Chapter VI: Part II: ◆ ◆ ◆ (6)

The Abbot was obliged to be more communicative with the Domina of Engelberg. He found no great difficulty in obtaining her permission, that Mary (or Constantia, as she was now called, while Rosanna resumed her baptismal name of Ida.... Yes, Elizabeth! Ida and Constantia were their _real_ names!) that Mary should for a time make trial of a worldly life, and should postpone her adoption of the veil till after the unravelling of her destiny. Three conditions however were annexed to the permission; first, that in case her call to a religious profession should be confirmed, that she should pronounce her vows in no other Convent than Engelberg; secondly, that in remembrance of her cloister-duties she should always wear the habit of the Order; lastly, that in case of the worst (by which the pious lady meant an union with an earthly bridegroom) she should not assume a worldly dress till her wedding-day, and should purchase the permission of renouncing the veil by a handsome benefaction to the Convent of Engelberg. The abbot understood the manners of the cloister, and agreed to these conditions on behalf of his wards; who in the mean while heaved many a sigh, while preparing for a journey, from which their hearts boded no good.

In the sphere in which they now moved, every thing appeared strange to them, and consequently disagreeable, from their not being accustomed to such manners and appearances. The splendour of Bishop Sigisbert’s court (at which they now resided) was too dazzling to be pleasant to eyes, which were only used to admire the simple charms of Nature; and when compared with those scenes, in which their childhood had past so happily, everything which now offered itself to their notice seemed ridiculous and frequently disgusting.

The Bishop, who felt the greater interest in the welfare of his young wards on account of their simplicity and want of relish for the dissipations of the world, was soon obliged to consent to their retiring from his court, and taking refuge in the tranquillity of a Convent at Zurich. Here Constantia was perfectly at ease; but Ida, who had been always accustomed to liberty, was but half satisfied with the restraints of her abode. Nay, she would have found them insupportable, had not the recollection of Erwin Melthal followed her to the Convent, and made solitude and silence agreeable, by suffering her to indulge unrestrained the melancholy of her heart. In truth, Ida had so little of that lofty spirit, which should have been united with her lofty station, that the remembrance of the son of an humble peasant, who had perished as an undistinguished warrior, still was sacred to her affection; and often did she assure Constantia, that were he still in existence, she would rather have renounced her birth-right than the hope of being one day called his wife.

—“I concealed my rank from Erwin,” said she, “that his love might not take the alarm at hearing the proud title of the Countess of Werdenberg: but I will not conceal the affection which I felt, and still feel for this Erwin, this humble peasant’s son, this undistinguished warrior, from any one, should any one hereafter think proper to demand my hand. No! I will avow my passion openly and firmly; and doubtless this confession will be enough to make my noble suitors abandon a girl, whose folly sets so little value on illustrious birth and titles handed down by a long line of ancestors.”—

Constantia was a little embarrassed in answering these declarations. Not being in love, she could not easily reconcile the union of two such names as Erwin Melthal, and Ida, Countess of Werdenberg: yet still she could not efface from her memory the solemn vows, which had passed between them; and in particular she could not but lay great stress upon their having been affianced before the altar of St. Engeltruda; a transaction, in which she had herself borne so principal a part. However the sum of her reflections was (though the goodness of her heart made her sigh, as she confest it) that it was fortunate, that Erwin’s death had solved all the difficulties, which would otherwise have arisen; and she could not but fancy, that in this event she saw the hand of Providence, which had preserved from degradation the honour of the illustrious House of Werdenberg.

In the mean while the Bishop and Abbot Conrad were consulting, how they might best advance the interests of their young favourites. As they were not influenced by the prejudices, which made the late Countess of Werdenberg refuse all intercourse with the family of Torrenburg, and as they laid no stress upon the before-mentioned prophecy, they soon agreed to take the straight road (which indeed is always the best) and make the generous Frederick of Torrenburg immediately acquainted with the existence and adventures of his long-forgotten relations. The Count was old, and without children; and it was not unlikely, that he would adopt these orphans, and bring them up as the future heiresses of his domains. Under this impression they set forward for his Castle, well provided with letters and other documents to establish the veracity of their assertions.

The Abbot has been heard to say, that when the Count was first informed of the nature of their embassy, he started and turned pale; as the Bishop proceeded and made the fact certain beyond the possibility of dispute, this paleness gave place to a burning crimson, and when the tale was finished, the Count sat for a few moments lost in silent meditation; circumstances, from which the friends of the two Sisters augured nothing good to their cause. The event however proved that they were mistaken in imagining, that the generous Frederick would wilfully close his eyes against a truth, because it was unpleasant to him; though what made it so unpleasant to him, they were then at a loss to conceive.

He bestowed a noble heart-drawn sigh upon the memory of the Countess of Werdenberg. He blamed her for having suffered her prejudices to interfere so much with the welfare of her daughters, and engaged to repair the injury, which she had done them. Accompanied by the two Prelates he hastened to the Convent of Zurich, and entreated his new-found relations to make his abode their own. Deep was the emotion exprest in his honest countenance, when he first saw the Sisters. In them he beheld renewed in their most brilliant colours the charms of their mother, whom he had loved so long and so dearly without success; and he clasped them to his bosom with tears, which he vainly struggled to conceal. The girls too felt their hearts attracted towards the excellent man, and found no difficulty in considering him in every respect as their father.

They followed him to his Castle with willingness, were grateful for the kindness which he showed them, nor did it ever enter their thoughts, that it was in his power to show them more: but the Bishop was extremely surprised, that although the Count had acknowledged the validity of the documents which testified their birth, and had adopted them as his nieces, he made no mention of their being entitled to any part of his inheritance, nor seemed to have it in his contemplation to bestow them on proper bridegrooms.

—“The little eagerness,” said the Abbot, “which the Count shows for the wedding of his nieces confirms the report, that he is thinking of one for himself. I have already heard it whispered, that he is attached to a young person, with whom we are both well acquainted. She is lovely and virtuous; nobody can blame Count Frederick’s choice, though perhaps some people may blame him for making at his time of life any choice at all.”—

—“I am sorry to hear this,” replied the Bishop; “should children spring from this union, the claims of our wards will be completely annihilated.”—

—“In which case will they be made unhappy?” said the Abbot (who thought liberally on the subject, and to whom the lady, on whom the Count’s choice was supposed to have fallen, was even more dear than Constantia and her sister).—“Their rank is acknowledged; the sums left by their mother in our charge are sufficient to secure them against absolute want; their desires are moderate; neither will Frederick’s generosity fail to provide for them in a manner suitable to their station. But to expect that he should sacrifice the point, on which he grounds the happiness of his whole future life, in order that his inheritance may descend unimpaired to these unexpected newcomers, is really more than I can possibly justify to myself.”—

This conversation was communicated to the Sisters: they heard it with indifference. They were too little acquainted with the world to think much about events, which might affect their future interests, and were too grateful to their benefactor to wish for more favours from him, than such as he could grant without injury to his own feelings. But had they known on _whom_ their uncle’s choice had fallen, they would have offered up their most fervent prayers for the success of his suit; and would have looked forward to the wedding-day with as much heart-felt pleasure, as to any which they had ever witnessed, while they were still the daughters of old Tell and Inhabitants of the happy Vale of Rutelis.

In the circle of young women, with whom their near relationship to the Count of Torrenburg necessarily brought them acquainted, none attracted their affection so strongly, as the beautiful Elizabeth of March. The interest, which Ida felt for this charming stranger was shortly reciprocal: yet it is probable, that Constantia would in the end have obtained the largest share of Elizabeth’s friendship and confidence, on account of that winning softness of manner and gentleness of temper, which made her a much more universal favourite than her gay and thoughtless sister, had she not thought proper to retire for a while from the world not long after the commencement of her acquaintance with Elizabeth. In spite of Ida’s remonstrances, Constantia entreated her uncle to suffer her to pass some time in the Convent of Zurich, and easily obtained her request.

It seems, that lovely as were the Ladies of Werdenberg, and general as was the admiration which they excited, still there was not so violent a contest for the possession of their hands, as the good Bishop had expected. It was known, that they were dowerless orphans; and as their uncle’s marriage (though not publicly spoken of) was much circulated in whispers, this event, which was likely to annihilate at once all the lofty claims of the Sisters, made their admirers think it to the full as prudent to confine their admiration for the present to their own breasts. The gentle Constantia alone found in the young Count of Thuringia one, who would have chosen her as his bride, had she been still the daughter of the peasant Tell. Constantia on her side felt, how generous was the youth’s conduct, and could not doubt the sincerity of his love: her heart inclined her to listen to him: but she could not consent to break her religious determinations so quickly and so lightly; and she retired into the Convent, that she might at least weigh the matter maturely, and try her suitor’s patience and perseverance a little by the test of time.

After her departure, the friendship of Elizabeth and Ida acquired strength daily; though their intercourse was much restricted by Count Frederick’s evident dissatisfaction at it, which the unsuspecting Ida attributed to some unaccountable antipathy conceived by her uncle against her lovely friend. The fact was, that with all his excellent qualities the Count was not without his weaknesses; among the chief of which maybe reckoned suspicion, bigotry, and a fondness for mystery even in the most innocent things. The last induced him carefully to conceal the proposals which (under the seal of secrecy) he had laid before Elizabeth’s father: the first, made him fancy, that Ida had fathomed his purpose, and from interested motives had endeavoured to set her friend against him; and his superstitious enthusiasm led him to believe that the best means of obtaining Elizabeth’s heart and hand was to tell his rosary more frequently than ever, and bestow enormous donations on the Church. He gave much; he promised more; and those promises were not breathed in inattentive ears. The Count’s domestic Priest and the chaplain of the March family found, that their own advantage was concerned in the accomplishment of Count Frederick’s wishes; and they held many a secret and serious conference on the means of bringing about this union. Besides the grand inducement of avarice, Father Hilarius (so was the priest of Torrenburg named) had additional motives for action. He looked on the Damsels of Werdenberg with all that aversion, which old family-servants ever bear to new-comers; whom they generally consider as intruders, and whom they fear, lest by _their_ influence their own should be diminished. But with most invincible antipathy did the Monk regard the gay and thoughtless Ida, who had sometimes indulged her mirth at his expence, and whom he was determined to expel from her uncle’s heart, whatever trouble it might cost him.

Elizabeth by this time had no secrets for Ida. She informed her, that her parents had promised her hand to a powerful nobleman, and had ordered her in the most peremptory manner to prepare for the reception of her future husband, without even condescending to inform her of his name or situation. However, she was in truth little curious respecting him, for her heart was already bestowed upon another.

—“Yes!” said she to Ida, “I love Count Henry of Montfort, and have every reason to believe, that I am beloved in return most sincerely. Be this unknown bridegroom whom he may, he will find himself only an object of aversion in the eyes of Elizabeth of March.”—

Ida, judging by her own attachment to the deceased Erwin, agreed, that to banish from the heart the image of an adored lover was quite impossible: and Elizabeth was so well-pleased with her friend’s mode of reasoning, that she embraced her with redoubled affection. Ida advised her by no means to give up Count Henry; and Elizabeth on the other hand promised solemnly to follow that advice, which was so perfectly in unison with her own inclinations.

—“I am grieved to think,” said Elizabeth, “that probably in future we shall be suffered to meet but seldom! I have already received some hints, that my parents suspect you of not giving me such counsels, as they could wish; and yet in the present situation of my affairs it is so necessary for me to possess some feeling heart, to whom I can apply for sympathy and advice!—However, we shall still be able to correspond privately; and those communications may be made in writing, which the enemies of our friendship forbid us to impart in conversation.”—

Ida unluckily knew nothing of the art of writing on her first arrival at the Castle of Torrenburg; and since that time she had made but little progress under the tuition of Father Hilarius. She blushed, while she confest this ignorance; however, on examination Elizabeth was of opinion, that her friend was already sufficiently advanced to answer all necessary purposes.

—“I shall require no circumstantial answers from you,” said she; “a single expressive word will be enough to convey to me your opinion of my situation, and guide me in my difficulties: a “yes” or “no” will in general be sufficient to decide my conduct. On my side, I will take care to write so large a hand that it can be easily read, and to express myself in a manner that shall be intelligible only to yourself. Then if you are _quite_ at a loss respecting any part of my letters, you may show the isolated passage to your chaplain Father Hilarius. He is a simple good kind of man, whose understanding is not keen enough to pierce through our mystery, and who may easily be deceived by two young girls with all their wits about them.”—

This “simple good kind of man,” as Elizabeth called him, the pious Father Hilarius, was perfectly astonished at the diligence, with which Ida now prosecuted her studies under his direction. Hitherto he had found her a very inattentive pupil, and as long as his lessons lasted, Ida was accustomed to yawn without intermission: on a sudden she was seized with the greatest fondness for that, which hitherto had inspired her with nothing but disgust: she even requested, that an additional hour’s instruction might be allowed her every day; and as Father Hilarius was not _quite_ so simple as the girls had imagined, he concluded, that there must be some secret cause for this unexpected love of literature. An epistolary intercourse, arising from some love-affair, naturally suggested itself to his mind; and he determined to watch with the eyes of an Argus, whether he could not make some discovery to the prejudice of his detested pupil.

Ida soon received a pressing invitation to visit Elizabeth; the Count’s permission was requested; but as he was now on the point of declaring himself, and conceived that the presence of his lineal heiress could by no means be advantageous to his suit, that permission was refused. Elizabeth therefore had recourse to her pen, and Ida soon received the following letter.

—“I told you, that I had every reason to think that he loved me: alas! I fear, that I deceived myself. He knows my situation; knows, how I am persecuted; and yet he offers no friendly advice for my relief, nay even seems to decline every opportunity of visiting the Castle. He is at present with his uncle, who is too closely connected with my parents to favour an attachment, which would disappoint their views. Perhaps, he even insists upon Henry’s giving up every thought of me!—The bridegroom of my father’s choice has not yet revealed himself: I am still ignorant of all, except that he is rich, powerful, and _old_; but I am threatened with his speedy arrival, and have been assured, that the day in which I am presented to him, shall be that of my nuptials.—Write to me, dear Ida, and say, what course I should follow: the danger is urgent.”—

The messenger, who brought this letter, waited for an answer: it was with infinite difficulty, that Ida contrived to scrawl the following words.

—“Write to your Henry: if he loves you, he will hasten to your relief.”—

Several letters followed the foregoing; though Ida was frequently unable to decypher whole sentences of Elizabeth’s, and Elizabeth was sometimes completely at a loss to guess the meaning of Ida’s pot-hooks. But the next letter of any consequence ran as follows—

—“Though he is the friend of my parents, my lover’s uncle is not my enemy. He read the letter which I addrest to Henry, and permitted him to obey it. Henry has done so: Henry is here, and says that he is come to save me: but how?—Many a bold resolution presents itself to my thoughts, but all are too desperate to be adopted without advice. Decide for me, my friend; I will follow your judgment implicitly.”—

To this, Ida answered—“Fly with your Henry, and take refuge in his uncle’s Castle. In _your_ situation, _I_ would not have hesitated to follow Erwin through the world!”—

This reply was not received, till the Count of Torrenburg had been presented to Elizabeth as the man, to whom her hand was destined. The repugnance, with which she listened to his declaration, was too visible to escape his notice; but as her parents gave him the most solemn assurances, that her heart (though not yet disposed in his favour) was still free from any other attachment, he persisted in his addresses. He persuaded himself, that his assiduities must in the end make him master of her affections, if once her hand became his property; and he looked forward with impatience to the nuptial-day, which was already fixed, and at no great distance.

Ida’s reply arriving at this critical moment, produced a rejoinder from her friend, which put her in no slight embarrassment; for the greatest part of it was totally unintelligible to her. Of Elizabeth’s former letters she had frequently failed in decyphering the _words_; but in the present epistle, even where she had overcome that difficulty, the _sense_ frequently appeared to her as obscure as ever.

—“Ah! my sweet friend! how precious should I esteem your last advice, could I but be certain, that in giving it you were prompted by no motive but affection for Me. You cannot be ignorant, that all mystery is now laid aside; the dreaded bridegroom is arrived; and doubtless _you_ must have been made aware of his intentions, long before my parents thought proper to communicate them to myself. When therefore you counsel me to shun this marriage by flight, can I avoid apprehending lest _interest_.... Ah! forgive me these suspicions, dear Ida! I will not doubt the sincerity of your friendship.—Yet flight is difficult, dangerous, disgraceful; Henry himself is unwilling to resort to this clandestine means of rescue! On the other hand, this hated Bridegroom.... Why do they tell me of his wealth and power? What are they to _me_? What are the domains of Carlsheim, Torrenburg, and Sargans, when balanced against Henry’s heart?—I know not what to do!—Once more, dear Ida! but _once_ more advise me! Lay aside every interested motive, which might prompt your counselling me to flight; assure me, that friendship alone dictates your decision; and then if you still bid me trust my fate to Henry, I will throw myself into his arms, and bid adieu to the Castle of March.... alas! perhaps for ever!”—

Again and again did Ida read this letter, and still found herself as far as ever from understanding it. She would gladly have submitted it to some more learned head than her own; but her sister was absent, and prudence forbade her communicating it to the chaplain. Above all, the line which contained the three difficult words “_Torrenburg_,” “_Carlsheim_,” and “_Sargans_” set all her skill at defiance; and she could not but fancy, that were she once mistress of the meaning of that one line, it would make the rest of the letter quite intelligible.—And then what harm could there be in showing a stranger that single passage? The reader would certainly be able to gain but little information from it; and arguing thus, she cut the passage out of the letter, and hastened to request Father Hilarius to give her the interpretation.

Father Hilarius (whose activity was quite indefatigable, when exerted to find out what could injure his enemies, among whom he numbered the innocent Ida) already suspected the secret correspondence between his pupil and Elizabeth. The subject of it, however, was still unknown to him; but now the whole was as clear as day-light. He read what was shown to him, guest the remainder, and malicious pleasure sparkled in his eyes. To put the matter beyond a doubt, he pretended, that it was impossible to understand the meaning of a passage so detached, and demanded a sight of the whole epistle. This, however, was refused him: upon which he declared it to be his opinion, that “the difficult words in question must be Greek; for _his_ part, he could make neither head nor tail of them.”—

Ida went away out of all patience! However, as she could not discover, that her friend’s situation had undergone any material alteration since her last letter, she at length determined at all events to send her the same answer: accordingly the messenger was despatched with a note containing only——“Flight! instant flight.”—

Ida’s belief, that the bands of love once formed could never be broken (together with other romantic notions, which she had imbibed among the Helvetian mountains, respecting justice and injustice, liberty of the heart, and suitability in marriage) must plead her excuse for the rash advice, which in the simplicity of her nature she gave her friend; advice, which afterwards operated to her prejudice so strongly, that it nearly ruined her reputation and her whole happiness in life. She counselled Elizabeth to take that step which (had she been herself the heroine of the adventure) she would herself undoubtedly have taken: this was the utmost extent of her error; this, and no more!

The advice was given; the advice was followed. A few days elapsed, and she heard, that the whole country was in an uproar. The beautiful Elizabeth of March had eloped with Henry of Montfort; and her brother Oswald, assisted by the forces of the Count of Torrenburg, had set forward in pursuit of the fugitives.

Ida was delighted to find, that her advice had been carried into execution with so much success: she only feared, lest the lovers should be overtaken by their pursuers, among whom she grieved to hear her uncle numbered; she was still ignorant, how deeply he was interested in this affair, and concluded that he was actuated to take a part in it by the friendship, which had so long subsisted between himself and the old Count of March.

Her prayers and wishes were half accomplished, half rejected. The lovers were overtaken: but Count Oswald of March was fondly attached to his sister; some well-disposed persons kindly interfered; Count Frederick voluntarily resigned his pretensions; and it was finally resolved, that the errors of love should be pardoned, and the fugitives united in a public and customary manner. In truth, no one could deny, that Henry was a much more suitable partner for the blooming Elizabeth, than her destined bridegroom, the age-stricken Count of Torrenburg.

Ida was not long without hearing from her friend: this letter, (the last which she ever received from Elizabeth,) induced her to take a step, which filled up the measure of her mischances, and not only deprived her of the favour of her deceived uncle, but totally ruined her in the general opinion.

—“Ida! dear Ida! authoress of all my present happiness! How wise was your advice! How perfectly has it succeeded! Yet a few days, and I shall become the wife of Henry. Still I shall feel my pleasure incomplete, unless I can thank you for it with an embrace on my bridal-day. Come then, my friend! come to place the garland on my brow[5], and rejoice in the work of your prudence! You will find your sister with me: it was easy for her to obtain a dispensation from her Abbess. I rejoice, that your uncle is now in a distant part of the country, as in the present moment you would certainly have been refused permission to come to me. As it is, resolve to brave the hazard of a few frowns at his return; he will soon forget his displeasure at your witnessing my nuptials, being totally ignorant of every thing which might seriously make him offended with you, and which (you may be assured) shall never come to his knowledge.—But though concealed from all others, the friendly part which you have acted in this business, shall never be forgotten by the grateful heart of your Elizabeth.

Footnote 5:

This alludes to a custom still preserved in many parts of Germany: the
bride wears a myrtle-wreath during the nuptial-ceremony, and it is
usual for her on the day after her marriage to present this wreath to
that female friend, to whom she is most attached.

“Then haste to me, my friend! I burn with impatience to make my Henry known to you: he too is impatient to see the friend of his Betrothed, the kind adviser, to whom the Happy-ones owe their happiness. I have resolved, that this wished-for introduction shall take place at the altar, before which I am to pronounce the nuptial vow. I confess, this decision is in some degree dictated by selfish motives: were Henry to see the lovely Ida of Werdenberg, before it is too late for him to retract with honour, who knows but her charms might make him faithless to the less fair Elizabeth?—Ah! dearest Ida, you are conscious, that I do but jest; I know well the heart of my friend, and the honour of my lover! Forgive then the fantastic humours of a girl already half wild with her happiness, and refuse not to make by your presence that happiness still greater.”—

A great part of this letter was as little understood by Ida as the former one; however, she took good care not to employ the Chaplain to explain the meaning. She doubted not his opposing her departure for the Castle of March, since her uncle (though for what reason she could not imagine) would disapprove of her visit; and in the Count’s absence she was totally under the direction of Father Hilarius. Ida therefore contented herself with understanding from the letter, that she was invited to a wedding, at which the successful counsels which she had given (together with other friendly services which she had rendered the happy pair) would make _her_ an important personage; at which she should meet her sister Constantia, and doubtless many other of her youthful friends; and where she should exhibit her beauty to the best advantage, and should dress, dance, sing, and laugh, as she had frequently done on similar occasions on the blooming lawn of Rutelis. This was enough for her to know, and to determine her proceedings. On the appointed day Elizabeth sent a small body of attendants to wait for her friend in a wood at no great distance from the Castle of Torrenburg. Ida failed not to join them there; and without bidding adieu to Father Hilarius, she very quietly set forward for the Castle of March.

She reached it in safety, and soon found herself clasped in the arms of her delighted friend. There too she had the happiness of once more embracing Constantia. The two Sisters past the intervening time between their arrival and the wedding-day with Elizabeth in her apartment; where (according to the custom of our times) on such occasions no man was permitted to show himself, not even the bridegroom.

The important day arrived. Followed by her lovely companions, herself the most lovely, Elizabeth with trembling steps and a fluttering heart approached the altar, where Henry of Montfort waited her arrival. Ida now stepped forward; she threw back her veil, and prepared to fasten the wreath of Innocence among the golden ringlets of her friend: a similar garland hung on her arm, with which she was afterwards to present the bridegroom. Occupied entirely with the task of decorating Elizabeth, she had not yet cast her eyes on young Montfort; she had not observed, that he started on beholding her; she had not heard the name of “_Rosanna_,” which escaped from his trembling lips. She now turned to him for the purpose of offering him the other wreath; she already extended her hand; when fixing her eyes on his countenance, she uttered a cry expressive at once of the utmost surprise and terror, attempted but in vain to pronounce the name of Erwin Melthal, and would have sank upon the ground, had not Constantia rushed forward and received her in her supporting arms.

Constantia still wore the habit of a Nun; the altar was adorned exactly in the same manner, and the blazing lamps shed the same mysterious light along the fretted roots and gloomy arches, as on that day when Erwin and Rosanna knelt at the shrine of St. Engeltruda, poured forth the most solemn vows of eternal fidelity, and heard Constantia devote the breaker of those vows to unceasing shame and sorrow.—Erwin Melthal (or rather Henry of Montfort, for alas! they formed but one) had long believed the lovely Sisters to be no more the inhabitants of earth: Constantia on the other hand was in the same error respecting Erwin. The sudden appearance of one, whom she had long since numbered with the dead, imprest upon her countenance something of that serious, that strangely awful expression, which struck him so forcibly, when she united his hand with Rosanna’s in the Chapel of Engelberg. He recollected her words—“Should either of you rend asunder the bonds, with which I now unite your fates for ever, that instant shall my form (be I living, or be I dead) stand before you threatening and awful, to reproach you with your crimes.”—These recollections, and the unexpected appearance of the Sisters, at the very moment when he was on the point of giving his hand to another, made him consider the whole scene as a supernatural vision! He believed, that the forms which stood before him, were creatures of another world; his brain was unable to support the shock; the surrounding objects floated before his eyes, his senses forsook him, and he sank without animation at the feet of his astonished bride.

END OF THE THIRD VOLUME.

PRINTED BY D. N. SHURY, BERWICK-STREET, SOHO.

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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Errata listed in volume IV have been applied to this volume.
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).