron Malcolm, by Mary and the whole family. When they approached the altar, the Earl, addressing himself to his bride, now, my Laura, said he, we may celebrate those nuptials which have twice been so painfully interrupted, and which are to crown me with felicity. This day shall unite our families in a double marriage, and reward the worth of my friend. It is now seen that those virtues which stimulated him to prosecute for another the cause of justice, mysteriously urged him to the recovery of his rights. Virtue may for a time be pursued by misfortune, and justice be obscured by the transient triumphs of vice. But the power whose peculiar attributes they are clears away the clouds of error, and even in this world reveals his throne of justice. The Earl stepped forward, and joining the hands of Philip and Mary, surely said he, this is a moment of perfect happiness. I can now reward those virtues which I have ever loved, and those services to which every gift must be inadequate. But this I now bestow. End of Chapter 12 Recording by Lauren Randall End of the Castles of Othlin and Dunbane by Anne Radcliffe