Chapter II: Part 2

Laura Milnor, at the age of sixteen, was one of the loveliest of her sex. Her beauty was girlish and buoyant, and made up of such elements as youth and hope and innocence and joy. Her laugh thrilled upon the ear like the clear voice of a glad child; her step was elastic and aerial, and although as mirthful and happy as one who had never known a thought of grief or a dream of sorrow, she was one of the most susceptible of her sex, and was melted to tears almost as readily as she was excited to mirth. Blue eyes, auburn hair, and a voice full of music—she was too sensitive for the heartlessness of this world, and thus it was the fear of those who knew her character thoroughly, and were well acquainted with human nature in the aggregate, that she would be won too readily, and possibly waste the sweetness of her pure and guileless heart upon an unworthy object. Not so, however. At seventeen, she was the “bright, particular star” of her immediate circle, with groups of admirers, of various grades of merit and pretension, but with an avowed, preferred and envied suitor. He had a rival, it is true, and a formidable one; because, to a considerable fortune he added a sincerity of devotion and an assiduity of attention that seldom fail to make an impression upon the heart of woman, however obdurate. But the preferred suitor, Morton Markley, was a cousin, and had been preferred, to a slight degree, from earliest boyhood. His opportunities for pressing his suit, moreover, were of the best kind; he was a favorite with the family generally, and these influences were potent in determining Laura as to a choice. Nay, the avowal of preference was scarcely determined upon by her. It was rather made by the household circle, and regarded as a thing of course, than elicited from the artless girl in some quiet and impassioned moment of mutual confidence. At times, too, she felt something like a doubt—a doubt as to the _reality_ of her attachment to her cousin. She knew—she _felt_ that she esteemed him. He possessed many noble qualities. His habits were of the kind that her mother approved in an especial manner. He was not only strictly moral, but temperate from his earliest youth—a zealot in the cause, indeed—and withal thoroughly devoted to business. True, he was somewhat stiff and formal in his manners, possessed little or no imagination, had no taste for poetry or pathos, and was somewhat cold in his general character. In most of these particulars he afforded a broad contrast to his rival, George St. Clair, a free, dashing, thoughtless creature, all impulse and enthusiasm, with a flashing genius and a heart of fire. But all these qualities were moderated and subdued in the presence of Laura Milnor. She had achieved a conquest over his heart, and he yielded to her every wish, and even often anticipated her thoughts. But he saw her seldom, comparatively speaking, and although the impression he made at such times was decided, it was but momentary. Laura would occasionally hesitate, especially when she found the image of St. Clair rising up in her memory, and she discovered herself analysing his traits of disposition and manner, and contrasting them with those of her cousin. But she blushed when she detected the current of her thoughts, and turned away from the subject as from one that she ought not to contemplate. St. Clair, moreover, was a ripe scholar for his years, perfectly familiar with the poetry of the classics, and with modern literature. His practice was to mark the exquisite passages in his favorite authors, and thus, while indicating his own sentiments and tone of mind, to appeal, as it were, to the calm and reflecting spirit of Laura. How often did she find herself unconsciously meditating upon these gems of thought—these eloquent and impassioned pourings out of the souls of the gifted! How frequently did the brief but expressive notes touch a chord in her own breast, and speak in a still, but deep voice to her own spirit! It was on such occasions that she trembled lest she had mistaken the feeling that animated her with regard to her cousin. But then he was so good, so calm, so attentive! They had grown up side by side! Her mother, her brother, her elder sister, all respected him so much—he was so amiable, and his prospect in life was so excellent! No—it was impossible. There could not be any mistake as to the nature of her feelings, and she would consent and name the day.

The day _was_ named, and the bridal took place. The party was large, gay, delightful. I shall never forget that wedding night. It was one of the happiest of my existence—a joyous epoch in memory’s waste, which shines with no common glory as the mind wanders back and lingers above the regretted past. Laura, so charming before, seemed to excel all her former brightness and beauty. Sweet seventeen—the loveliest of the lovely, glittering in gems and satin, with her blue eyes brightened with a double lustre by the excitement of the moment, her auburn hair waving like a flood of moonbeams upon her white shoulders: approving relations and friends around! That indeed seemed a happy moment—the happiest of her life. But _was_ it so? Her affianced also looked remarkably well. He had thrown off his gravity of manner, his dignity of deportment, and joined the jest and laugh as if the world to him also had assumed its sunniest smile. But I need not describe the etceteras of the wedding. At twelve o’clock, Mr. and Mrs. Markley were taken in charge by the usual number of select and officiating friends, and driven to their own home, a neat but elegantly furnished establishment, No. 47 —— Row.

I was absent from the city two years. On my return, one of my first visits was to the house of my old friend Markley. It was a delightful evening in the month of May, 1836. The weather for the preceding week had been wet and disagreeable, so that the change and a bright moon had won hundreds from their dwellings to enjoy the cool evening breeze, and gaze once more into the windows of the stores. I inquired for Mr. Markley. He was not in. For Mrs. Markley. Her parlor door was thrown open, and Laura stood before me—but how changed! She was paler, thinner, and, to my eye, lovelier than ever. The delicate cast of thought had given an intellectual aspect to her features. The ruddy glow, the buoyant, springy motion of girlhood, were no longer there; but, in the one case, the ripeness of the peach had been succeeded by the soft tints of the rose, and in the other, the gazelle-like bound had mellowed and melted into the more graceful and majestic movement of the perfect woman. Her reception was frank and cordial. My visit seemed a relief to her. She had “been alone for more than an hour, and had wanted so much to take a stroll. Her spirits had been checked for the week past by the gloomy weather, and _now_, when they seemed anxious to spring away, as if on new-born wings, she was compelled, like a bird in a cage, to remain within doors. Oh, these abominable meetings! This dreadful political excitement! These detestable societies! Would you believe it, Mr. Markley has not been home a single evening for these two weeks! He has become a violent politician, and is a member of several literary and philanthropic societies. These occupy four-fifths of his time, and although he is one of the very best husbands in the world, kind, gentle and affectionate when here, I do not see him except at meal times, three hours in a fortnight. And here I sit, ‘moping’ away my young hours, thinking all sorts of melancholy things, indulging sometimes in the wildest of fancies, and not unfrequently—although I am almost ashamed to confess it—killing the time and giving vent to my moody temper in a fit of crying! It is of no use to complain to Morton. He is perfectly mad upon the subject of politics, and fancies, dear soul, that he is building up for himself an enviable reputation.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes, indeed! Until the death of my first-born I bore it very well, for the little innocent engaged my attention in a thousand ways, and the time passed smoothly enough. But since that painful event—nearly a year ago—the time has hung heavily indeed. I don’t know what I should do but for our old friend St. Clair. He calls frequently, and serves no little to chase away the gloom of these lonely hours. You remember St. Clair!”

“Certainly. I have not met him since the night of your wedding, and then, poor fellow, he endeavored to _look_ and _act_ his best, but he made a sorry failure of it. Has he married yet?”

“Oh, no! He tells me he will never marry, but of course the hour of temptation and trial is yet to come. He has changed very little within the last three years, and although not so gay and reckless as formerly, his spirits are still excellent. Mr. Markley prizes him very highly, and frequently consigns me to his care for a stroll, while he hurries off to some political club or abominable meeting. Can you furnish me with any remedy for the sort of infatuation I have described in the case of Morton? I am really provoked at him at times, and have ventured to remonstrate more than once, but never with a good effect either upon his temper or his conduct. Oh! how frequently have the lines of the poet risen to my memory during the tedious hours of waiting and of watching!

——‘May slighted woman turn,
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off,
Bend lightly to her tendencies again?
Oh, no! by all her loveliness, by all
That makes life poetry and beauty, no!
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek
By needless jealousies; let the last star
Leave her a watcher by your couch of pain;
Wrong her by petulance, suspicion, all
That makes her cup a bitterness—yet give
One evidence of love, and earth has not
An emblem of devotedness like hers.
But, oh! estrange her once, it boots now how,
By wrong or silence, anything that tells
A change has come upon your tenderness—
And there is not a high thing out of heaven
Her pride o’ermastereth not.’

I ridiculed them when they were first pointed out to me by St. Clair, but sad experience has taught me better.”

Such, in brief, was the nature of the conversation of the night. I remained until a late hour, exceedingly anxious to see my old friend, but the clock struck eleven, and he had not returned. Wandering homeward, a crowd of strange thoughts pressed upon my brain. Can he love this gentle being? I asked. And then his whole course through life came to my recollection, and I dismissed every doubt. He does love her to the extent of his ability. Then why neglect her? Why permit melancholy to prey upon her gentle spirit? Why subject her to the fascinations of such a man as St. Clair?—temptations at which both would shrink with horror at first, but which, sooner or later, with such a being, such hearts, such sympathy of soul and of taste, must establish a bond very like that of love! The subject was a painful one, and I dismissed it, unwilling to probe it to the bottom.

I visited Laura repeatedly during the subsequent six months. I became deeply interested in her position, and more than once ventured to hint, jestingly, to her husband the duty of watching with a vigilant eye over so precious and delicate a flower. He appeared perfectly insensible to all insinuations upon the subject, and with unbounded confidence in, and as much attachment for Laura as his nature was capable of feeling, he became more and more wedded to his dream of political ambition and popular applause. He was a member of most of the societies that were in any degree connected with philanthropy, and of all on the political side to which he was attached; and thus, night after night, week after week, and month after month, he absented himself from the society of his wife.

But why prolong the story? Hour after hour, the conviction grew stronger in the mind of Laura that she had mistaken the sentiments of her husband. He had, she now believed, never loved her. He had either deceived her or been himself deceived. It was clear that he shunned her society, and although kind and obliging, this course was attributed rather to his tone of mind and moral principle than to a warmer and fonder emotion of his heart. She too had been mistaken. At least she thought so. The feeling that had induced her to become his wife was not love; not that deep and absorbing passion, that flame and fire of the soul, that she now could feel and appreciate. He was her cousin; she had known him long; he had ever been kind to her; her parents had urged her marriage, and she had been misled! But, alas! how had he deserted her! How had she been neglected! How cold had he become! How indifferent! What a contrast to St. Clair!—St. Clair, who even now would lay down his life for her; who even now _sought_ her society, and was never so happy as when basking in her smile! Her heart thrilled, her brain throbbed, and her mind almost maddened as these wild thoughts forced themselves upon her. I say forced themselves, for she repelled them again and again, as fiends that would destroy her quiet, sap her principles, and render her an object of scorn even to herself. But night after night, and her husband was still abroad. At first she saw him depart with pride upon her lip and anguish in her heart. Then sullenness followed, and indifference came after. Then a feeling of pleasure tingled in her breast as the door closed behind him, and a still stronger sensation was experienced as the well known step of St. Clair was heard upon the pavement below her window. But why trace the progress of the weak, the erring human heart? Why linger over the guilt-ward progress of that neglected wife? Why harrow the soul with her struggles between duty on the one hand and infatuation on the other? Why point to her fall, as, step by step, she was hurried to the brink of ruin? Why detail the subtle sophistry of a gifted spirit—one, too, who had persuaded himself that he really loved with a pure and undying flame? Why recount his many appeals to fly to some other land, some distant shore, where the scorn of the heartless world could not point at and exult over another victim? Why picture the secret and agonizing thoughts of the wretched beauty; the sorrow that at moments fastened upon her soul, when some heart-touching expression fell from the lips of her husband, and she was recalled by a look or a phrase to her early dream of home and love and happiness?

It was late in the month of September, that, rambling down Spruce street, my attention was attracted by an unusual stir and confusion in the front parlor of my friend Markley’s dwelling. Lights were passing to and fro with great rapidity, and ever and anon a shriek, as of one in mortal agony, broke upon the night. I hurried forward, rapidly ascended the stairs, and what a scene of horror was before me! The slight, yet beautiful form of Laura Markley lay upon the sofa, her hair dishevelled, her clothes in disorder, and her features pale and cold in the solemn aspect of death! It was almost midnight; her husband had been sent for, but had not yet arrived. Miserable being! Blind and misguided fool! He came in a few minutes after, and for weeks and weeks was little better than a maniac. The following brief note, the last ever penned by Laura, told the dreadful story:

“Forgive me, Charles! forgive me, if I have wronged you! I can endure it no longer. Night after night have you neglected me for the last two years, until my mind, maddened by doubt, despair, and a thousand fiendish phantoms, has ventured to pause and contemplate a deed of guilt! There is, I verily believe, another being on the face of the earth who loves me, and I—I—my hand trembles and my brain reels—I am yet yours, and in honor. But I fear I could not live, be neglected, and continue so. Forgive me, heaven!—forgive me, my husband, and pray for me.”

* * * * *

She had taken poison!

* * * * *

THE PURITAN SON.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE BROTHERS,” “CROMWELL,” “RINGWOOD THE ROVER,” ETC.

In the West Riding of Yorkshire, not many miles removed from the line of the great North Road, singularly and somewhat romantically situated on a vast rocky hill, projecting sternly and abruptly into the lovely valley of the Nid, stands the old borough town of Knaresborough. As you approach it from the south, the aspect it presents is singularly wild and picturesque. A long line of steep limestone crags, running from east to west, limits the view in front; the river, deep, black and sullen, wheeling along below their base in many a turbid ripple, until it skirts their western cape, a huge and perpendicular crag of shaley limestone, crowned by the massy relics of an old Norman keep, rifted and gray, and overrun with immemorial ivy, but still majestic in their hoary grandeur. Beneath the shelter of this formidable keep—which, in its day, before the levelling force of gunpowder had reduced warfare to a mere matter of scientific calculation, had been deemed quite impregnable—the straggling country town climbs the hill-side from the stream’s level, where the road is carried over a narrow, high-backed bridge of stone, in one long zigzag street, so perilously slippery and steep that the most daring riders dismount from their surest horses, whether ascending or descending, until, the summit gained, it expands into a neat borough, with market-place, and hostelries, and banks, and churches, all overlooked, however, and commanded by the old castle; and, in its turn, overlooking and commanding the wide range of hilly country of which it occupies the extreme and highest promontory.

Such is the picture it presents to the traveller of the present day, and singularly beautiful is that picture! The huge gray ruins and the stained limestone precipices, relieved and set off by the deep emerald verdure of the wide pastures in the valley, and the dark foliage of the hanging woods which skirt the margin of the river; the stream itself here dark and deep and silent, and there flashing like silver in the sunlight, and brawling noisily about the base of the great castle-rock; and, more than all, the life and animated bustle of the modern town, contrasted with the dim memories and solemn silence of those old towers, which frown upon the noisy thoroughfares of men, most like a grim and ghastly skeleton, glaring down from the gothic niche of some cathedral church upon the merry sports of thoughtless childhood. Far different was the scene which Knaresborough presented toward the middle of the seventeenth century, Some few weeks later than the fatal field of Marston, whereon, untimely sacrificed and vainly, by the mad rashness of Prince Rupert, the flower of England’s loyal chivalry lay weltering in their gore, for one who neither prized their faith nor sorrowed at their fall.

Those ruins, shapeless now, and undistinguished from the gray crags around them, were then a proud and lordly castle; that huge and rifted pile, that frowns above the lesser fragments, was the square dungeon keep, with battlemented turrets at each aerial angle, and bartizans for shot of arquebuss and musquetoon, and embrasures for heaviest ordnance; while round it swept the massy flankers, with thirteen strong round towers, well garnished with the lighter cannon of the day, sakers and culverins and falcons; and without these, still in concentric circles, half moon and counterscarp and ravelin, glacis and rock-hewn moat—a mighty fortress for the king, whose banner, hoisted there by the fugitives from that disastrous field, still waved defiance to his foemen.

It was a bright October morning with which we have to do; the sun was pouring a broad flood of light over the fertile vale, with its green meadowland, its hanging woods, its ruddy cornfields, and its bright river; over the town and castle, crowded, this with fierce steel-clad veterans, mustered beneath the royal standard, that with the yeomanry and burghers, like their more regular comrades, in arms for church and king against the leaguering hosts of Cromwell; over the camp, the lines, the outposts of the Puritans, which hemmed the destined town about with, as it were, a wall of iron. Upon the heights, just to the eastward of the town, the fierce, enthusiastic Lilburne had fixed his quarters, and hoisted the broad red cross of the parliament, and thence, on every side, had drawn his lines about the borough; the bridge and the high road, on the south side, were kept by a brigade of pikes and two strong bands of horse arquebusiers; the meadows and the vale were swept by four full regiments of the far-famed invincibles, the ironsides of Cromwell; the woods were filled with sharp-shooters, the roads blocked up with mounds and trenches, and all the north side of the town exposed to a tremendous fire from fifty wide-mouthed cannon, which, covered from the castle guns by a projecting hillock, battered the dwellings of the hapless burghers without remorse or respite. Nor were the besieged passive in the mean time, or fearful. Bright sheets of flame would leap out, ever and anon, from the dark castle embrasures, and clouds of snow-white smoke would swathe the giant keep in their dense vapory shroud, and with a roar that told the awful tale of civil warfare even to the distant walls of York, the heavy shot would plunge into the serried columns of the leaguers, thinning their ranks indeed, and shaking for a moment their array, but daunting not their fiery courage, nor damping their enthusiastic zeal. And now, with the long roll of drums and the soul-stirring flourish of the horn and bugle, from this point or from that of the beleaguered town, the cavaliers would sally out on their besiegers. Now by some ford of the swift river, neglected because thought impassable, a little troop of gentlemen, superbly mounted on high blooded chargers, fluttering with lace and waving with tall plumes and blue embroidered scarfs, would dash upon some picquet of the Puritans, and drive them back, scattered and broken and cut down, to the main body; and then, forced to retreat in turn, would fall back foot by foot, firing their petronels and musquetoons from every hedge and coppice, and charging again and again on their pursuers from every spot of vantage, till they had gained the river; then they would wheel, throw in one shattering volley, swim through the eddying waters, and raise their gallant cheer, “God for King Charles!” in safety. Now it would be a steadier and sterner effort; a heavy column would rush out, pikemen and musqueteers and horse in one dense body, bearing the outposts in at the pike’s point, carrying some redoubt, and then deploying in its front, until their pioneers and axemen should spike its guns, fill up its ditches, and level its defences to the ground. Incessant were alarms and panics, sallies and feints and false attacks on the one hand; and, on the other, strict watches, stout resistance, guarded and sure approaches, for Lilburne knew right well the quality of his own troops—the nature of the force opposed to him. He had experienced often in the field the fiery and resistless charges of the impetuous cavaliers; he knew that in the stoutest veterans of the Parliament, none could be found who, for a single dash, could cope with the high-born and chivalrous adherents of the King; but he knew also that undisciplined and fiery gentlemen, how gallant and how desperate soever, would not endure the tedium of protracted operations, the dull monotony of a long siege, where passive opposition only can be offered, the lack of wine and the appliances of mirth, the scarcity of food, the daily sufferings, the daily waste, the daily growing anguish. He knew, and acted on this knowledge. Vastly superior in his numbers, he cared not for the loss of a picquet; he shook not at the defeat of an outpost, the destruction of a redoubt, or the success of a sally. If evening saw the line of his circumvallation broken, the morning sun beheld his working parties on the ground repairing the defences, protected by so powerful masses that any sally must be fruitless to annoy them, and evening found the lines again complete, but stronger, nearer, closer than before. Nor was this all. With his strong cavalry, he kept the country round in constant terror and excitement; he cut off every convoy, before it well had left the place from which it started; he surprised every stronghold of the cavaliers, at miles away from his scene of operations; he took and garrisoned the loyal house of Ripley; he battered Spofforth Castle, the old, time-honored dwelling of the Percies; he quelled the risings of the Langdales, the Vavasours, the Slingsbys and the Stourtons. He indeed bridled the bold valor of the West Riding, as he had boasted that he would—bridled it with a curb of iron!

Yet Knaresborough still held out!—castle and town held out, though worn and wasted with fatigue and famine. Hastily had the brave defenders thrown themselves into that stronghold, scantily victualled as it was, expecting succors from without, as it were, every hour, and prepared desperately to endure the utmost before submission to their hated foes. Hastily, rashly had they suffered themselves to be hemmed in, without a hope except to die, and desperately had they borne up against the tortures which had rewarded that hot rashness. And now the moment had arrived. For three whole days, the castle and the town had had no food at all! All stores had, many days since, been exhausted; the very grass that grew upon the ramparts had been all gathered, all consumed! The beasts of burthen, the domestic animals, the very vermin, had been sought eagerly for food—had been devoured greedily—till no more could be found at all in that most miserable town. There was not one house but had lost some of its inmates, by that most lingering, most terrible of deaths, mere famine!—and it was on the youngest, the fairest, the loveliest, the most beloved, that the dread doom fell first. The streets were heaped with carcasses, for now the living lacked the strength, the energy, to bury their own dead! Thrice had the burghers risen against the castle, to force its commandant, by surrendering to the Puritans, to free them from that lamentable durance; and thrice had the gray-headed cavalier, who held that last stronghold for an unthankful monarch—while the tears streamed hot and heavy down his emaciated cheeks, and his heart throbbed as if it would burst his bosom, for very pity—ordered the castle guns to play with grape upon the famished wretches, whose despair would have forced him from his duty. Three times, repulsed from the castle by their friends, had that most hapless populace rushed out to the besieger’s camp, throwing themselves upon the mercy of their foes, and hoping so to force their way into the open country, and three times, at pike’s point, had they been driven back into that town of sepulchres and charnel houses.

It was the third day that no particle of food, except some scraps of leather, roasted or sodden into soup, had passed the lips of any of the garrison, on which a sad deputation of the townsmen waited for the fourth time upon the captain of the castle. They came not now in turbulence, hoping to _force_ submission, but tearfully and on their bended knees, to beg that stern old veteran, as they deemed him, that for the love of God, by all his hopes of Heaven, he would have mercy _not_ on them, they said, “for we are men, and can endure the utmost, but for our wives, our perishing wives and children!”

“My friends,” he answered, “I feel for you—God is my judge I do!—and here, here is my witness that none hath heavier cause to feel than I have,” and as he spoke, he opened the door of an inner chamber, and showed to those worn deputies the corpse of a fair, light-haired youth, stretched on a pallet bed, emaciated beyond all conception—yea! literally wasted to the bones! “Look there!” he said, “look there! Six little days ago that famished, cold, dead carcass was the most fair, the sprightliest, the bravest, the best, the noblest boy in all wide England! You see him, as he lies there—_my_ boy, my glorious boy!—oh, God! last pledge of my lost angel, who, dying, left him to my paternal care, which here is proved forever! Gentlemen, ye are answered; when my King’s orders reach me to yield up this hold, then will I yield it up—’till then, please God, I shall maintain it; and so long as my trusty fellows have boots, and sword belts, and buff jerkins, we shall not lack a meal. So, my friends, fare ye well.”

To this there was no answer; from this lay no appeal. They went away, as they had come, despairing; they betook themselves to their inhospitable homes, to their wan, starving families, and sat them down beside their fireless hearths, to pray for resignation, and for death to put an end to tortures which were fast becoming too terrible to bear. So the bright hours of daylight rolled over them unheeded, and the dark night came on—that season of repose and quiet, season of respite from all cares, relief from every wo—yet brought it no repose, no respite to the mourners of that city! The groans of manly agony, blent with the wailings of expiring infancy, and the faint sobs of women, suppressing their own agonies lest they should rend the hearts of others, went up that livelong night to Heaven; and there were humble prayers breathed out from penitent Christian bosoms; and there were wild, impatient, fierce ejaculations, which those who uttered them _called_ prayer; and there were desperate blasphemies and curses, such as fiends howl out against the throne of grace, too fearful to be written!

In a low chamber of a lonely dwelling, close to the outposts of the enemy—looking down, indeed, upon the glacis and the dry moat of the town—there sat an aged man, shivering above the last expiring embers of his last brand—it was the last small fragment of the door, that dying brand! All else, the floor, the furniture, the casements, had been consumed already. Upon the hearth, beside the embers, there stood a mug of water, and a large dish, covered with thrice gnawed bones, part of a horse’s ribs, clean picked and broken, so as to reach the marrow. He was a tall and stately figure, was that aged man, and he had been strong, sinewy and vigorous even in his old age; but now his form was bent and all his limbs contracted; the skin, yellow as parchment, was drawn tight across his withered brow; his nose was terribly, unnaturally sharpened, like the nose of a corpse; his eye was dim and lustreless; his ashy lips were glued together with a thin frothy slaver. Yet he had fought that morning in a fierce skirmish, which had well-nigh brought in a drove of cattle, and had been only driven back by a charge of the ironsides, a troop of which, commanded, too, by his own son, had fallen upon their flank, and borne them back into the town when confident of victory and full of high anticipation.

His corslet and buff coat were not yet laid aside; his plumed hat was cast listlessly beside him on the ground, but his blue baldric still sustained his rapier, spotted with many blood gouts, and, in the buff belt round his waist, his pistols, with the hammers down and the pans black with smoke, showed that he had not removed them since he had thrust them back into his girdle, just fired in the heat of action. There he sat, with his hands clenched and his teeth hard set, _silent_, yet cursing in his heart that recreant son, whom he had never forgiven—no! never for one moment’s space!—that he had joined the Parliament against the King, and on whose head he now invoked the direst of calamities, that, by his too successful charge, he had cut off the last relief from that sad starving city.

Suddenly a faint sound fell on his ear, as of one clambering up the glacis. The old man listened, acutely, breathlessly, as though life were dependant on his sense of hearing!—again it came, clearer and louder, _nearer_ than before. Sword in hand, on the instant the veteran sprang to the narrow casement which overlooked the moat and glacis, and there, scarce three feet from the window, in the steel cap and corslet, the scarlet cassock and unshapely boots of Cromwell’s Ironsides, stood a tall, slender figure. The moon, which was dimly wading through the uncertain clouds, feebly defined the outlines of his form, and half revealed, as the old man fancied, the shapes and weapons of a score or two of his fanatical companions in the dark hollow of the moat below him.

“Treason—to arms—ho! treason!”—shouted the wretched father, at the utmost pitch of his querulous attenuated voice; but ere he had well syllabled the words, a faint and well-remembered sound responded to his high pitched clamor.

“Hist!—Father,”—it said—“Father—it is I—I have brought hither food and wine, at great risk of my life—approach, quick! quick! and take them; I will return to-morrow and crave thy blessing!”

“Out on thee! Dog and traitor—die in thy treason, and thy gifts perish with thee!—Ho! treason! to arms! treason!”

And now the cry reached wakeful ears, and was again repeated and again—“Ho! treason! to arms! treason!”—and lights were seen flashing along the ramparts, and trumpets were blown through the streets, and sentinels were heard continually challenging, and hasty footsteps, and the clash of arms, drew nearer every moment; and still that aged man, implacable, and steeled against his son by bitter hate, shouted, “to arms! to arms!” and called the hue and cry that way with frantic energy.

“I will not be so balked—thou wilt repent this, father,” said the young man, advancing nearer.

“Pray God I live to see thee hanged; I will repent this never!—approach me not, or I will rob the hangman of his due, and with mine own hand slay thee!”

“Thou wilt not, father,” replied the other, as he laid his hand on the casement, and reaching into the chamber, set down upon the floor a small rush basket, and a tall flask of wine,—“thou wilt not, father—seeing that I have risked my life to bring thee meat and wine. I knew not, till to-day, that thou wert in this lamentable town!”

At first the old man listened, and seemed even somewhat mollified, but as his son alluded to the situation of the town, all his old rage returned, and with the words, “die dog!” he lunged full at his heart with his drawn rapier—the blow took effect, full on the polished corslet, and glanced off, inflicting a deep wound on his left arm, and hurling him to the ground.

“Ha! have I slain thee?—Ha! so perish all the enemies of good king Charles!”

“Praised be God,” replied the Puritan, “praised be God, _that_ sin is spared to thee—farewell!”

“Ho! guard—this way,” shouted the veteran, now more incensed than ever, “ho! guard—this way!”

And with their arquebusses lowered, and their slow-matches lighted, a party of the night-watch rushed in from the street—the ruthless father pointed them to the figure of his flying son, and a quick volley followed—another—and another!—and all along the ramparts, from every battlement and crenelle, the sharp, clear flashes of the random musquetry streamed out into the midnight darkness—and the loud rattle of the shots startled the sentinels of Lilburne on their posts, and set the outposts and picquets on the alert throughout the whole of the beleaguering hosts.

Escaping from the random volleys, the young man hurried to his quarters; but ere he reached them, he was met by the grand rounds, interrogated, seized, dragged to head-quarters, tried for communicating with the enemy by a drum-head court-martial, and sentenced to be hanged upon the morrow, between the glacis and the lines—before two hours had passed. Meantime the old man _fed_—_coolly fed_ on the meat, and quaffed the wine his child—his betrayed child—had brought to him—then mocked the throne of mercy with a prayer, and lay down, and slept soundly—while that same child, watched in a military dungeon, and prayed for mercy to his soul, which must be with its God, to-morrow.

The morrow dawned, and the accursed gallows stood there erect between the glacis and the lines—and the death-drums were beating through the camp—and the Parliamentarians mustered to punishment parade, with their war weapons trailed, and their grim visages suffused with more than their accustomed gloom.

The fearful tale was known—at once, almost instinctively it was revealed—all means were taken, and all methods tried to preserve the victim son—threats of retaliation—proffers of terms—entreaties—ransom—bribes—but all were tried in vain.

In the full blaze of noon, before the besieged town, before the besieging army, before men, angels, God—the son died on the gallows tree, victim of filial piety—martyr to military discipline—and the old ruthless man, who had consigned his own child to that fearful doom, looked on, and strove to smile, and would have braved it out even to the end—but the offended majesty of nature stood forth in its dread might!—the fierce revulsion of conflicting passions conquered the wretched clay!—with the sneer on his lip, and the bold evil words upon his tongue—he staggered—fell!—they lifted him, but he was dead.

That night, a courier with a white flag paused at the outposts of the Roundheads. It was a messenger from Charles, licensing his commander to surrender his good and faithful town of Knaresborough—and the next day the garrison marched out with colors flying and drums beating, and all the honors of war granted them,—and filed in their superb array beneath the gibbet and the corpse of him who died a felon’s death, for succoring a father at his need!—Ho! the morality of warfare! The glory of the victor!

* * * * *

O, SAY, DO I NA’ LO’E YE LASSIE.

O, say, do I na’ lo’e ye, lassie?
O, say, do I na’ lo’e ye well?
Aye! mair than tongue can utter, lassie,
Or mair than tender looks can tell.
Ye’re i’ my dreams by night, my lassie,
An’ ye are i’ my thoughts by day,
An’ ye’re the beacon star, my lassie.
That guides me through life’s troubled way.

I lo’e ye for those tresses, lassie,
That i’ bright jetty masses flow;
I lo’e ye for that bosom, lassie,
As white an’ fair as driven snow;
I lo’e ye for those cheeks, my lassie,
O’ sweetest tinge o’ rosy hue;
An’ O, I lo’e ye, dearest lassie,
For those twa cannie e’en o’ blue.

I lo’e ye for that form, my lassie,
Like to the deer’s, sae fit’ o’ grace;
I lo’e ye for that smile, my lassie,
That plays across thy charming face.
But what I lo’e still more, my lassie,
Is that which is worth mair to gain:
It is the bonnie min’, my lassie,
Which i’ gude truth ye ca’ your ain.

S.

* * * * *

AUZELLA.

A LEGEND OF THE HARTZ MOUNTAINS.

“Absolution, father, for breath is fleeting fast,” cried the dying man, in a scarce audible voice. As the monk approached the bed, the sick man started from his pillow, and, with clenched hands and straining eyes, uttered, in a low, sepulchral tone, “Avaunt! avaunt, thou damning fiend! thine hour is not yet come. Oh, mercy! mercy!” His bosom heaved convulsively, the dew of agony gathered thick upon his brow, and, with a beseeching look, he pointed to the crucifix on the wall.

“Confession alone can save you, my son. While there is yet time, relieve your bosom of its load of sin, and seek for pardon.”

“_Too late!_ oh, lost forever! The hour approaches; come near.” Drawing from under his pillow a parchment, he placed it in the hands of the monk. “My confession, father; _now_, now, sign me with the cross.” Uttering a wild cry of anguish, the dying man, with desperate energy, flung himself towards the monk, and attempted to grasp the symbol of salvation. . . . . . A vivid, lurid gleam, followed by an astounding crash, mingled with horrid yells and piercing screams! When the monk was found by a lay brother, he still breathed, but unconscious of external objects, from which state he never recovered; the bed was empty, and the bedclothes lay in wild disorder, as if torn by a mighty struggle. In the hand of the prostrate monk was found a manuscript:

THE CONFESSION OF THE LOST.

Upon the confines of the Hartz Mountains, in a lowly hut, I first saw the light. My mother yielded up her life in giving me birth, and the nourishment of a pet goat sustained the feeble spark of infancy. My remaining parent proved, though rough and uncultivated, a kind nurse. The hours of childhood were passed in assisting my father in collecting dried wood for burning charcoal, and oft, as I penetrated through the tangled forest, would I stand and gaze upon the clear blue flame that night after night arose from one of the highest peaks, and though an ague would creep over me at the recollection of some of the tales of horror that clothed those mountains in such fearful dread, still an unconquerable desire to witness their midnight orgies grew with my growth and strengthened with my strength.

About two hundred feet from the base of the loftiest of that extended chain of mountains, jutted out a perpendicular rock. Upon the summit stood the castle of Rudolfo, whose weather-beaten battlements had for ages frowned defiance upon the plain below. Dark hints and mysterious whispers surrounded that isolated spot with gloom and fear; no footsteps ever approached its portals after sundown, and an Ave Maria was silently, though fervently breathed, when the benighted hunter or weary traveller caught a glimpse of the solitary light that was ever seen in one of the casements of the castle.

Count Rudolph was a man of valor; his arm was held invincible in the battle field; but of a temperament morose and savage, his vassals quailed beneath the glance of his bright gray eye, and trembled when the sound of his loud clear voice rang through the vaulted halls. Among the dependants that sat at his board below the salt, or rallied around his banner, were hearts that thirsted to bury their daggers in his blood; but the mantle of superstitious mystery so completely enveloped him, that the hand, however daring, shrunk from the murderous deed.

The iron-bound features of Count Rudolph never relaxed, save when his looks rested upon his daughter. Then would the contracted brow expand, and those eyes so formidable emit a ray of feeling. He seldom smiled, but the effect was startling; a meteor, dazzling by its brightness, to render the darkness more visible. And that daughter was a glorious creature! The tall, graceful form, the dark hazel eyes, commanded the allegiance of all that looked upon her. To her father her features bore a strong resemblance, but moulded in the most perfect female softness.

The lady Auzella was seldom seen beyond the boundaries of the castle, but the report of her wondrous beauty had spread far over Germany, and many a valiant knight had sued in vain for her fair hand, notwithstanding the vague and strange reports that were ever afloat about Count Rudolph and his unhallowed deeds.

It was my twentieth birthday. The hours of labor were exchanged for hunting, a pastime of which I was most fond. So intent was I in chasing the chamois and hungry wolves that infest those regions, I thought not of the departure of day, until warned by the declining sun shedding its golden rays through the “forest’s thickening gloom.” An unconquerable feeling of dread at being thus benighted, caused me to hasten my footsteps towards my humble cot. With a steady eye and nervous limbs, I bounded over the impetuous stream that rolls down the mountain side, and springing from crag to crag, I emerged from the dense shadow of trees, and stood upon a platform of rock overgrown with moss and stunted oak.

Involuntarily I lingered to gaze upon the scene before me. The whole country glowed with the effulgence of the setting sun, whilst the amphitheatre of hills that bounded the horizon was clothed in gorgeous purple. On the right stood the castle, its turrets and towers catching the lingering sunbeams, bringing them out in bold relief from the mass of frowning mountains that formed the back ground. The only sound that broke upon the ear was the incessant roar of the cataract. Whilst thus I stood entranced, a strain of music suddenly burst through the air, so wild, so melodious, that it seemed an echo from the spheres. Amazed, I listened breathlessly; again the same sweet notes were borne upon the gentle gales. I turned, when lo! beside the rushing torrent sat a female; her long tresses were floating upon the breeze, and revealed the features of the Lady Auzella! Ere the melting strains were ended that had held bound my soul, shrieking, affrighted, she fled towards me. With horror I beheld a huge bear spring from the overhanging crag, and stand within a foot of his prey. In one moment I took a sure and deadly aim—fired—the monster rolled head-long down the rapid stream; the next instant the fainting form of Auzella reposed within my arms! My fate was sealed; the past, the future, all, all were forgotten. We met again and again; I loved, ardently, madly, and was beloved! Yes! the high-born, haughty damsel loved the humble youth.

We lived in the spring-time of love; the cold, bleak winds of autumn had not yet chilled our hearts, when, with the impassioned fervor of affection, I besought the gentle Auzella to fly with me to other lands, where with my sword I would carve for myself a name worthy for her to share. Silently she listened, then raising her head from my bosom, fixed her expressive eyes upon me, and whispered, as soft as a zephyr’s sigh—

“Hast thou dear Carl, resolution to win fame and wealth, and, with my father’s consent, this hand?”

“Try me, beloved, and thou wilt find no braggart in thy lover.”

“Then, by thy vows of love, ere ‘yon moon fills her horn,’ pluck from the mountain’s blazing pile a firebrand; bear it with all speed to my father’s feet, and by that token fearlessly claim the hand of Auzella!”

She ceased, and fled from me. In that brief space a new existence burst upon my senses. The voice of love had pointed out the way to the possession of _gold_ and the hand of her whom I adored; but how? To league myself with devils! A cold shudder crept over me; within my breast raged a fearful struggle. It passed away, and, with the purpose of my soul determined, I awoke from the _dream_ of life to the reality of existence.

* * * * *

Strange, that man should shrink in after years from lifting the veil that has shadowed crimes recklessly committed in youth. Does he scorn and bid defiance to the eyes of Omnipotence, and tremble at the opinions of his fellow worms? How incongruous, but alas! how true!

Although years have rolled past—and time, as it has flown onward, has hurried with them into the vast abyss of eternity, pleasures, sins and sorrows—the events of that _fearful_ night, that fatal hour, are concentrated in one burning spot within my brain.

Like king Midas, the cravings of discontent proved my destruction. Destruction! aye, one endless chain of wretchedness, perpetuated through life, with no oblivion in the _grave_.

* * * * *

With desperate energy I braved the lightning’s lurid gleam, and heeded not the tempest that raged around me. As I bent my footsteps towards the ever-burning flame, sounds, as if from the abyss of Hades, burst upon my ear. I stood palsied with horror, and as a bright flash burst through the gloom, shrieks and wild laughter rang through the air, and revealed my presence! “Ah! standest thou there to mock me, thou fiend, thou devil? Hurl not reason _yet_ from its tottering throne! Begone!”

The hour was past, the trophy _gained_, my bride _won_; but an _oath_ was taken that is engraved upon my heart with a firebrand, and ever thrills my frame with anguish—with never-ceasing torture!

How shall I unravel the tangled thread of my after life? Shall I dwell upon the hour that called Auzella _mine_?—the joy I felt as I clasped my beautiful, my adored _wife_ to my heart, notwithstanding the dark flash from Count Rudolph’s eyes? A brief state of happiness was mine—an oasis in the wilderness of life.

I _now_ had gold unbounded. We left the frowning castle for the gay metropolis. The mountain boy was no longer the shy boor, but the wealthy _noble_ and the crafty man.

Once launched upon the ocean of dissipation, I trimmed my sails to catch the breeze of pleasure, and thought not of the whirlpools that surrounded me; when, one night, in the midst of a gay revel, whilst the sparkling cup and the merry jest passed freely round the festive board, a touch of _fire_, a whisper which penetrated my very soul, reminded me of my _oath_—that _fearful oath_! Then fled the scene of enchantment, the faces of beauty, the chrystal lights, and the music, breathing its soft strains through the fragrant air; and, in the mind’s eye, the burning mountain, the horrid yells of demoniacal laughter, were beheld with frightful distinctness.

* * * * *

_Murder my friend!_—the companion of my midnight revels, the sharer of my pleasures—_never!_ But thine oath! Ah! then did I feel the serpent’s sting; his envenomed coil compressed every fibre of my defenceless body; no escape from his toils. I had voluntarily _sold myself_ to the demon of the burning mountain!

Out upon it! why quakes this feeble frame as the hour approaches when I shall “throw off this mortal coil?” Can tortures be greater than what I do and _ever will_ suffer? Why not snap asunder the cord at once?

But the deed was _done_, and _then_ deeper did I plunge into the vortex of vice, for the slight barrier of conscience was broken down, and I moved through the gazing crowd an envied man. Ah, ah, envied! How little dreamed the gaping fools of the livid spot _within_. But, amidst the volcano that was consuming me, burned one pure flame—the shrine on which it was kindled was still unpolluted—my love for Auzella. She was my day-star, my dream of all that was pure. Her smile would chase the demon from my breast, and lull me into forgetfulness.

But the cup of misery that I had tasted was not yet drained. Jealousy mingled with its bitter dregs, and poisoned my blood and shot through every vein.

Suddenly there appeared among us a youth of striking mien and of great beauty, though of a wild and singular aspect. He was ever with Auzella! I chased from my breast the dark thoughts that would sometimes enter. With the madness of despair, I bore her to the gloomy castle where dwelt her father. She murmured not at thus being torn from scenes of festive mirth to hours of dreary sadness; her eyes still sparkled with their wonted fire. We visited the spot where first I dared breathe my aspiring hopes, and as I folded her to my breast again, I told her how dear she still was to me.

Count Rudolph had become more morose, and seldom went beyond the castle walls. He seemed to take no pleasure in the presence of his child, and when I encountered the glance of his eye fixed upon me, a strange, undefinable sensation would creep over me: a vague recollection of scenes gone by. Thus passed four long, weary weeks. For me were no dreams of the future, no surveying of the past; all, all was a chaos of guilt and dread.