Chapter I: Part 1

Feudal Tyrants;
or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. Vol. II

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FEUDAL TYRANTS;

OR,

_The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans_.

A ROMANCE.

_TAKEN FROM THE GERMAN._
IN FOUR VOLUMES.

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BY M. G. LEWIS,

AUTHOR OF

_The Bravo of Venice, Adelgitha, Rugantino, &c._

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VOL. II.

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_SECOND EDITION_.
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The portals sound, and pacing forth
With stately steps and slow,
High potentates, and dames of regal birth,
And mitred fathers in long order go.

— GRAY.

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London:

Printed by D. N. SHURY, Berwick-Street, Soho,

FOR J. F. HUGHES, WIGMORE STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
──
1807

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FEUDAL TYRANTS,

&c. &c. &c.

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PART THE SECOND.

_Elizabeth, Countess of Torrenburg, to Count Oswald of March._

With this letter, my dear brother, you will receive a part of the manuscripts, which I engaged to send you: these leaves contain the memoirs of the unfortunate Urania Venosta, which have interested me greatly from a variety of reasons. I had erroneously supposed that the MS. was complete, but it proves to be nothing more than a fragment. Perhaps I imprudently included the second part of her adventures in the number of those papers, which I was compelled to restore to the Abbess’s custody; but I am rather more inclined to believe, that Time has destroyed the remainder of these memoirs, whose conclusion I am so desirous of perusing.

It’s true, I have found a few more detached leaves, and the last page or two; but these only serve to augment a curiosity, which would have remained totally unsatisfied, if I had suffered the labour of examining the moth-eaten parchments to overcome my perseverance. I have now no reason to regret the trouble which I gave myself, since I owe to it the possession of several other manuscripts, relating to persons and circumstances already mentioned by Urania. The memoirs of Minna of Homburg and of Lucretia Malaspina are both lost; but I have found much respecting the two Ladies of Sargans, to whom Urania’s narrative is addrest; much too respecting the noble and ill-fated Adelaide; as also several letters written by the latter, one of which seems to supply tolerably well the chasm in Urania’s memoirs. As soon as I succeed in decyphering them (which, thanks to the dust and the moths, is no easy task) I will not fail to impart to you their contents.

You will ask me, what impression the perusal of this history has made on my heart. Ah! my dear brother, it is but too certain, that the unfortunate are apt to find their own resemblance every where! At first, how little similar do the fortunes of Urania and myself appear! and yet how easily might it have happened, that we should have both been sisters united in the same misfortune! Might not Henry of Montfort, (whose loss has cost me so many tears,) in spite of his fair exterior, have proved at heart as great a monster, as Ethelbert of Carlsheim proved in spite of _his_? May not the prayers, with which I solicited Heaven to grant me Henry’s hand, have pleaded for that, whose possession would have proved to me the bitterest curse of Heaven?

Eternal Providence! never more will I murmur that you denied me a request, whose consequences were known to you far better than to myself. I besought you to bestow on me a blessing; you granted it by withholding that, which if conferred on me would perhaps have made me miserable for ever.

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_Adelaide of the Beacon-Tower to Urania Venosta._

Oh! tell me, unhappy wife of my unhappy father; you, whom I would so gladly call my mother, had not she to whom Nature bade me give that valued name, compelled me to blend with it no ideas but those of pain and terror; you, whom I already love, and whose future affection I wish so anxiously to obtain; oh! tell me, Urania, was it but a dream, or have I indeed found at length the friend and sister whom I sought so long in vain, and whose counsels and whose comfort my tortured heart needs so greatly?

Yet alas! what avails it that we have met? Already are we separated, as I feared we should be, and separated (as I _now_ fear) for ever! Yet, much as I grieve for what I lose myself by this event, still more do I grieve to think, that what _you_ lose is greater!

How much do I now reproach myself, that when I stole to your tent at midnight to warn you and the fair partner of your captivity of what was about to happen, I should have been so tardy in acknowledging,—“_Count Donat of Carlsheim is a man not to be trusted_.”—Yet forgive me, Urania; Donat is my brother; and oh! it is so painful to declare a brother’s disgrace!

I charge you, dear friend, in the name of Heaven and the Holy Virgin I charge you, suffer not yourself to be deceived by his perfidious friendship. On your journey to the Castle seize the first opportunity of escaping; should you be once inclosed within the gates of Sargans, you have nothing to expect but a cruel death or an ignominious prison; and, alas for the damsel of Mayenfield! _she_ has a still more dreadful lot to apprehend!

That hypocritical abbot Guiderius, or whatever be his detested name, who came to my brother’s camp with his monks under pretence of pleading in your behalf, was skilful enough to discover Count Donat’s darling weakness. He promised him the possession of a young beauty, who (according to his account) was entirely at the Abbot’s disposal. My brother, who never confides in the word of ecclesiastics, insisted on the immediate accomplishment of this promise; and the poor Minna was betrayed into the seducer’s hands. You accompanied her, and by your presence increased the ardour with which I had resolved to labour at preserving the innocent girl; a service which I had already rendered to many others, who found themselves enveloped in the same snare.

I saw you, Urania; oh! how strong was the sympathy which attracted my heart towards you, my heart to which at this moment a friend is so necessary! It’s true I have a sister; but she.... But you have already _seen_ Mellusina, and you shall now _know_ her.

Mellusina is privy to the designs of her faithless husband. Nothing but the promise of overlooking all his errors of this nature, and the temptation of her immense wealth, could have induced Donat to bestow on her the title of his wife. She is neither lovely in person, nor amiable in manners; and she bears a mortal hatred to every woman, who possesses those advantages which Nature has denied to herself. I cannot boast much of her good will towards me; yet I am compelled to pay my court to her, that she may not injure me with my brother, of whose powerful help my dear unfortunate husband stands at present but too much in need.

I trust a time will come when I may reveal to you the whole history of my sorrows; at present I can only repeat my warning. Yet surely some invisible power was disposed last night to give that warning in my stead! What could be the cause of that singular and terrific sensation, which we all felt at that moment, when Mellusina’s sleep at length left me at liberty to afford you the information, which this letter contains? What was it that startled us all at the same instant, and made us utter a scream of fear? What form was it that passed before us so swiftly? Whence came that sound, which seemed like a distant bell tolling? Whose were the cold fingers which seemed to grasp my neck?——Struck with an universal terror, we sprang from our seats at once, and asked each other—“What was that?”—Even the slumbering Mellusina was rouzed from her insensibility by alarm, and the hand with which she drew me from your tent was cold and trembling!

Surely, Urania, this _must_ have been the warning of your guardian angel, who wished to accomplish that which Mellusina’s presence forbad my performing without danger ... unless indeed I were to give this mysterious event a different, and a more dreadful meaning! I know not why, but since that moment of terror in which we parted, the thought of my father never quits me for an instant! I trust no misfortune has befallen him.—Is he not in the hands of his son?—Alas! alas! and is not Donat capable of violating even the first and most sacred rights of Nature?

Oh! good, good father! since I have seen Urania Venosta, how much more warmly does my heart glow towards you with filial affection! How despicable, how execrable was _she_ described to be, for whose sake my mother was sacrificed; and how different did I find her from the description! Her dignified air, her interesting countenance, inspired even the savage Donat with respect! Oh! surely I have been equally deceived respecting Count Ethelbert; surely I shall still enjoy the blessing of being clasped to the bosom of a _virtuous_ father!

Once again, beloved Urania, be cautious both with regard to your own proceedings and Minna’s.—Fail not to let me know, as soon as possible, what passes at the Castle, if your evil genius decrees that you should be brought thither, and if an opportunity is afforded you of answering me by the faithful messenger, by whom this letter will be delivered. With regard to myself, I shall only inform you briefly, that my intention of warning you was suspected. Mellusina was commissioned to watch over me last night, as soon as it was discovered, that I had stolen to your tent unknown to my brother and his wife. In order to prevent the execution of my good design this morning, I was forcibly compelled to suffer you to depart without me for the Castle of Sargans; and I understand, that my absence was accounted for to you by the pretence of sudden illness. I am now setting out, by Donat’s orders, for the convent of St. Mary, at Basle: the Abbess is my secret friend, and soon after my arrival you shall hear from me. I trust, that I shall learn what has happened to you at the return of my messenger; and I need not assure you, that nothing in my power to assist you shall be neglected for a moment. Farewell!

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_Urania Venosta to the Abbess of St. Mary’s._

The explanation which you demand of me, dear mother, would be very painful to make. For the benefit of my husband’s grand-daughters, I have confided to paper the whole history of my misfortunes; and the first time that you visit our Domina, the manuscript shall be laid before you. For the present I shall only tell you thus much: From that fearful moment when an invisible agent warned me, that misfortune was at hand; when we all felt, saw, heard something, which even yet none of us have been able to describe or understand; when I saw my earthly guardian angel, _your_ Adelaide and _mine_, torn from me, and felt (yet knew not wherefore) that a separation from her was the signal for robbing me of all my hopes; from that moment was I doomed to experience sorrows, whose bitterness was till then unknown to me, practised as I was in the school of suffering.

The morning had scarcely broken, when we set forward for the Castle of Sargans; illness, as it was said, compelled Adelaide to remain behind, and her letter was not delivered till too late to be of use. Ere we reached the fortress, intelligence arrived that my unfortunate husband was no more. Guiderius, to whom the charge of him had been committed, had either been too remiss in watching him, or had trembled for his own miserable existence while exposed to a madman’s fury; or, as his enemies scrupled not to whisper (though the fact seems too atrocious for me to give it credit), had himself been the means of “ridding the world of an useless creature.” Such was the expression used by the insolent vassal, who informed Count Donat that his father had perished by an untimely death: I had the satisfaction of seeing, that the Count of Carlsheim rewarded the base wretch as he deserved!

The body of Count Ethelbert was found in the ruined well, into which (so said the Abbot) he had precipitated himself in a fit of frantic passion. This story did not meet with implicit belief; even Count Donat was openly among the disbelievers. Yet (after I had passed some time in the prison, which I was compelled to enter on the very evening of my arrival at that castle, of which I was the rightful owner) I was assured by my jailors that the Abbot of Curwald was fully reinstated in Count Donat’s favour, and constantly partook of the licentious feasts, the noise of whose riotous pleasures penetrated even to the depth of my subterraneous dungeon.

Yet I was not entirely forsaken. My guardian angel, my kind protecting Adelaide suffered no circumstance to escape her, that might tend to my relief. On the first evening of our acquaintance (alas! it was the first and last, for never since have I been permitted to embrace the dear one!) I mentioned accidentally that the daughters of the Emperor Rudolf had been my earliest friends and playmates: from this trifling hint did Adelaide derive means for effecting my deliverance. No sooner was she permitted to leave the convent, in which her brother at first caused her to be confined, than she made use of her liberty to procure mine; and (since she knew that gentle means would be of no avail) she endeavoured with the strong arm of authority to force me out of the power of my inhuman jailor.

She, who in a single interview had been inspired with so much interest and compassion for the unfortunate Urania; she, who in spite of her want of power was still able to benefit me so much, could little suspect that six powerful Princesses would remain inactive, when the business was to rescue from misery the companion of their childhood, the selected friend of their youth. Alas! she found herself mistaken: five of Rudolf’s daughters were the wives of sovereign Princes; the interests of kingdoms occupied their attention, and left them no thought to bestow on her whom they had once treated as their equal, and to whom they had sworn at parting firm friendship and affection without end. One only of the five (it was Matilda, the virtuous Duchess of Saxony) listened to Adelaide’s unwearied intercessions, and exerted her whole influence to obtain the Emperor’s interference in my behalf.

Her endeavours were at length successful; but ere I regained my freedom many years had elapsed, and by all but Adelaide’s ardent friendship I was believed to be no more. During the first months of my captivity Minna of Mayenfield had experienced a persecution, compared to which my dungeon appeared a Paradise. For its particulars I refer you to the journal of her imprisonment, as written by herself: the Helvetian women even then were well skilled in guiding the pen, and did not yield in that noble art to many of the highest dignitaries of the church. Dear unfortunate Minna! who can restrain their tears while reading in your own affecting language the sad account of sufferings and trials, almost too difficult for the strength of a Saint to endure with fortitude or even patience, much less for an unprotected girl; and yet Minna passed through the flames victorious!

The enamoured Donat neglected no means of seduction, which might tempt his virtuous captive from the path of honour, and in this shameful attempt Mellusina was his faithful assistant. It is shocking to think, that a wife should be so depraved as to aid in removing the obstacles, which impede her husband in his licentious pursuits; and that a woman should forget her sex so far, as to aim at the destruction of female innocence! I am persuaded, since the world was created, there has been but one woman capable of such unworthy conduct; and that one was Mellusina.

The fascinating arts of seduction having proved vain, they were followed by violence and ill-treatment; and when, after passing several months in ignorance of her fate, Lodowick of Homburg at length forced Count Donat’s fortress in search of his bride, he found her in a subterraneous cell, similar to that in which I was myself imprisoned. I heard the tumult occasioned by her deliverance, and doubted not that my own was at hand.—Alas! my hopes were vain! My feeble cries could not reach the hearing of my friends; they knew not that those caverns contained any captive except Minna. Mellusina managed to persuade my adopted daughter and her deliverer, that I had paid the debt of Nature. They shed unavailing tears upon the grave, which the deceiver pointed out to them as mine, while buried alive beneath the castle’s foundations I shrieked to them for help in vain; and I sank from the height of my deceived hopes into the deepest despair, till time and faith in God at length restored me to composure.

The only effect resulting to myself from Minna’s deliverance was, that the strictness of my imprisonment was increased. The Count of Homburg’s desperate enterprize could only have succeeded, while Donat was absent; and the latter now seldom left the Castle, lest similar accidents should occur. They say, that the fires of the infernal regions burn doubly fierce, when their monarch returns from his wanderings on earth; such too was the case in the Castle of Sargans—When their tyrant breathed the same air with them, the chains of the poor captives were rendered doubly heavy, and their sufferings doubly sharp!

Yet was he not permitted to kill me, since Heaven had decreed, that I should at last see the moment of deliverance. Adelaide still maintained, that I was in existence; imperial majesty interfered in my behalf, and insisted on Donat’s producing proofs of my death. My tyrant became embarrassed, and at length proposed to me that my liberty should be restored, provided I would voluntarily make over the whole of my possessions (which descended to me in right of my uncle) to the man, who had so long unlawfully possessed them. I joyfully embraced the offer. I had long considered liberty as the only real wealth; I had long harboured no other wish than to end my wretched life in the repose and security of a cloister!

The sacrifice of my inheritance was completed, and Donat condescended to conduct me from my prison with his own hand; he even carried his hypocrisy so far (when he presented me to the nobleman who had negociated with him by order of the Emperor and the Duchess of Saxony) as to call me “his kind mother, to whose affection he was indebted for the greatest part of his possessions.” Yes! the wretch dared to profane the name of mother! How ill would that sacred word have accorded with the marks of his tyranny, with which my wrists were still scarred, had it been pronounced before impartial hearers? But the persons into whose charge I was delivered, were contented with having obtained my liberty, the only point expressed in their instructions. Far was it from the intention of my royal deliverers, that I should have been compelled to pay so dearly for my escape from Donat’s power; but I was myself prepared to make the sacrifice, and was besides much too weak to vindicate my rights against my powerful oppressor. Those who could have advised me and acted in my behalf, Edith and her daughter, were far from me, and still believed me to be no longer in existence.

Under the protection of the imperial envoys (though in truth their manner of executing their commission had given me but little reason to believe them much disposed to protect me) I hastened to the convent, which I had selected for my future abode. Yet I left behind me in Count Donat’s castle a treasure, with which I was deeply grieved to part, and which I would most joyfully have taken with me. During the few days which want of strength to begin my journey compelled me to remain his guest, the Count of Carlsheim thought it proper to shew me every mark of outward respect; his attentions, which he forced me to endure, excited in me only sentiments of disgust at his hypocrisy, till he presented to me his daughters, or (as he chose to call them) my grand-children, whom my bounty had destined to be the future heiresses of Sargans.

They were lovely innocent cherubs, born during the second year of my captivity. The birth of these twin-sisters had cost Mellusina her life; and the loss of a mother so unworthy might have been reckoned their gain, had not Heaven abandoned them to the care of a father, whose example was likely to ruin them both in body and mind. Oh! Emmeline! oh! Amalberga! how closely did you entwine yourselves round my heart, even in those few days of our first acquaintance! When I was about to leave you, you clung to me, wept, and begged me to take you with me! Oh! could you but have known what I suffered, when I tore myself from your little arms, Heaven knows how unwillingly!—I cast a melancholy look on Count Donat, and in the most humble manner hazarded a request: but instantly his brow was clouded with frowns, and in an ironical tone he asked me—“Whether I could not confide in his sincerity without his delivering up hostages?”—

Heaven be praised, his sincerity and his insincerity have been since then a matter of indifference to me; protected by these holy walls and the power of the good Domina of Zurich, I no longer tremble at the thoughts of Count Donat’s hatred. Nor have unexpected causes of rejoicing been denied me, even in this abode of pious seclusion. The youngest of the Emperor Rudolf’s daughters, the gentle and pious Euphemia, whose grave and prudent air had made her an object of ridicule to her sportive sisters and the thoughtless Urania, and who in the days of petulant youth had ever been excluded from our circle and our girlish secrets; Euphemia was the first, whose open arms received me on my arrival at the convent of Zurich. She congratulated me with a joy, which evidently came from the heart, on my having reached a place of security; and she offered me a friendship, whose value I now first learnt to estimate, when time and sorrow had humbled and instructed me.

She had learnt my story through her sister, the Duchess of Saxony, and had quitted the convent of Tull, where she led the life of a Saint, to wait for my arrival at Zurich, and comfort me in person for the many sufferings which I had undergone. I have since had good reason to believe, that her approach to Count Donat’s neighbourhood, and her declared resolution never to rest till she had obtained my liberty (a resolution which she took care should reach the Castle of Sargans), had no slight weight in influencing the determination of my tyrant: the wretched Urania would probably have expired long since in Count Donat’s dungeons, had not the eyes of this benevolent Princess been fixed upon the forlorn one’s destiny!

What have I not besides to thank her for! It is to her that I am indebted for a reunion with my beloved Edith and her daughter, who received me as one just risen from the dead. It is to her too that I am indebted for your valuable friendship, Holy Mother, and for the hope of once more embracing my preserver, my sister, my Adelaide! Till that wished-for moment arrives, never must you expect me, venerable Lady, to desist from entreating you to make me more accurately informed respecting the past adventures and present situation of my unequalled friend. I know, they are both strange and melancholy; and a cloister is exactly the place, where the relation of such histories nourish the emotions of holy pity, and produce a calm submissive adoration of the wonderful and mysterious ordinations of that Providence, which formed and which governs the world.

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_PART THE THIRD._

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MEMOIRS

OF

_Adelaide of the Beacon-Tower_;

Written by the Abbess of St. Mary’s,
and addressed to Urania Venosta,
Countess of Carlsheim and Sargans.

I must begin, noble Lady, by requesting your pardon for having delayed so long to make known to you an history, which I thought would have more interest in the mouth of its heroine, than it could possibly receive from my unskilful pen. Fatal events (I grieve to say it) have for ever deprived you of that satisfaction; and you must either learn Adelaide’s adventures from me, or from no one.

Have not these few words already led you to guess the melancholy truth, which this letter is intended to break to you? Oh! that the painful task of being the first to inform you “that Adelaide is no more,” had been imposed upon another! Yet surely it is scarcely possible, that report should have been totally silent at Zurich, respecting events which have excited the attention of the whole German Empire.

Yet dry your tears, virtuous Urania! they who have lived in the world so long as we have done, should not grieve for the departure of our beloved-ones; the hope of speedily rejoining them in another world, never to be separated from them more, should console us under this temporary deprivation. Lament not, that you are prevented from shewing your gratitude to your generous deliverer; she will find the reward of her glorious deeds in Heaven; alas! she found none on earth!

Tell me, dear Adelaide, thou suffering Saint! Chaste martyr of the holiest love, say, with what feelings do you now enshrined in glory review the sorrows, which oppressed you in your mortal progress? Doubtless you review them not with such tears as obscure the eyes of your friend, while in this mournful hour of midnight solitude she retraces the transactions of your eventful life! Methinks I see your form radiant with light hover round me, and hear you with a smile bid me weep no more over afflictions, which now seem to yourself no longer deserving of a single tear!

You see, Urania, how difficult I find the task of beginning a narrative, which must rend open anew many an old and cruel wound; you see how anxiously I endeavour to delay the executing so painful a commission. But I gave you my promise! You shall be satisfied!—Permit me, however, to be as brief as possible, and to reserve the relation of minute particulars till the time, when I shall have an opportunity of explaining them to you in person.

That which I look upon as the first of our dear Adelaide’s misfortunes, was her being the daughter of Lucretia Malaspina. Lucretia (you already know but too well) was not lovely enough to bind Count Ethelbert’s heart in lasting fetters; nor did she possess that generous and almost Saint-like forbearance, with which Urania supported the misfortunes necessarily entailed upon the wife of such an husband. The discovery of an artifice, which her short-sighted policy had induced her to practice upon him, contributed to alienate Ethelbert’s affections, and to convert what already was indifference into the most positive aversion.

Lucretia’s wealth was a chief inducement with the Count of Carlsheim, when he offered her his hand. The birth of a son gave occasion to a discovery, that the estates believed to be her own absolute property were only held in trust for her eldest son, to whom they descended with the first breath of air that inflated his lungs. Within a year after Lucretia had been brought to bed for the first time, to Ethelbert’s infinite surprize he was summoned to surrender his wife’s estates to the guardians, appointed by her uncle’s will to take charge of them, till the new-born infant should arrive at years of discretion. Ethelbert’s rage was extreme; he was compelled to surrender the property, and in revenge was barbarous enough to tear the child from its mother’s arms, commit it to the care of strangers without informing her to whom, and then to abandon her with every expression of hatred and contempt. Lucretia bore this parting (dearly as she loved her incensed husband) with the more fortitude, from her secret consciousness that she nourished in her bosom another innocent creature, and from her fears that if Ethelbert were present at the time of her delivery, the new-born babe would be separated from her in the same manner, that she had been deprived of its brother. The same apprehension, on being brought to bed of twins, induced her to conceal the birth of one of them, in order that she might at least have the pleasure of seeing it grow up under her own eye, should Ethelbert’s vengeance induce him to deprive her of the other. Accident directed her choice, which fell upon Adelaide.

The event, however, proved her fears to have been for this time unfounded. At a distance from her, and totally engrossed by his own libertine pursuits, Ethelbert scarcely deigned to bestow upon her a single thought. Yet Lucretia’s partiality for her son Donat, which every day increased, prevented her from revealing the birth of his twin-sister, who would then have had a joint and equal right with him to those estates, of which at that period the death of his elder brother (while yet an infant) made him to be supposed the sole inheritor. Thus Adelaide grew up under her mother’s eyes, and was the play-mate of her brother, without having the least suspicion how nearly she was related to either of them. This was of inconceivable advantage to her in her early education. She believed herself to be a vassal’s daughter in that house, of which she ought to have shone as the joint-heiress; and as the youthful Donat enjoyed all the advantages of his rank, and made his dependents feel the whole weight of his influence, many a lesson of humility and patient suffering did Adelaide learn in her youth, which was of material service to her in the painful scenes, which she had afterwards to encounter. Donat ruled his mother with the most despotic authority; his resemblance to herself, that violence of passions which he possessed in common with her, and the docility with which he received her pernicious instructions had won Lucretia’s whole heart, and left no room in it for her neglected daughter; who thus was early afforded frequent opportunities of submitting to injustice, without being conscious that her treatment was unjust.

Lucretia had been wise enough to foresee, long before they arrived, that such events might very possibly happen, as actually did at length take place. With all her love for Ethelbert, she had discovered his faults sufficiently to make her take precautions for her own security; and she endeavoured to confine his actions by means, which though they still preserved her the title of his wife, were nevertheless insufficient to prevent her suffering the extreme of misery and disappointment.

She knew well, that little as Count Ethelbert _loved_ religion, he greatly _dreaded_ it: she therefore (previous to their marriage) insisted on his taking a most solemn oath, that however they might disagree, or however his sentiments might alter, he would never attempt her life, nor would (even in case of a divorce) make the offer of his hand to a rival, as long as she herself should still be in existence. She thus hoped to bind her inconstant lover in eternal chains; but she little dreamt of so tyrannical a subterfuge, as that by which the hypocrite contrived to evade the consequences of his oath.

Though she found all endeavours to regain his affection were vain, she still watched her husband’s conduct with jealous eyes. While he visited in turn every Italian state, whose reputation promised him new means of indulging his propensity to pleasure, her spies still pursued him wherever his footsteps strayed. Lucretia was accurately informed respecting his intrigues; and seldom did the objects of Ethelbert’s licentious passions escape without experiencing the vengeance of his wife. His short-lived inclination once gratified, the Count of Carlsheim heeded but little what became of his victim, and Lucretia was suffered to exercise her resentment unimpeded; but the case was altered, when Urania Venosta became the mistress of his heart. Her extraordinary beauty, her high rank, and her immense possessions made him at the same time desirous of becoming her husband, hopeless of gratifying the passion with which she inspired him, except by giving her his hand. It therefore became absolutely necessary, that Lucretia should be removed. He contrived by various well-imagined artifices to lure her into Germany; where she had no sooner set her foot, than he caused her to be seized privately, and confined in Ravenstein Castle. A plausible story was then spread of her having expired suddenly: no one was interested to dispute the fact, except her son, who in truth was fondly attached to her; but his youth and devoted attention to licentious pursuits prevented Donat from inquiring minutely into the circumstances, which attended his mother’s death. Lucretia was believed to be no more by all but Count Ethelbert, who was thus left at liberty to pursue his designs upon the lovely heiress of Sargans.

Adelaide had accompanied her mistress (for such she was taught to believe her mother) when she quitted Italy; she refused to be separated from her, followed her courageously to the Castle of Ravenstein, and shared with her the miseries of her long captivity. Then was it, that the mother’s heart for the first time felt a sentiment of tenderness for her rejected daughter. Adelaide learnt from Lucretia’s lips her real name and rank, and while she clasped her to her bosom, was permitted for the first time to call her mother. Yet was the severity of her fate but little alleviated by this discovery. Lucretia’s heart was naturally hard; it was incapable of harbouring so pure a sentiment as that of true parental love. Long sufferings and much disappointment had still further embittered her character. To that kind of moral delirium, which ever attends on a corrupted heart, was now frequently added a temporary alienation of the understanding; and when Adelaide reflected, that the wretched woman, whose complicated misery (both mental and corporeal) was every moment before her eyes, was her own mother, the knowledge of her birth only served to make her feel a double portion of agony.

Day and night was Lucretia employed in forming plans of revenge against her cruel husband, and the innocent usurper of her matrimonial rights. She had early taught the innocent Adelaide to hate Urania Venosta: in the eyes of that deceived girl the heiress of Sargans was nothing better than Count Ethelbert’s abandoned paramour, who had insolently forced herself into the place of his lawful wife, and had been the principal and conscious cause of her mother’s being confined in that deserted castle. But in despite of these prejudices against you, which Lucretia had infused into the heart of her daughter, she found it impossible to make her enter cheerfully into the plans, which she was continually forming for your destruction. Adelaide was well aware, that her mother was totally without the power of carrying her wicked designs into execution; but still she could not prevail on herself to assume even the appearance of giving them her approbation. This obstinacy and incessant contradiction of her hopes and views at length made her so completely the object of Lucretia’s aversion, that she insisted on her daughter’s being separated from her, and confined in the deepest dungeon, which the subterraneous caverns of the Castle could supply.

You are acquainted, Urania, with the weakness of the man, who was at that time Castellan of Ravenstein. He possessed a singular kind of conscience, which frequently made his actions contradictory. Lucretia had found means to send letters to her son in Italy, of which conduct (as it was not formally prohibited in his instructions) he affected not to take notice; but as he had been ordered to confine her _rigorously_, she found it impossible to obtain from him the slightest alleviation of her sufferings. Again, as Adelaide had been delivered to his custody at the same time with her mother, no entreaties could prevail on him to restore her to liberty; but it required but little persuasion to make him believe, that she ought to submit to the punishment, which the person (whom he believed to be her mistress) thought proper to inflict on her.

Adelaide therefore was separated from her unnatural mother. She was removed to a subterraneous cell, whose strength proved the means of preserving her on that dangerous night, when Lucretia in despair and frenzy enveloped the whole fortress in flames. The fire raged above her; but she knew not what occasioned the confusion, which seemed to have taken place in the Castle. Her wretched mother died without mentioning her name, and her corse was committed to the earth unknown to her daughter. The deliverance of Urania and the Countess of Mayenfield was effected; the Castellan, who alone knew the place of her confinement, had been dangerously hurt during the conflagration, and in his last moments was too much occupied by the terrors of approaching dissolution to bestow a thought on his prisoner. No one knew what was become of the poor Adelaide; no one enquired, no one cared.

Scarcely had you escaped from Ravenstein through the well-imagined device of Walter Forest and his followers, before your jailors began to suspect the truth. A variety of circumstances combined to prove that they had been over-reached, and they were enabled to see the whole adventure in its true light. In truth, nothing but the rashness of the attempt and the rapidity of its execution could have prevented them from making this discovery sooner.

They were provoked beyond measure at the contemptible part, which they had played on this occasion; too much time had already elapsed to leave them any hopes of over-taking the fugitives, and to pursue them now had been only giving themselves unavailing trouble. When they reflected on the wrath of their tyrannical lord, terror almost turned their blood into ice. It was evident, that nothing could preserve them from destruction, but immediate flight from a place, whose natural horrors were increased tenfold by the ravages of the late conflagration, and by the recollection of many a cruel action, which they had committed within those dreary walls!

Flight then was resolved upon unanimously; but they thought it as well, not to quit Ravenstein with empty hands. It’s true, the whole wealth, that was to be found there above ground, consisted in chains, rusty armour, and instruments of torture; but report had assured them, that treasures of immense value lay concealed in the subterraneous parts of the Castle, and these they determined not to leave behind them.

They tore open the bosom of the rock, on which the Castle was situated, without discovering aught but Adelaide’s dungeon, in which she was found almost at the point of death, not having tasted nourishment for several days. They were humane enough to remove the unfortunate girl into a purer atmosphere, and to exert themselves in some measure to effect her recovery. Her beauty probably was of some use in persuading the younger part of the garrison to assist her the more readily; and what little wealth she possest in jewels (the only presents of her unnatural mother) purchased for her the protection of the more ancient and flinty-hearted.

While they were busied in attending upon her, she heard them talk much respecting the escape of two ladies, who as well as Lucretia and herself had been prisoners at Ravenstein: she also heard Walter Forest mentioned as their deliverer, for Count Ethelbert’s deceived soldiers had by that time discovered who their deceiver _really_ was, and where he resided. On these hints did Adelaide build a plan for her escape from the society of these lawless ruffians, for whose temporary mercy (she saw clearly) she was only indebted to her illness and to the hurry of their preparations for flight. At the risk of her life therefore did she, in spite of her weak condition, take the advantage of a stormy night to escape from the Castle, and hasten to the tranquil valley inhabited by that friend of the opprest, Walter Forest; who failed not to receive the poor Adelaide also with the same openness and hospitality, with which he had received ourselves.

She rewarded his kindness by apprizing him of the attack, with which he had been threatened by the soldiery of Ravenstein in revenge for the artifice, by which he had contrived the escape of their captives. The warning however proved unnecessary, for the cowardly vassals of the Count of Carlsheim had already altered their plans. Adelaide’s flight had ruined their hopes of falling upon Walter by surprize; they did not dare to attack openly the brave inhabitants of the Frutiger Valley; and they judged it more prudent on many accounts to proceed without delay to request protection of the Lords of Eschenbach from the resentment of the Count of Carlsheim. Ravenstein Castle had originally belonged to the family of Eschenbach; the protection asked was readily granted; the rebellious vassals of Count Ethelbert took the oath of allegiance to their new master, and the shattered towers of Ravenstein Castle were delivered into his possession.

In the mean while Adelaide, under the escort of some of Walter Forest’s people, arrived in safety at the place, to which she had desired to be conducted. She knew in what part of Italy Donat was then resident; and as the prejudices, with which she had been inspired against Count Ethelbert and his second wife, prevented her seeking a refuge in her paternal mansion, there seemed for her no proper abode except with her brother. Her reception was kinder, than she had expected from her experience of Donat’s unfeeling nature. He was young, and indulged himself to excess in the pleasures of voluptuous Italy: if his dissolute mode of life had not bettered his heart, it had at least made it softer, and more accessible to compassion, when the indulgence of that sentiment did not interfere with his own gratifications. Therefore though he listened with impatience to Adelaide’s melancholy account of her mother’s sufferings in Ravenstein Castle, and suffered his pleasures to make him put off from day to day the affording Lucretia that aid, of which her daughter (who was still ignorant of her decease) never ceased to assure him, she stood so much in need: still was he not without compassion for the helpless situation of his sister, nor so blind to merit, as to reject the title of brother to a creature so amiable and so deserving. Of their relationship he had no doubt; Adelaide had brought with her the acknowledgment of her birth written by Lucretia’s own hand; and had other proofs been wanting, the strong resemblance imprest by Nature on the features of Donat and his sister would have left the spectator no doubt, that they sprang from the same parents.

Adelaide, however, soon discovered, that she could not long accept with propriety the protection afforded her in her brother’s house. Count Donat was surrounded day and night by a swarm of youthful libertines, who sported in the sunshine of his wealth, assisted him in his licentious pursuits, and were his companions in all the excesses of his unrestrained habits of enjoyment. His lovely sister became the general object of their insolent addresses; and Donat had neither firmness of mind nor love of reputation sufficient to guard her against their importunities.

She entreated permission to retire into a convent; but this was refused her with too much anger and determination to permit her making the request a second time. She therefore found herself compelled to give her hand to one of her admirers, who might at least protect her from the insults of the rest; and fortunately both for him and for myself, the man who was least displeasing to her among the number, was Rodolpho of the Beacon-Tower; was my brother. I have to thank _him_ for the happiness of calling one of the best of created women by the name of friend; I have to thank _her_ for having snatched from the jaws of ruin the dear but erring youth, whom I loved, though but his sister, with affection not less fervent than a mother’s!

At that time I resided in an Italian cloister, sufficiently near the theatre of Count Donat’s exploits for the report of them to reach me, and to make me bewail the fate of those, who were drawn by his example into the whirlpool of licentiousness.

Alas! the intelligence at length reached me, that my unfortunate brother was one of the young Count of Carlsheim’s most distinguished companions in his profligate career. Mutual friendship united them; and Rodolpho’s warm heart and too yielding nature made him look upon it as the highest pitch of human glory, when he trod in the footsteps of his abandoned friend.

My warnings and remonstrances had no effect upon the poor misguided youth. You must be well aware, dear Urania, that instructions coming from the mouth of a Nun are little regarded by the worldly, merely because it _is_ a Nun who speaks them. Very different was the effect of those reproofs, which the lovely Adelaide condescended to bestow on her admirer. I have already told you, that among the Damsel of Carlsheim’s suitors my brother was the man who displeased her the least; and this is the strongest term which can be applied to her sentiments towards him at that period. It is true, Rodolpho was esteemed (and that justly) the handsomest youth in Italy; but Adelaide’s mind was too elevated to suffer her heart to be captivated by the mere glare of a pleasing exterior. The man, whom she now honoured with her choice, would undoubtedly have been seen by her with as much indifference as his worthless companions, had she not found some traces of manly sense in his bewildered brain, and in his erring heart some still surviving sparks of the love of virtue.

What cannot female beauty, when united with solid sense and a feeling mind, effect upon a being, who is not yet totally lost to every sense of goodness? Guided by the hand of Adelaide, already had Rodolpho retraced many a step in the paths of vice: she made his immediate departure from the theatre of his follies the only condition, on which she would bestow on him her hand. He loved her; he complied: Adelaide became my sister, and my brother was entirely rescued.

Oh! dearest Adelaide, how heartily did I thank you (when bidding you farewell) for removing from the dangers of Italy a man, whom I knew to be as safe in your arms, as under the wings of his protecting angel! Willingly did I part with him, since he left me but to follow the path of virtue, in which you knew how to guide him so well!

She was no sooner Rodolpho’s wife, than Adelaide insisted on his immediately performing his promise to quit Italy: she saw, that her personal remonstrances had no power to hasten Donat’s departure for Ravenstein; and she was obliged to content herself with receiving from him the most solemn assurances, that he would proceed to liberate his unfortunate mother without further delay; assurances, which he had frequently made before, and which were performed no better on this, than they had been on former occasions.

Adelaide, advised her husband (who could refuse nothing to her entreaties) to accompany her to the Court of the German Emperor, where there was no doubt of his easily obtaining an employment suited to his rank and talents. Rodolpho had but one objection to offer against taking this step. Rudolf of Hapsburg had been succeeded in the imperial throne by Adolphus of Nassau. This unfortunate monarch, who was long the friend and benefactor of our family, was cut off in the middle of his glorious career by the sword of Albert of Austria; and his crown became the prey of the powerful conqueror, whose brows it still decorated. My father lost his life in defence of his sovereign at the battle of Worms; and his last words commanded his son Rodolpho (who together with many other young Knights made on that day his first trial in arms) to revenge the deaths of his father and his sovereign.

This dying injunction was the reason, why Rodolpho had hitherto refused to accept any employment from the successful Albert; and as good intentions frequently produce bad effects, the want of proper occupation had betrayed him into that dissolute course of life, from which he was snatched by Adelaide. This dying injunction was the cause also of his being still unwilling to lay himself under obligations to one, whom he had long been accustomed to call by no other name, than that of the “regicide Albert.”

Adelaide however prevailed at length over all his objections; he entered into the Imperial service, and endeavoured to forget, that the man, whom he acknowledged as his master, was the murderer of the beloved and still regretted Adolphus: yet frequently no influence less strong than Adelaide’s would have been able to repress the ebullitions of that struggling resentment, which still existed in his bosom, and to retain him firm in the path of his duties. However, in spite of his disinclination to Albert’s service, he proved himself to be a hero on all warlike occasions; and often did he express the warmest gratitude to his wife for having rescued him from his ignominious effeminacy, and excited the dormant flame of valour in his bosom.

Still he lost no opportunity of showing, that Albert’s yoke sat heavy upon him, and that he desired nothing more ardently than to exchange the Imperial service for some other. Dissentions arose between the Emperor and his two sons, the Margraves Dietman and Frederick; Rodolpho failed not to side with the latter, and became their father’s prisoner. The unfortunate Adelaide could of herself do nothing to assist her husband, and hastened to implore for him her brother’s powerful interference.

Count Donat’s situation had undergone material changes during her absence. She had left him, not only in possession of the large domains bequeathed him by his maternal grandfather, but the favourite of a Prince who loaded him with favours and wealth. Sudden death had deprived him of this powerful protector; his unbounded extravagance had exhausted his treasures; and no means of rescuing himself from the most degrading state of poverty was left him, except an union with a person incapable of inspiring him with the least affection; and who had nothing to recommend her to his choice except her immense property, and her childish passion for this handsome libertine. Shortly before Rodolpho’s imprisonment had Mellusina become the wife of Count Donat; and on Adelaide’s arrival in Italy, she understood, that her brother had at length set out on his long-promised expedition to Ravenstein Castle.

Thither she followed him, and was politely though coldly received by her new sister-in-law. Mellusina gave herself out to be a natural daughter of the deceased Emperor Adolphus; and she believed herself entitled by so illustrious an origin to treat every one else with haughtiness and contempt. Had she had any other resource, never would Adelaide have accepted the protection which was here afforded her with such insolent condescension; but friendless and destitute as was her present situation, she now could do nothing but suffer and submit.

She found her brother too much occupied by his own projects to bestow a single thought upon the affairs of others. He listened not to the imploring voice of his sister; he heeded not the misfortunes of his former friend. Grief for the untimely death of his mother, who had perished through his inattention to her prayers, and projects of revenue against those whom he accused of her sufferings, engrossed his every thought. Adelaide could obtain nothing from him, except a promise of assistance when he should have satisfied his animosity against Lucretia’s murderers; and instead of seeing him lead his forces to the fortress in which her husband languished, she was obliged to follow him to Sargans, where she had many a painful scene to undergo, of which you, dear Urania, were partly a witness.