Rodolpho, or, The mystery of Venice
page: 0 (TitlePage) [View Page 0 (TitlePage) ] A ROMANCE OF VENICE AND THE ADRIATIC. BY GEO. CANNING HILL. BOSTON: F. GLEASON'S PUBLISHING HALL, CORNER OF BROMFIELD AND TREMONT STREETS. 1853. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by F. GLEASON, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. page: 0Advertisement[View Page 0Advertisement] PUBLISHER'S NOTE. -The following Novelette was originally published in the PICTORIAL DRAWING-ROOM COMPANION, and is but a specimen of the many deeply-entertaining Tales, and gems of literary merit, which grace the columns of that elegant and highly-popular journal. The COMPANION embodies a corps of contributors of rare literary excellence, and is regarded as the ne plus ultra by its scores of thousands of readers. A Magnificent Pictorial and Literary Weekly Journal. GLEASON'S PICTORIAL DRAWING-ROOM COMPANION, A RECORD OF THE BEAUTIFUL AND USEFUL IN ART. 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ROYS, 43 Woodward Avenue, Detroit. E. K. WOODWARD, corner of Fourth and Chesnut Streets, St. Louis Subscriptions received at either of the above places. RODOLPHO. CHAPTER I. VENICE BY MOONIIGHT. VENICE lay enshrouded in the silver sheen of moonlight. Turret and spire, balcony and dome, were gilded with a beauty unspeakable. Three hundred liquid streets, including the Grand Canal, threw back the beams that fell as soft as a kiss of heaven's breath upon them. The ancient city looked as if it were woven and interwoven with beauteous silver threads, and those threads the streets of liquid, flashing water. It lay, itself like a full-freighted argosy, moored in silence and sweet calm, at the head of the broad Adriatic. The Laguna lay stretched out before it -that broad water where so many a poor, unconscious victim was, at the dread midnight hour, thrown in and strangled, and whence his drowning cries could not reach the city's Inhabitants. There were the Giant's Stairs. There the palaces and the dungeons together. There the melancholy-looking Bridge of Sighs. There the old ducal palaces and their domes and towers, their turrets and balconies, and minarets, and broad facades, all flashing like erected halberds in the moonlight that rested over the entire city. On that night full many a weary prisoner strode to his dungeon bars for a breath of fresher air, grasping the dull iron with emaciated hand, and casting a longing look over the water beneath which they wished they could bury themselves forever. On that same night, too, full many a high-born lady, the scion of a truly noble stock, leaned languishingly over her balcony, and with bejewelled head resting carelessly on snow-white hand, listened to the sound of the light guitar that was thrummed by some secret over in his silver-beaked gondola below. Music was everywhere upon the water. Gondolas, propelled by stout arms and guided by graceful motions, skimmed like light and airy birds over the glistening water; and costly jewels many and rare, vied with brighter and more sparkling eyes, to throw back but a share of their beauty upon the water. Lights from noble page: 8-9[View Page 8-9] houses and stately palaces gleamed, though but faintly, in the moonlight, across the streets. Shouts of merry laughter, and the echoes of silvery voices were borne to the ears of the entranced gondoliers, like the low and dreamy music that peals out at the vesper hour from the distant convent bell. All was light, and joy, and beauty. And as the queen of night sailed slowly and majestically upwards into the ocean of the clear blue sky, it surveyed the wealth, and the grandeur, and the happiness in Venice below, as if it seemed to take a true pride in the gay scene upon which it shone. There was a sound of revelry within the brilliant halls of the noble mansion of Count Moralo. Songs and gayest laughter chimed musically together. A hundred flames, from as many lamps, flung their glare over bejewelled dames and proudest virgins. Jewels, without number and beyond value, threw back their light, until it was absolutely painful for the eyes to gaze on them longer. It was the evening of the birthday of the beautiful young Adrienne, the daughter of the haughty Count Moralo. The lofty mansion was thronged with worthy and noble friends, come to pay respect to her rank, and to assure her, for the seventeenth time, of her surpassing grace and beauty. Thus far this ceremony had been every year gone through, from the time of her birth. Never looked the high-born Adrienne so lovely as now. Her dark and exceeding lustrous hair was parted back in wavy lines from her low, broad forehead, and fell in profuse ringlets over shoulders of alabaster. Hers were eyes that were full of dreams -dreams of love and days of pure joys to come. They were large and dark, and expressive of every individual feeling her soul had ever known. Cheeks, well rounded and most delicately tinted, were not guileless of two sweet and rougish dimples, that looked like little whirlpools in swiftly running streams. Her lips were ruby and full, and when a smile stole from through them over her countenance, it seemed as if a gleam of heaven's purest and most golden sunshine had stolen to her heart and lighted it up with love. Her head was wholly cast in a classic mould, finely shaped, and advantageously setting off the striking beauties of her features. It set upon her neck and shoulders like some fair and well proportioned temple upon a marble cliff -the pure white cliff itself having been chiselled by nature's hand until it was most admirably fitted for the support of a burden so magnificent. When she turn her neck but partially, her throat swelled like the beautiful throat of some warbling bird of heaven. There were crowds of admirers at her hand on that evening of brilliancy, and all their lips did but vie with each other in pronouncing their admiration of her. But she soon sickened of these tamely spoken flatteries. Her heart yearned within her bosom for something purer. She turned away from them all with unaffected disgust. As she moved away, unattended by any one, she chanced to meet her father, who was walking in an opposite direction. "Ah!" exclaimed Count Moralo, "and how is my darling daughter Adrienne enjoying herself this evening? Is there aught wanting that can add to the happiness of her dear heart?" "My dear father," said she, in reply, "I am as happy as you could expect me to be. I am joyed that I have seen my seventeenth birthday, and that thou art still alive to share its pleasures with me!" "God bless thee, my devoted Adrienne!" exclaimed he, seizing one of her hands in both of his, and holding on upon it fast. "God bless thee, Adrienne! But have you seen the young Count Gonzalvo to-night?" "I have, my father." "And where is he at this moment, Adrienne?" "I know not, my father," answered she. "I would have you show him all the attention you can, my daughter. He is a worthy young man, and a scion of a truly noble stock." Adrienne cast her beautiful blue eyes downwards upon the tessellated pavement of marble, but made no reply. "Forgive me if I have wounded your feelings Adrienne," he instantly said, perceiving her confusion; "I will not express myself so plainly hereafter," and raising her delicate hand to his lips he pressed it a moment there, and with a proud smile upon his features, passed on. Adrienne strolled along uninterruptedly until she had reached the garden walk, down which she leisurely found her way. It was with a feeling of surprise that, on turning herself suddenly round, she discovered how far she had come, and unattended, too. She started to return again, when her ears were saluted with a low and musical voice near her, calling: "Adrienne! Adrienne!" Instantly she bent herself forward, to catch a glimpse of the person calling, when a figure emerged from the shadow of an adjacent column, clad in a light and silken half robe, and stood before her. "Rodolpho!" she exclaimed, "Ah, dear Rodolpho!" "It is I, lovely Adrienne," replied he, in a suppressed and softened tone. "But why are you here on this night, Rodolpho?" asked the bewildered maiden. "Do you upbraid me with coming, Adrienne? with placing my poor, worthless, unhappy life in jeopardy, that I might once more see the idol of my heart?" "Rodolpho! do not think thus, my love! I only would have sought to know what fatality brought you into the midst of so much danger to-night! Forgive me that I said!" "You are forgiven already, my love," replied Rodolpho. "I only ask for myself the same privilege that others are this night enjoying." "What mean you, Rodolpho?" "That I have come, like the rest, to lay down the expressions of my congratulation at thy feet, that another happy anniversary has come round to thee; that is all." "You are thoughtful of me, Rodolpho." "And why should I not be, my love? Does the green earth forget, even in darkest obscurities, the blessed sun that warmed her breast? Does the dark and wave-beating ocean ever forget the silver moon, whose crescent sails monthly, like a fairy boat, up into the ocean of blue overhead?" "But you have not counted the danger, Rodolpho?" "No, nor would I. What danger have I to fear, when all my life and happiness is at stake? Teach love to know a thought of danger, if thou canst, Adrienne!" "But, Rodolpho, I would that you could gain admittance to yonder proud mansion, and tread its lighted halls as freely as those whose hearts are there but for the hour that is passing." "That cannot be, Lady Adrienne. It is proscribed to me, so pure a bliss as that. But yet, my love, I am not wholly wretched. I have the treasures that secret meetings with thee do yield me so generously, and I hoard them up in my heart for other days, to dream upon when I would otherwise be unhappy. I love thee, Adrienne, and I am loved by thee in turn. Why should I not be happy? Why should I not be all contented? My heart can no one tear from me but with my life, and then will all its treasures go too!" As he ceased speaking he raised her hand to his lips, and pressed it with a kiss of the most fervent affection. "I must be gone, Rodolpho!" said Adrienne, starting suddenly. "They will surely miss me from the hall, and then they will search for me, and find me in the garden, and you with me! O, would that you could go with me, Rodolpho!" "Hush, Adrienne! Say no more. Thy proud father has forbidden it forever. But he may not prevent my loving thee, and here do I most earnestly avow it. Farewell, Adrienne! farewell! I shall watch patiently for thee, and be by thy side when thou wouldst fain pour out thy troubled thoughts upon the night breeze, or the rippling zephyr. Farewell!" "Farewell, Rodolpho. I shall only sorrow for thee the more until thou art by my side again." A second time he pressed her hand to his lips, while on bended knee he bowed before her, and then she was gone. [SEE ENGRAVING.] "The flight of a holy angel!" said he, in a low voice, as soon as she was lost to his view in the dusky shadows of the long rows of columns that beset her path. He started to return again, as he had entered the place, and had proceeded but a few steps, when a voice fell upon his ear: "Be at you, sir! Defend yourself!" Rodolpho turned in surprise around, to see from whose lips such threatening syllables could proceed, when he discovered a man standing close at his back, rapier in hand, and glittering in the moonlight, who seemed to defy him. "What would you with me, sir?" demanded Rodolpho, laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword. "Defend yourself, villain! knave! robber!" said the figure, in a low husky voice, in which a stern, and impetuous determination was perceptible. In an instant the shining blade of Rodolpho leaped from its scabbard, and he made a violent pass at the figure's heart. He saw, at a glance, that his opponent was no mean master at the art of using the glittering blade, and he at once changed his manner to one of greater caution. He made several feints at page: 10-11[View Page 10-11] the person, and at last, when provoked beyond his endurance by a stinging remark of the other, he inflicted on him a sensible and admonitory flesh wound, disarmed him completely, and turned his heel contemptuously away from him The steel of his opponent rang clearly upon the cool night air, and fell in among the rare exotics that stood clustered in an adjoining parterre. In an instant Rodolpho was out of sight of his disgraced opponent, and was being rowed lightly over the gleaming water, in his golden-beaked gondola, by the hands of a brave and trusty oarsman. There was also in his barge, reclining obediently at his feet, a young and beautiful page, named Pedore. The gondola shot swiftly away, like the hasty flight of a feathery arrow, and Rodolpho looked for the last time that night on the noble mansion, with its glittering turrets and spacious balconies, and a deep-drawn sigh escaped his parted lips. CHAPTER II. THE MYSTERIOUS COMMUNICATION. INSTANTLY, on receiving his wound and losing his weapon, Gonzalvo hastened to return to the company he had left in the halls. Great was the confusion and affright of all, at beholding him in this sad and woful plight,- his dress greatly disarranged, his countenance flushed with anger and mortified pride, and the blood stains on his forehead and cheeks. "Why, how is this, Gonzalvo?" demanded Count Moralo, in surprise, advancing towards him and laying hold upon his arm. "It is but a scratch -a mere flesh wound," answered Gonzalvo, unconcernedly. "Yes, but wherefore! Where did you get it?" "In the garden, sir count; in your own garden, some few moments agone." "In the garden! And at whose hands pray?" "By the sword of a robber -a villain, whom I dared to drive away from your domain, sir oonut." "But you should have called for assistance, Gonzalvo; you should not risk your precious life, and brave death itself, by encountering a robber. And only to protect my mansion, too!" "Ah, sir count!" exclaimed Gonzalvo, half turning his head away, and giving a triumphant leer out of his eye, "Ah, sir count, it was no common robber, believe me!" "Who, then, was it? Speak, Gonzalvo!" "Nor was it merely to protect your noble residence, that I thus freely put in jeopardy my life and my name," added the young man, not heeding what the count said. "Relieve me of this suspense, I pray you, Gonzalvo!" a second time demanded Count Moralo. "I would know who it was! Speak, Gonzalvo!" The young man, who had now wiped from his forehead and face all traces of his recent encounter with his foe, leaned forward towards his interrogator and whispered something in his ear. Count Moralo started back in sudden surprise, holding up his hands. Gonzalvo nodded with his head, to signify the affirmation of what he had just whispered to him. The count was greatly troubled, and turned away. Slowly and abstractedly he paced to and fro through the refulgent halls of his noble mansion, nor deigned to exchange a word with any one. All remarked the sudden change that had come over him, but were entirely unable to divine either its cause or its meaning. Presently Gonzalvo sought the side of Adri- page: 12-13 (Illustration) [View Page 12-13 (Illustration) ] enne, and entered into conversation with her. His thoughts were greatly disturbed, but hers were almost as light and free as those of a joyous singing bird. She had just returned from a conference with her accepted lover. Why should she not be happy? "Adrienne," began the young Count Gonzalvo, "I have been wounded." Adrienne started back with affright, unable to comprehend him. "I have been wounded," he repeated, "and in the garden!" The suspicion instantly flashed across her mind that possibly he might have accidentally met with Rodolpho, and been wounded in an encounter with him. "You read my words rightly," said he, with a look of import. "Yes, Adrienne, you know by whose blade it was that the villanous act was done!" Adrienne's countenance was suddenly suffused with the deepest burning crimson, and she threw a glance upon him full of angry pride and merited rebuke. "What do you mean?" she haughtily demanded. "May I be excused from telling you, fair lady," said he, "what you already know?" "I am entirely ignorant of what you would say!" rejoined she, imperiously, and rising, as if thus summarily to rid herself of her unsolicited companion. "Stay, lady, but for a moment, I beseech you! I will tell you all. It was by Rodolpho's sword that I received this wound." "Rodolpho's?" exclaimed she. "You have spoken it," said he; "it was I who met him in the garden but just now." "Rodolpho in the garden?" she again exclaimed, in a tone of greatly affected surprise. "Was it all a secret to thee, fair lady?" he asked. "Was there no one with him in the garden?" "Gonzalvo!" replied she, "why do you thus address me respecting Rodolpho? Am I yet responsible to thee for my conduct? Am I not my own mistress still?" "True, Adrienne," said he, in a half whisper, "but yet -but yet- other eyes than thine alone witnessed the devoted and passionate attitudes that this Rodolpho exhibited before thee. Other eyes than thine alone saw him take that lily hand of thine and press it again and again to his parted lips. There were other ears, too, than thine, that eagerly drank in those expressions of passionate affection that he poured forth so lavishly from his lips. Thou wast not alone with him, fair lady!" "And did you see me with him?" asked Adrienne, greatly excited from her rushing thoughts. "I did, Adrienne, from behind a column that shadowed me there." "And heard what passed between us?" "Pardon me, Adrienne -I could not but hear it all." "Spy that thou art!" she indignantly exclaimed, looking him fully in the face. "Say not thus, Adrienne. I was not there to overhear your conversation. I went not there as a vile spy -a detestable eaves-dropper." "Then wherefore, pray?" "I saw thee go alone into the garden, and followed thee. It is thy seventeenth birth night, and I thought to offer thee such congratulations as became the hour, and control my heart." "And could not that as well have been done here?" "No, lovely one, it could not." "Why not, pray? You have the power, as well as others, to talk even in low whispers, when you will." A heightened color flitted momentarily over the fine countenance of Gonzalvo and he replied: "I followed thee into the garden, because there I knew I should find thee alone. I would have told thee of the exhaustless wealth of my love; of my passion for thee, and all thy loveliness; of the tempests with which my sad heart is torn at sudden times; of what I did but hope and pray. I would have fallen on my very knees before thee, Adrienne, and, unworthy as I am, I would have dared to ask the rich boon of thy love in return." Adrienne sat as calm, and composed, and colorless as a marble statue itself. "But what was it not my fate to behold?" continued he. "How sorely, how cruelly was my poor heart made to bleed, at seeing what I did; and what, of all other things, I would not have sought to see! What could I do but remain silent in my chosen hiding place, and suffer? But call me not a villanous spy, Adrienne; wrong me not in that way!" She replied nothing to him, although he paused for a moment, as if she might voluntarily retract the charge she had made. STRANGE MEETING Of RODOLPHO AND ADRIENNE. -SEE PAGE 9. page: 14-15[View Page 14-15] "When I saw thee return to the house, I stepped boldly out upon the wall and challenged him whom I deemed my most formidable rival, to single combat. We drew swords and went at giand save this scratch that he gave me, I am not ashamed to tell even thee that he succeeded in wresting from me my rapier; for be it known to thee, as it is known to every gentleman of rank, that Rodolpho is reckoned the most skilful swordsman in all Venice; and it is no disgrace to be disarmed by a professed master of his art." While he thus spoke, Adrienne cast the most excited looks upon him; and there was even a smile of triumph and gladness hovering about her curled lips, as he told her of his having been disarmed by Rodolpho. "Thy father knows of the occurrence," he said, in a lower tone, "and"- "You told it to him!" she charged, excitedly. "I did -I did, fair lady. He saw the plight I was in, and at once demanded to know all of me. I told him that Rodolpho had fought me in the garden." "Tale-bearer, as well as spy!" said Adrienne, contemptuously. "Not so; I was compelled to tell him; but he knows not of your meeting Rodolpho in the garden as yet, Adrienne. I have told him nothing of that. I would keep that from his knowledge, for I knew it would cast a shadow over his happiness on this lovely evening." Adrienne made no answer, not even to thank him for the secret he thus openly boasted of having kept, but instantly rising from her seat, left him without a word, and was soon mingling again with the gayest of the gay. Gonzalvo turned away in another direction, hoping by new scenes to hide his chagrin and awake more pleasing recollections. Still he was unhappy, wretchedly unhappy. After Rodolpho left the garden, subsequently to his encounter with the young Count Gonzalvo, he directed that his gondola should be rowed to a particular point, where he and his youthful page Fedore were to disembark. 'On, on sped the light and agile craft, in whose luxurious depth lay reclining the elegant form of Rodolpho, his head leaning thoughtfully upon his hand. He looked over the glistening prow, that moved through the silvery sheet of water, and essayed to count the ripples that swelled in their mimic lines on its either side. He cast his eyes far over the water, and saw reflected in its pure bosom the rays from a thousand lights, and listened to the melodious strains from the light hearted gondoliers. He thought of her whom he had left behind, herself to be preyed upon by the same tormenting thoughts that awoke in his own heart. He dared even to dream of the balmy days, and the soft, starlit nights of tender love. His heart, even then, was dancing with the sprightliness of his feelings and thoughts. Anon he shook his plumed cap within his hand, as if he would call up the pleasant hours, of which he dreamed, around him; and then he replaced it slowly, and with a disappointed air, upon his head again, and fell to dreaming. From this intermittent series of reveries he was aroused by the beak of his gondola suddenly grazing against the marble step on which he would land, and his active page, Fedore, calling upon him to disembark, for this was the place. Suddenly his stout heart seemed to palpitate again within his breast, and he sprang out upon the wave-washed stair, with an agility and resoluteness that betokened a strength and an inward power not yet developed and discovered. "This way, Fedore!" he exclaimed to his page, pointing to the street into which he would enter. "Ah, master Rodolpho!" said the young boy, "I had altogether forgotten it; I might have lost my way but for you." "And I am conversant with all the streets of Venice," said Rodolpho, "and well I may be. I have had too many occasions to know the most direct ways to certain points I would reach the soonest." There was a positiveness about this remark of the young bravado that precluded any idea of deception from his lips. He meant all he said. They travelled on together for some distance, always selecting streets least frequented, and concealing themselves within the shadows formed by door-ways, recesses, arches, pillars, and columns. At length they reached a particular house, and with no further word, Rodolpho placed his hand to the door and opened it. They climbed two or three flights of stairs almost noiselessly, and finally reached a large room that might well be called a balcony, and at the door of this room Rodolpho knocked softly, so as to be heard by none but those within. "Enter!" sounded a husky voice from within the apartment. Rodolpho was obedient to the summons, and page: 16-17[View Page 16-17] bidding his page follow him, he entered the room. It was a narrow, but rather lofty apartment, out of which looked two windows upon the sleeping water. There sat an old crone at the farther corner of the room, who turned her face from the contemplation of the stars to the person who was about entering. "And what words are writ in the heavens tonight, good mistress Nancie?" asked Rodolpho, as he entered. "The stars do not give out any of their secret mysteries to-night," she answered. "Why, what would you, master Rodolpho? What seek you this night to know?" "Look once more on the heavens' face, good Nancie, and tell me if there is nothing portentous to be seen that I should know at once!" The old woman bent her gaze on the starlit sky for a few moments, the while slowly counting and recounting her fingers, and then turned again to Rodolpho, and said: "Not a syllable. The night and the morrow -yes, and full many a week shall go well with thee. Thy sky is clear and unclouded; or what clouds there are, are but puffs of idle and powerless smoke. Fear not, Rodolpho!" "But my enemies, Nancie? I have them!" "So be it," responded the astrologer. "Every one has enemies, and they of the greatest worth the most. Fear not, I tell thee, master Rodolpho." He hastily dropped a piede of gold into her opened palm, and beckoning to Fedore to follow him again, was soon in the street and in his gondola. Again he was ploughing the sleeping and sheeny waters. Again he rested thoughtfully upon his hand. Again he gave the rein to his wildest and fondest dreams. He had dismissed his oarsman and his page, and now was gliding through the darkest ways, back to the mansion of Adrienne. Love lent vigor to the sinews of his arms, and he bent to the oars most manfully. The ploughed water beat and washed up against his boat's side with a sound of music itself. Rodolpho could not but think it danced in perfect sympathy with his anxious and excited feelings. He finally floated beneath the shadow of the mansion of Count Moralo, and while his gondola glided noiselessly now along underneath the window of Adrienne, the eyes of the lover boatman were upturned to the same, to discover the form of his beautiful mistress. But she was not to be seen. The flashing lights were now long since extinguished within the noble halls; the strains of music and the echoes of joyous laughter had ceased, and all was dark and silent. Rodolpho was sad beyond the power of language to express. More than ever did he feel that he was alone. CHAPTER III. A REWARD FOR THE ARREST OF RODOLPHO. THERE was a collected crowd, on the following day, in the square of San Marco, earnestly talking over the subject that had engendered the fresh excitement. It was all about a placard that had made its appearance early that morning, offering a large amount of gold for the capture and delivery of the brigand Rodolpho. Placards were also posted on every wall in every square of the city. Men stood around them in eager attitudes, anxiously awaiting any development that might go towards the bold robber's discovery. Gondoliers, as their light barks met on the canal, stopped a moment, and while thus resting on their oars, discussed with freedom the probabilities of his capture or safety, wherever he might be. Count Moralo, being one of the proud nobles of Venice, and, by their own imperious voice, had decreed that their rank should be established to them and to their descndants in perpetuity, had been chosen out of that number as one of the secret and mystic Council of Ten, to whom was confided the government of the Venetian Republic. He had heard the tale that Gonzalvo told in his troubled ear on the night before, and instantly determined to employ the whole of his terrible power to bring Rodolpho to summary punishment, and thus remove his influence from the path of his beloved daughter. It was through his influence, chiefly, that the Council decreed, in their secret session, to offer a large reward for the notoriou bandit, whether taken alive or dead. Count Moralo felt more than ordinarily stung by the intrusion and boldness of Rodolpho on the evening before, and now he determined to be rid of him at once and forever. There stood two men together, not far from the foot of the steps of the ducal palace, talking by turns in a low and inaudible tone. They were clad in the costume of working men, and bore about them every mark of ignorance and poverty. Even in the manner in which they regarded the nobles and others of rank who swept by them, could their inferiority be immediately discerned. "They never will take him alive," said one of them, whose name was Vivolus "No, nor dead!" returned the other, who was called Padorus. "I am sworn!" said the former. "And I too!" chimed in the latter. "This very morning," continued Vivolus, "have I been begged, -implored by a godolier to make known what I knew of his whereabouts," page: 18-19[View Page 18-19] "You!" exclaimed the other. "Yes; and I was offered a large share of the reward, if I would bring the noble-hearted Rodolpho to the light." "And you spurned the offer?" "Spurned it! Yea, and I cursed the wretch whose heart had hardened to such a lump of avarice. I cursed him for a very devil, and bade him go talk to the statues about the palace; they might hear him -I did not! I told him to cry out to the dread dungeons of the Piombi and Piozzi, to open their jaws wide, and unearth the pale prisoners, who needed only cerements upon and about them, to be buried alive already; but as for my heart opening to disclose what was buried there, -O, never! never!" "And what said he then?" "The dastardly villain! He said he knew me well, and he would have me brought before the Council, and then, if I would not disclose my secret, I should be bound hand and foot, and stretched on the cord! But I heeded not his feeble threats; they were impotent with me; my resolution is not to be shaken by threats!" "No, nor mine!" "But stay! Who comes here?" "As I live, the spies of the Council!" "The spies!" "Yes; and they have already fixed their keen eyes upon you. Fly!" "Fly! 'Twould be folly now. I have no fear. I shall not fly. I shall remain just where I am. Leave me to myself, Padorus," "Is not this Vivolus?" demanded one of three men, who now came up with him, and laid his hand upon his shoulder. "Vivolus forever!" proudly and unflinchingly replied the man addressed. "Then hold forth your hands!" "For what?" "To be bound." "To be bound! What have I done, that my liberty should be taken from me? Are not your dungeons full enough, and to overflowing, already? Are not the massive stones of their cells piled up sufficiently even now upon the bleeding hearts of their poor prisoners?" "No words! Hold forth!" "Is resistance vain, then?" "Alive or dead, you must be carried before the Council. It is their will." "Then I obey. I do not disobey the laws of my native city. Venice! thou wast always loved by me!" He held out his hands willingly, and suffered them to bind them together. His arms were large and muscularly made, and they looked as though they well nigh might burst the slender fetters as tender withes. Still he was as tractable and submissive as any could have wished. In a short time he was ushered in through one of the rooms of the ducal palace, into the presence of the secret Council of Ten. There sat the doge, proud, dignified and implacably stern, in his chair of state. Around him, in a mysterious semi-circle, were ranged in separate seats, the ten most powerful men in all Venice. It was with them to place the value on human life; with them to overthrow or build up human happiness within the state; with them to make and to unmake, to erect and to destroy, to set bounds and to grant licenses, to protect age and innocence, and to send devastation and woe across every man's threshold. Vivolus stood uncovered, and in trembling awe, before the doge, scarcely daring to raise his eyes to where he sat. He was humility itself, Presently the doge addressed him: "Your name is Vivolus?" The prisoner bowed a silent affirmation. "Tell the Council what know you respecting the whereabouts of the villain Rodolpho, for whose arrest Venice has this day offered so generous a reward. What know you respecting him?" "Sire, I cannot say," respectfully answered he, for the first time looking up at the countenance of the doge. "Know you nothing of him?" demanded the doge. "I cannot tell," again answered Vivolus. "Bring in the other," ordered the doge to the secret attendant near. Instantly the door of another room swung back on its hinges, and a person was conducted by the attendant into the room. It was the gondolier whom Vivolus had, on that very morning, cursed for a coward and a knave, when he demanded to know of him where was Rodolpho! Vivolus started at beholding this apparition, as it were, so plainly before his eyes, but gave expression to no exclamation. "Did not this fellow, named Vivolus," demanded the doge of the man just brought in, "tell thee that he knew where was the hidingplace of Rodolpho?" "He did," answered the gondolier. "And did he not refuse flatly to disclose it to thee, so that the arch enemy of Venice might be brought to punishment?" "He did, sire," answered the man. "What sayest thou to that?" demanded the doge, imperiously, of Vivolus. "I say nothing to it," answered he. "And why nothing? Because it is true?" "Because it is false -every syllable!" "Be not rash Vivolus," urged the doge. "You have a secret"- "But I told it not to him, sire!" "You told him that you knew where Rodolpho was hidden?" "Not so." "What!" "I say, not so. I told him that the dungeons might as soon be expected to open their hungry and insatiate jaws, and disgorge their pale and heart-crushed prisoners, as that he might hope for me to disclose to him what I knew," "Then you know nothing of Rodolpho?" asked the doge, looking steadily at him. "Nothing that I shall reveal," resolutely answered Vivolus. "Bear him away to torture!" commanded the doge. "The rack shall wring out his secrets. Bear him away at once!" Instantly two men, attired properly for their work, sprang into the council chamber, and after binding the unresisting prisoner hand and foot, led him out to the dark room of torture. The council sat in silence, awaiting, the disclosure he might make. Twice, and even thrice was the accursed cord stretched across his sinewy limbs, before the unhappy man suffered even a stifled groan to escape him. And when nature thus momentarily yielded, likewise relaxed his torturers their efforts, and looked inquiringly upon him, as if they were awaiting his disclosure. "Go on with your torments!" said the heroic man; "I have no secret to tell; go on with your fiendish work!" Again they drew tighter the cords across him. His limbs were stretched apart, and his extremities drawn from their joints, until it seemed that the very bones had parted in their sockets. The big, blue veins crossed and re-crossed, and even knotted themselves together in hard lumps upon his temples, as if they were full to bursting. His eyes rolled upwards in his head in an agony of pain. A death-like sweat stood in huge drops upon his pale forehead, and his lips, which were half-parted, were ashy pale. "Confess, then!" commanded his chief tormentor. Still came no syllable of confession from his lips. Not even a groan escaped them. "Then die with thy secret!" shouted the tormentor. Instantly the poor victim swooned away. He was gone. They unbound his cords, and for a long time applied their lonig-tried restoratives. For a time they served not to recover him. He seemed really dead. The door of the council-chamber again opened, and the mysterious attendant entered. "He makes no confession," announced he to the doge and council. "Then continue the torture!" ordered the doge. "It has been repeated again and again," replied the attendant; "but he says no word; not even a groan comes from him." Obdurate villain!" exclaimed the doge. "He has swooned away, and we know not if he be dead already," announced the attendant. "Then hurry him away." "And whither?" "If he be dead, to the pier; whence his body may be thrown by night into the Laguna, that people may think he was doomed." "But if we succeed in restoring him!" "Then away with him, instantly, to the dungeon! He shall be taught to keep his secrets there to himself!" The attendant bowed and left the chamber. When at length Vivolus returned again to consciousness, he was in a state bordering on frenzy. His brain was in the dizzy whirl of a delirium soon after, and in this wretched condition he was violently borne away to a dark, damp dungeon. Again was the hauaghty Count Moralo at home. He summoned Adrienne into his presence. Like a beautiful angel more than like a being of flesh and blood, did she enter the room where was her proud father, waiting to receive her. "Be seated, Adrienne," said he, as soon as she appeared before him. She had dismissed her maid, Juliette, just by the door, in the hall. Adrienne obeyed the request of her father; and, as she seemed to comprehend, at a glance, that the mood in which he was was unpropitious for kindly words, she preserved a silence and kept her lips perfectly mute. page: 20-21[View Page 20-21] "I would speak to thee, Adrienne," coldly commenced her father, "of Rodolpho; he who is feared by all Venice at this day; he whose life is at this very moment insecure, and for whom, alive or dead, a large reward has been publicly offered to the hands of all the citizens." Adrienne looked down despondingly upon the floor as her father began. Her color suddenly left her cheeks, and her eyes grew large and staring. She seemed as if trying to make meaning out of some incomprehensibility upon the carpeted floor. "Rodolpho is a robber -a pirate -a brigand -a villain! His life is a thousand times forfeit already to the state, for the crimes he has committed with such boldness and impunity; and it is of him that I have desired to speak with thee, Adrienne." The girl ventured to raise her eyes inquiringly to the countenance of her father, but instantly on meeting the stern and forbidding expression that concentrated itself in his, dropped them instantly upon the carpet again, her frame quivering and trembling with fear. "Only yestereen," continued he, his voice growing more and more passionate, "only yesternight was he in the garden. He -the robber -the brigand! How he got there, whence he came, or where he went, no one knows. It is that which Venice this day seeks to know, Adrienne!" Again she lifted her eyes on him, and again instantly let them fall on the floor. "You love him! Speak and tell me if I have said truly!" "Father," answered the beautiful child, "to know him is to love him." "I knew it; I knew as much. Then I have not spoken wrongly. This love, Adrienne, must be broken off!" "Father!" was all the daughter could protest or reply. "I would not have my daughter marry one like him. What father would? No, Adrienne; this bond, however it exists, must at once be broken. Already the young Count Gonzalvo has besought me for your hand. His blood is noble, his family is of the first stock, and all wish that the union might be consummated. It is my wish that it be consummated, too. Else, if he do not succeed in obtaining your hand, he will at once proceed to Spain, and there seek an alliance with some lovely senorita." "He had better," interrupted Adrienne. "He shall not!" imperiously returned the haughty parent; "he shall marry you, and only you! And the terms of the union shall be determined on, too, between the families, within the space of three days! Mark what I say, Adrienne -within three days! I give you time to make up your feelings and communicate them to me. If, at the expiration of that time, you are ready to marry Gonzalvo, then the nuptials will be made ready at once; but if not, then to the convent! I have already arranged it with Father Petroni." "But, father!" protested Adrienne. "Words are now useless, Adrienne," said he; "it will be as I have said. So prepare yourself." Count Moralo at once turned away from her with a step of pride and passion, and Adrienne was alone. Flinging herself upon a couch near at hand, she fell into a most violent fit of weeping, in which she was finally discovered by her faithful maid, Juliette. CHAPTER IV. THE COUNCIL IN SESSION. THE Council of Ten was in secret session, and the hour was near that of midnight. The doge sat in his high chair of state, clothed in the insignia of his ducal rank and power. Around him were the mysterious ten. The lights burned blue and dim above their heads, and shedding their dull rays down upon the dark and sombre tapestry of the room, imparted a gloom and unearthly solemnity to the place that could not fail to throw upon the stoutest heart a sudden chill of horror. "Call in the prisoner," commanded the doge. "Whom? The one who was put to the rack this morn?" inquired the attendant. "The same," answered the doge. "Bring him in." The attendant, obedient to the command. opened a secret door that was sunken in the thick and massive palace-wall, and in a moment was gone. For some time he was absent, during the whole of which the council sat in their half- circle, in perfect silence. Presently the door opened again, and the attendant announced himself; but he was alone. "Where is the prisoner?" demanded the doge. "He is not here," was the respectful reply. "And where then?" "Nor in his dungeon cell." "But where then?" a second time asked the doge. "The keeper says he sent him hither fully an hour since." "Sent him here? By whose order?" "By that of the doge and council." "We have given no such order," replied the doge, in deep astonishment. "Bring hither the keeper at once." The eyes of each member of the council were at once turned to the countenances of the others, and their expression was only that of the wildest astonishment. The attendant touched a hidden spring in the wall, and instantly a door flew wide open. Trembling and confused, the luckless dungeonkeeper was brought into the darkened and tomb-like room. "Where is the prisoner Vivolus?" demanded the doge. The eyes of the council were turned fixedly upon him. "I sent him hither full an hour agone," answered the desponding jailer. "By whose hands?" asked the doge. "By an attendant's." "Did not the attendant give you his name?" "He said he was Alphonzi, and that he was commissioned by the doge and council to bring page: 22-23[View Page 22-23] the prisoner at once before them. He bore iron manacles in his hands, and was careful to place them upon the prisoner before he left his cell." "And you let the prisoner go?" pursued the doge. "I did, sire; what should I have done?" "Did the attendant give you the pass-word, as he should?" "All correctly," answered the dungeon-keeper. "You have been duped." "Sire!" "You have been deceived. How was the man who called himself a messenger from this chamber dressed? Like the attendant yonder?" "Precisely, sire." "Had he light eyes?" "Dark, sire; very dark." "Was he stoutly built?" "On the contrary, very slightly." "Do you not know who he was, then?" continued the doge. "Indeed, I cannot imagine, sire." "He was RODOLPHO!" "Rodolpho!" "The same; the man for whom we have offered so large a reward. Go back to your duty, and henceforth prove yourself watchful. We may send for you again." The dungeon-keeper at once left the room, his heart carrying on within itself a severe and raging conflict between fear and chagrin. At the same hour of the night, and while the proud Count Moralo was sitting in the council chamber of the ducal palace, two females, young in years, and clad only in proper in-door apparel, were hurrying along the streets, now stealing along beneath the partial covert of tall and frowning houses, now slipping noiselessly and with fingers on their lips, within some darkened archway or welcome recess, and again hurrying along at their fullest speed, to gain some point they had in prospect. These two persons were Adrienne, and her waiting maid, Juliette. "Hush, Juliette! Here we are safely, at last," finally burst, in a half whisper, from the lips of the beautiful Adrienne. They had arrived at the lower door of the building, in whose upper chamber old Nancie professed to deal out her mystic prophecies. In a moment more they were in her presence. "Adrienne," exclaimed the old crone, at seeing the young girl enter her balcony at such a strange and fearful time of night. "How came you from home on such a night? Your father is with the Council." "And that is the reason I have come to see you at this hour, my dear old nurse," replied Adrienne. Old Nancie had been for years the faithful and devoted nurse of Adrienne, and to her had always been freely confided all the little secrets of the latter, even after they had been separated from each other. "Does any thing go wrong with you, child?" asked Nancie, in a tone of affectionate sympathy. The young girl threw herself into her old nurse's lap, and laying her head upon her bosom, she wept as if her heart would break. "Why, what is the matter, child? What troubles this innocent little heart so sorely, Adrienne? Tell me daughter. Tell your old nurse, all." But Adrienne continued weeping violently, sobbing as if she would not be consoled or comforted. Presently, after she had in a measure recovered from this outbreak of her grief, Nancie raised her head from her bosom, and with her kerchief wiped away the tears from her swollen eyes, and affectionately urged her to tell her what it was that troubled her heart so much. Juliette would, perchance, have spoken, but she dared not forestall the words which she well knew were the most properly spoken by the lips of her mistress. At length, however, Adrienne found the words which her heart so greatly desired, and she began: "My dear Nancie," said she, "I am wretched; I am indeed miserable." "And you never need to have told me of that, for any one could see that at a glance," responded the soothsayer. "But tell me, Adrienne, what it is that makes you so wretched." "It is my father -my own father, Nancie." "Your father? And how has he made you wretched?" "He has sworn to me that I shall marry the young Count Gonzalvo. He has given me three days in which to prepare my heart for the event, and then the nuptials are to be made ready at once." "And do you not love Gonzalvo?" inqiired Nancie. "Love him? I detest him! He is a spy and a villain." "You love another, then?" Adrienne cast her beautiful eyes down upon the floor, but made no reply. "Tell me who it is, Adrienne," demanded Nancie, affectionately. The girl leaned her head forward and whispered a word in the old nurse's ear. "Is it so?" astonishedly exclaimed the nurse. Adrienne merely nodded in affirmation. "What if you do not consent to marry the young Count Gonzalvo?" asked Nancie. "Then I am to go to the convent. Father Petroni has already been consulted, and my father is inflexible. What shall I do?" Nancie gazed for a moment or two out upon the open heavens, and contemplated the stars with which its blue, and now cloudless surface was thickly dotted, and then instantly turning again to Adrienne, she said: "It will not be so, my child." "What will not be so?" asked Adrienne. "You will not be married to Count Gonzalvo." "I am determined upon that myself," resolutely replied she. "But fate will interpose its hidden hand to snatch thee from the threatening trouble," said Nancie. "I see it -I have read it already in the stars overhead. Fear not, Adrienne; all will yet be well." Embracing and fondly kissing her old nurse again, she started out the door and bade Juliette follow. In half an hour thereafter entered the chamber the form of Rodolpho himself. "You here, Rodolpho?" exclaimed the amazed woman. "And why not here, Nancie?" he asked, in reply. "Is there any place in all proud Venice where I may not be? Tell me that, Nancie; tell me that!" "No, none, Rodolpho," she replied; "but are you not afraid?" "Afraid! Of what?" "Of your life." "No. My life is in the same hands it was ever in. The same God watches over me, and the same fate ever awaits me. I shall not die before my time; and I feel that my time is not yet. But what can you read for me in the heavens, prophetess?" Nancie looked attentively into the heavens again, and then said, turning round to him: "Trouble is about your path, Rodolpho." "That I know already," he replied. "You love a fair and high-born lady, Rodolpho," continued she, heedless of the interruption, "and she is not permitted to reciprocate the feeling." "True, Nancie, true." "She is to be marriedd." "What?" "Her father is proud, and would spurn you from his threshold. He is a man of rank and power. He has sworn that she shall, within three days' time, consent to marry Count Gonzalvo, or go at once into a convent." "Speak to me truly, Nancie." "I speak to you only what the silent voices of the stars utter to myself. You love a lady, whom her father has sworn to marry, within a brief period, to Gonzalvo; and if he is unable to effect that union, with her consent, then-" "She goes to the walls of a convent." "You have spoken it, Rodolpho." "She shall not marry Gonzalvo!" exclaimed Rodolpho, his passion rising within him. "It will be just as you will have it," said the old crone. "Do you tell me truly?" he asked. "I do; it will all be even as I have said." Rodolpho hurried excitedly from the presence of the old woman, and in a few moments was in his gondola, which slept in the shadows of the high stone stairs. Plying his oar, and guiding his slight craft only where the shadows fell the darkest, he soon stopped in the rear of a magnificent garden, and leaping from his boat, fastened it to the shore. Taking from his pocket a curiously wrought key, he unlocked the massive gate with the same, and swinging it back on its hinges, entered the garden. Cautiously and stealthily he found his way through the paved garden walks, and at length reached the mansion itself. It was one of the noblest of which Venice could boast. Stair after stair he untiringly ascended, now proceeding guardedly along a colonnade, and now entering a hidden doorway and pushing softly on. At every place whence he could catch a glimpse of the garden below, or of the unclouded sky above, he stopped and breathed afresh. His eyes were fixed in a stern resoluteness, and ever and anon his lip curled haughtily. After an almost interminable series of windings, and climbings, and stoppings, he finally reached the door of the room he would enter. page: 24-25[View Page 24-25] Placing his hand without hesitation upon the fastenings, he opened the door and entered. A light was burning dimly in the apartment, and its half smothered and flickering rays shed a truly fearful gloom over the heavy tapestry and hangings that adorned the windows and the walls. In the farther part of the room was a magnificently attired couch, and upon its soft and downy furniture there was sleeping a human form. Rodolpho advanced on tiptoe towards the couch, and bent his head far forward, to ascertain who the sleeper might be. At the very first and slightest glance he felt satisfied, for instantly he drew himself back to his upright posture, and folded his arms together. It was Count Gonzalvo who slept. "Now has the fated hour come!" he muttered half aloud. "How could I have stepped in to prevent its approach? How could I have given thee such a warning as would have been most surely heeded? No, no; it was ordered that thou shouldst rush on thine own fate! It was so ordered." For a moment again all was silent. A gloom, as that of a dark and oppressive tomb, pervaded the spacious apartment. He continued: "Thou shalt not marry Adrienne, and here I swear it! She shall never become the bride of such as thee. Thou art a coward when awake; a traitor -a sneaking spy! It is for thee, and for such as thee, to die violent deaths. Your whole race merit such deaths; and here is thine in waiting for thee at thy bedside!" The sleeping and unconscious man suddenly grew restless, and rolling in his bed, murmured in low and broken accents: "Within three days, count; I shall be ready then. I will marry Adrienne within three days." "Liar that thou art!" exclaimed Rodolpho, the hot blood mantling his cheeks; "thou never shalt marry Adrienne. I give thee my word for that." He placed his hand upon his belt and grasped the bejewelled hilt of his dagger. But the loud and unguarded tones in which he addressed his hated rival, had the effect to arouse him from his slumber. Raising himself up partially in his bed, he looked wildly about him and discovered Rodolpho by his side. "What ho!" shouted he, in his overpowering affright; "come, valet! come! Ho, for help! for help!" But these words had scarcely passed his lips, when he was rudely grasped by the vice-like fingers of Rodolph, and thrust violently backwards again upon his couch. Seizing now his dagger and drawing it from his belt, Rodolpho exclaimed in a loud tone to his adversary: "Death to all such villains!" and plunged the blade into his heart. Gonsalvo instantly stretched out his limbs passively in death, and his last breath left him. He was dead. Without even pausing longer to read the expression of the dead man's features, Rodolpho inconsiderately left his dagger in the body, and made a hasty retreat. Again he found his way down through the windings of the noble mansion as before, and, arrived at the garden gate, he applied his key to the same, and it swung back on its hinges. In a twinkling he was in his gondola again, ploughing the gleaming water, and hugging to his stout and courageous heart the joy and satisfaction of his revenge. CHAPTER V. VENICE IN ALARM. NEXT day all Venice was astir. It was whispered fearfully from ear to ear that the young and noble Count Gonsalvo had been found murdered in his bed early that morning, and that the dagger of Rodolpho, bearing his name upon its jewelled hilt, was found buried in his breast. Such fearful tidings caused many a cheek to whiten for fright, and people began to ask each other anxiously whether they were assured of their own safety when they lay down in their beds at night. The dreaded name of Rodolpho was upon every tongue, and there was a feverish wish expressed on all sides, that so bold a robber might at length be brought to his merited punishment. Presently there was a public proclamation made from the marble stairs of the ducal palace, that any one who should either testify to anything that would bring Rodolpho to the light, or himself capture and bring him before the Council, should receive double the reward previously offered for him. And it was further proclaimed, that if the person arresting him should chance to be an escaped criminal, or guilty of any misdeed toward the state, he should receive a full and free remission of all his crimes and faults. So liberal an offer could not fail at once to enlist the feelings of all the common people, both those who would most need the reward and those whose occupations would be most likely to throw them in the way of securing it. The intelligence flew, as on the wings of the wind, to all quarters of the proud city. Every tongue was prating of the enormous crimes of this bold robber, Rodolpho, and every heart was secretly wishing that the generous reward might be theirs. Still, there was an indefinable mystery connected with his name, and all that he did was associated with the highest and most fascinating romance. Adrienne was again in the presence of her parent, now grown fearfully stern, and her eyes were red and inflamed with excessive weeping. "Count Gonzalvo is dead," said the father; "he was found murdered this morning, in his bed. And what is the most mysterious, he was murdered by Rodolpho." "Father!" broke forth the girl, "how know you that?" "Because his stiletto was found in his bosom. The name of Rodolpho was engraven on its costly hilt. That is proof enough. I have my fears of you, Adrienne." "Of me?" "Yes, of you! I fear that you have communicated to him my intention respecting your marriage with the young Count Gonzalvo." page: 26-27[View Page 26-27] "Father, you do me wrong; I have not seen Rodolpho." "No matter; he may have been somewhere near, to catch up the meaning words you may have idly dropped. There is no power to say what he does not hear. Where he is, no one knows. We have this day proclaimed the offer of a larger reward for him than before, but I fear me greatly whether any reward will be able to take him. He seems omnipresent. His very being is a sealed mystery to us all. He lets us into only enough of his conduct to make the rest of it awfully mysterious. But come, Adrienne!" "What, father?" asked the weeping girl. "I have said that you should make up your heart to marry Gonzalvo, or no one. Gonzalvo is dead, as I have told you. You shall therefore be put out of the power of any other one at once." "What would you seek to do, father?" "To the convent! The ascetic old monk Petroni shall have you in his charge until you are thoroughly cured of this passion for Rodolpho. Your union with him would forever disgrace my name. It shall not be, Adrienne; I swear it!" Again the girl fell to weeping violently, as if she would not be comforted. "Therefore prepare yourself, Adrienne. Tomorrow, at noon, you will leave for the convent." So saying, he turned and left his child alone, and still weeping. It was in the middle of the afternoon, -the sun had but just begun to sink gradually down to his western bed, and Adrienne was in the chamber of the old nurse Nancie. She was unaccompanied by Juliette, for she had come to take a fond farewell of her dear old friend, and would have none near to overhear what passed between them. "My dear old nurse," sobbed Adrienne, throwing her arms affectionately about the neck of old Nancie, "I must leave you, perhaps forever." And she burst forth in a fresh fit of weeping. "No, Adrienne, do not talk thus. Your fortune will surely change for the better. I know it will. Keep up a stout heart, my child; all will yet be well." "But Nancie, what hope is there for me within the dismal walls of a convent? What hope is there left to the poor prisoner in the Piozzi dungeons, but to look forward to his speedy death? That same hope alone have I left to me!" "You are disheartened, Adrienne; your nerves are sadly out of tune." "But I have to go to-morrow, Nancie. My fate is already upon me. I feel its long, skinny fingers laying hold of me. O, I cannot endure it, Nancie; indeed I cannot." Thus did the lovely creature continue to bewail her doom. She declared, again and yet again, that it would be a living death to her in the convent. She had just began to love the world, and the clouds in her sky were painted and glowing with the most beautiful colors. She had in very truth but just began to realize some of the earliest and most charming dreams her heart had ever known. The first taste of the world's joys had given her a relish for them all, and it would surely be starvation to her heart to shut her up now, where she could never know them more. When at last she took her departure; and embraced her kindhearted old nurse, as she believed, for the last time, it was quite dark, and the lights had began to gleam and glimmer in the streets, and reflect themselves in the depths of the clear and glistening water. Stealthily she found her way back to her father's mansion again, and to her chamber. And once arrived there, she burst forth again in an agony of grief that seemed really uncontrollable. At the time specified, the next day her father imperiously summoned her into his presence and that of the old monk, Petroni. Adrienne obeyed the summons, reluctantly, it is true, yet she full well knew it was not to be disregarded. During the conference that took place between the monk and her parent in her presence, she never once even raised her eyes to the face of the person into whose spiritual charge she was about to be committed, but kept gazing abstractedly upon the highly wrought and costly carpet on the floor. At length the terms were all arranged. Count Moralo took a final leave of his daughter; Juliette, her devoted maid, stood weeping by; the cortege was formed, and, stepping from the marble stairs on board a gondola, she was wafted away over the clear water towards a distant part of the town. The mansion of the haughty Count Moralo was thus left desolate. After committing the fatal deed of the previous night, Rodolpho, as we have seen, took to his gondola and sailed silently away. For weary miles through the liquid-sheeted city did he pursue his course, anxious most of all to escape notice and unfortunate detention. Occasionally he met with a lonely gondolier like himself, with whom he passed a careless word or two, and then he plied his oar with increased diligence and activity. Once he was set upon and suspiciously pursued by a couple of strangers in their light craft, but he finally succeeded, by leading them through the darkest and most strangely intersected streets, in escaping them altogether. At length he had advanced far out beyond all fear of pursuit or suspicion, even into the bosom of the broad and beautiful Adriatic. Sweetly sang the night winds to his properly attuned heart, laden, as they were, with all the liquid melodies they had gathered up in their wings from over all the sea beyond. Softly shone the stars and the waning moon down upon him, sitting alone in his golden-beaked gondola upon the face of the wide waters. Calmly breathed every influence from land and water at that midnight hour upon his bosom, but a short time before so grievously troubled. As he floated almost without purpose or pleasure, out on the dancing waters, he rested listlessly upon his oar, and gave himself up to dreams. He wore his tunic of purple velvet about his form. Upon his head sat jauntily his plumed cap, beneath which fell a profusion of the most beautiful glossy hair down upon his neck, and partially over his well-set shoulders. There played a sweet and sunny smile about his faultless lips, betokening anything but the thoughts of a murderer within his breast. A pleasant fire flashed and kindled in his large and highly expressive eye, and lit up all his features with a singular beauty. He thought fondly and long of Adrienne, -her to whom his heart was long wedded, and who already blest him with her own pure love in return. He thought not of himself as a murderer -a brigand -a robber -but only as the lover and defender of Adrienne. For her he lived alone; he thought and dreamed only of her, and for her he was willing to die. She reigned continually the queen of his loyal and devoted heart. The waves spent their mimic power against the sides of his fragile craft, and in the beating and liquid flash of every one of them he saw and felt the powerless assaults of his sworn enemies, who were leagued to destroy him. The wind just sighed and gently whistled in his cars, and so, thought he, also sighed and whistled even the loudest voices of those who were combined and hired to hunt him down. He turned himself fully round in his boat, and looked back upon the imperial city -the queen of the seas and the mistress of a hundred isles. It lay silent and sleeping in the vast sheen of the moonlight. The silver rays of night's queen fell aslant upon turret and dome, balcony and spire, and it seemed already as if they gilded the spears of a huge army, halting with a deathlike stillness in their tracks. He wondered within himself how many hearts were at that very moment beating in fear of him and his dreaded approach. He tried to think why it was that he should have been first set upon by the inquisitors and their spies, the slightest whispers of whose breaths were instantaneous death to those whom they held in their suspicion. But, withal, his heart grew strong, and took increased courage from his thoughts, and he swore that he would, for a long time yet, be to them as a sealed and secret mystery. He vowed anew to protect and defend the lovely Adrienne, against the suspicions, and calumny, and machinations of all. No one should interpose between him and her, and live. It should not be. And what, said he to himself, what is my word, that it should not be kept religiously? Suddenly a low and suppressed whistle fell upon his ears. It startled him. But it was at once recognized by him, and applying the silver instrument he wore in his belt to his lips, he returned it most shrilly. Instantly a boat sped across the light waves towards him. For a moment he gazed eagerly, and somewhat anxiously at its form, and then at once reclined again on his oar, at his case, as before. The stranger bark drew up alongside of him, and a voice called him by name: "Master, master, is it you?" "It is I. It is Rodolpho," answered he, with an accent of pride. "Then is all right," responded the voice. The bark grazed with a dull and deadened sound against the side of his gondola, and in an instant he leaped lightly from his own boat into the other and the larger one. The gondola was in tow. Within this new craft sat a couple of sturdy page: 28-29[View Page 28-29] looking men, wearing velvet and tasselled caps placed carelessly on the crowns and sides of their heads, and blue and tightly fitting jacquettes about their muscular chests. Their dark eyes, half raised, as they were, to the moon, that had begun to go down in the western sky, scowled and lowered with dread expression, and more than all seemed to betoken the character of the feelings within, that only awaited an opportunity for an outbreak. They addressed Rodolpho, whenever they spoke with him, in the most respectful manner, as if they were willing in their very hearts, to concede his immense superiority. At once they bent themselves steadily to their oars, and their light craft shot like an arrow from a twanging bowstring across the waves that rose to greet it upon its merry pathway. For a long time did they steadily pull across the water, during which time scarce a word was spoken. The men felt themselves the real subjects of the one whom they had taken on board. The two strange boatmen were none others than Vivolus, the escaped prisoner, and Padorus, his companion, who was conversing with him upon the quay at the time of his unfortunate, but useless capture. Finally the prow of their boat neared the shore, and Padorus, leaping from the same just at the moment it would have come in contact, made all secure to a rock near at hand. They all three travelled on in silence for a considerable distance, an almost unbroken silence the while being preserved. Rodolpho was apparently deeply abstracted in his mind, and his faithful men knew it was not the time to intrude upon the sacredness of his reflections. They reached at last the foot of a rocky cliff, standing boldly out upon the plain, about which grew in abundance tall and thick boughed trees, that well nigh concealed the same from view. The whole acclivity before them seemed of solid rock. Touching a hidden spring, a secret door in the side of the cliff opened wide, and allowed them to enter. The door was of wood, but so raggedly wrought, and so ingeniously colored, that even the most observant eye would have failed to detect the deceit. Closing the door after them, Vivolus instantly produced a lantern from his capacious pocket, and at once the entire entrance to the cavern became brilliantly lighted up. Onward they pushed, observing the same silence as before by the way, and wound round and round many times in the labyrinthic passages that stretched out before them. Suddenly they came to a stop, and Rodolpho applied the silver whistle to his lips that hung from his belt, and sounded a shrill alarm. In an instant a reply of the same character was heard, and another door flew open, disclosing a scene of surpassing brilliancy. It was the interior of a large cave, brilliantly lighted, around which sat ranged perhaps fifty men, all clad in scarlet tunics. This dress seemed to be their uniform. The cave, though constructed by the master hand of nature alone, seemed, in fact, to have been arranged after the most skilful rules of art. Huge pillars supported its glittering ceiling of rock and stone, ranged in regular rows about the sides of the interior, and leaving the centre an unbroken area. The most brilliant and beautiful stalactites, looking as if cut by an artist's hand, glistened from the roof and sides of the cave, and, in the glare of their lights, were irradiated with a dazzling splendor. Long and slender spars of the purely white rock drooped down from the vaulted roof, piercing, in places, to the very half of the space to the floor. Ragged, but yet regular edges of the rock protruded on all sides of the cave, at times to such an extent, and with such regularity, as to furnish deep and spacious recesses within the cave's side, into which two persons could withdraw themselves and wholly escape observation. Tables were spread out in this heart of the cavern, loaded with every luxury that art and wealth could possibly supply. The dishes, the goblets, the salvers, and all the table furniture were of the most splendid and costly kind highly wrought, and polished till one's face was reflected within their clear surfaces. Every variety of wines and choice liquors was placed at hand, and the goblets and wine cups were all of massive silver, chased and highly wrought. As Rodolpho and his two attendants entered the cave, and the beautiful sight within burst on their vision, all the inhabitants of the same instaneously rose to their feet, and swinging high their plumed caps above their heads, shouted at the top of their voices: "Long live Rodolpho! Long live Rodolpho!" Rodolpho lifted his hand to his plumed cap and at once bared his head. Never looked he so handsome to them before. There was a flush of pride upon his cheeks, and a curl of haughty resolution just played around his chiseled lips. His person was a model of grace and proportion. His manners were of all others the most captivating to just such sturdy men as those upon whom his gleaming and sparkling eyes then gazed with such satisfaction. Then he swung his cap above his head, and all gave one loud and hearty hurrah. Again, and yet again was it repeated, at the same signal, until they made the welkin ring. The rocky roof was filled with loud echoes. "Fill high! Fill high to-night!" shouted the excited and truly loyal men, grasping their goblets; "we drink to our master. We drink to Rodolpho, the terror of Venice, and a mystery to her rulers!" And the goblets were all poured full, even to their glistening rims; and as the rich wine went round, and each one was about to press his lips to his cup, again went up that voice: "We drink deep to Rodolpho; to the terror of all Venice!" and they drained their goblets to their very dregs. "And now," was heard the loud, but clear and musical voice of Rodolpho, above all the rest,- "Now for our song. Then we will narrate our experience. But first of all, our song. Rodolpho is safely with you all again. Men! sing and be merry. Sing till the solid rocks shall drink in your merry sounds!" Fedore, the handsome young page, then approached his master, and after saluting him personally with the utmost respect, took a station by him on his right hand. It was an hour that he esteemed above all others. And then they all broke forth: Sing, sing to-night; For our hearts are light, And the wine in the beaker is flashing; O, hurrah for the strife Of a merry brigand's life- On the land and the waters dashing! Sing, sing to-night; We heed not the flight Of Time on his rustling pinions; For we're robbers bold and free, None shall e'er our masters be,- We will ever rule our own dominions! Sing, sing to-night; Not a care shall ever blight The joy that we find in our roving! Not a living one shall stand Between our merry band And the hearts we are ever loving! Then sing, sing to-night; For our hearts are light, And the wine in the beaker is flashing; Then hurrah for the strife Of a merry brigand's life- On the land and the waters dashing! page: 30-31[View Page 30-31] CHAPTER VI. THE MARRIAGE Of THE DOGE'S DAUGHTER. THERE was a gala-day in Venice, for the doge was about to marry his daughter to one of the famous house of Contarini, and all the people were allowed a peculiar license in popular honor of the glad event. Marina, the higrh-born and the beautiful, was to be united to her lover. The wedding day was at hand, -yea, the very hour for the celebration of the nuptial rites had come. The musical bells in the high towers of San Marco and Saint Paul pealed forth their notes, and threw an unwonted joy into the hearts of the entire population. The sweetest melodies floated upon the calm and almost holy air, and every face is wreathed with the most gladsome smiles. It seemed as if care had been driven, for the time, from the hearts of every one. The nobility, of all others, regard the preparations that are making with the most settled pride. Their order, they feel, is to be greatly strengthened, and its bands are to be greatly consolidated by the union in contemplation. But what a sensation of pride takes hold of every heart, whether clad in robes or rags, at beholding the queenly form of the prospective bride walking from the palace door to that of the noble church, about which are gathered thousands of persons, ever devoted to the well being of Venice. Never looked a bride more blooming than she. She captivated all hearts with her beauty. The priest stands ready before the altar to receive the bridal pair, and he is arrayed in his ample robes of the purest white. In a few moments the ceremony is performed, she happy pair have received the profuse congratulations of their friends, and the vast church is vacated again. Crowds collect in the streets, and long lines of gay gondolas, decked out in the most brilliant colors, floated proudly through the hundred streets of gleaming water, in honor of the day. All was joy throughout Venice. Scarce a heart that was not happy. A huge bridge of boats alone was formed across the great canal, and upon them rode the bride and her husband on splendid chargers, a brilliant cavalcade bringing up the rear. A few weeks thereafter an excursion was planned for the bridal party out upon the water. It was proposed that they go in a couple of boats, to a certain point of land, and after having there celebrated a feast with songs, and dancing, and light hearted revelry, return again to Venice in their boats. The party was select and small, made up, as it was, from among only a few of the noble families whose friendship was most desirable to the happy bride. It was a merry, merry sail they had across the dancing waters, and the sun shone upon them with a splendor unsurpassed. Never looked bride and groom happier than these. Never were spirits more lightsome and gay than theirs. Their brilliant scarfs stretched themselves out and idly fluttered in the fresh sea wind, like streamers from some gaily decked trireme, bound upon an excursion. Presently, after a long and pleasant sail, they reach the land to which they had been directing their course, and disembarked amidst the wildest laughter and the most uncontrollable good humor. Not a cloud darkens a single brow. Not a care gnaws at any heart. All are happy for the time. They made fast their boats, and then set out on foot for a delightful grove some distance beyond, but which was plainly discernable from the point where they landed. This they finally reach, and then commences the preparation for the repast before them. All was confusion, yet was all pleasure. There were no heavy hearts in all the gleeful group. They were now ranged round upon the soft and velvety sward, attentive mostly to the pleasures of the palate, and heedless of what might yet be in store for them. The bridegroom sat close by his happy bride, conversing with her in tones of love and fond devotion. Not much else was heard but the clatter of dishes, the ringing of silver goblets, and the occasional outbreak of merry and musical voices. Presently all eyes are strained eagerly and anxiously forward, and the form of a young man appears in the distance approaching them. A sudden tremor passes over the delicate bride, and they fear that she may swoon away; but the bridegroom whispers a few words in her ear, and she becomes at once more calm. The figure approaches nearer, until it is closely upon them. It is that of a young and handsome man, wearing a tunic of brilliant green about his body, and a cap of purple velvet, bespangled with jewels, and ornamented with a long and flowing white plunme, upon his head. His leggins were of the whitest kid, up and down whose seams were running rows of brilliant and costly gems. He had a shining leathern belt about his slender waist, in which was secured a long and slim dagger, with a polished and highly wrought silver handle, and to which was attached a sheath, in which slept the shining blade of a sword. About his neck he wore a silver chain, to the end of which was suspended, and there allowed to fly freely, a little bristle of the same material. He was so handsome, and his ways were so charming and so full of ready grace, that the ladies were delighted with him at once; albeit, they were concerned to know what so fine looking a person could be doing alone upon these wilds. He came up to the bridal party and respectfully bowed to them all, after which he flung his plumed cap from him upon the ground, and seated himself with an air of wonderful composure at the feet of the astonished bride. No one spoke a word to him. No one there knew how he should be addressed. All preserved a fearful silence. At length the strange young man took up a goblet that was at hand, and pouring it full of the rich and rosy wine, raised it towards his lips saying: "I pledge thee and thy continued happiness, lovely bride, in this cup of sparkling wine!" The bride could not refuse to acknowledge an act of such a character, particularly when it was accompanied with such courtesy and grace, by raising her own flowing beaker to her beautiful lips. As she did so, a smile flitted across the features of the young man, and he at once drained his goblet to its very dregs. Then instantly rising to his feet, he betook himself to the side of one of the gentlemen of the party, and sat down by him. Looking him, for the space of a minute, intently in his eyes, but saying nothing, he found that he had already sufficicntly influenced him with terror, and then he thus spake: "You are Francezco!" The gentleman instinctively bowed his head, but made no reply. "You have sworn to have the life of Rodolpho!" continued the young man, still gazing earnestly within his eyes. The gentleman could not reply. All this passed in so low a tone, that nothing could be heard of it by those about him. "Yes," continued the stranger young man, "I know what you have said; you have sworn to have Rodolpho's life. Rodolpho is a brave man and a generous; but you have denounced him as a coward and a villain. But no matter now; Rodolpho is my friend." The gentleman addressed started with unwonted surprise. "I have come to bring a message from him to page: 32-33[View Page 32-33] you this day," continued the stranger. "He bade me drink your health for him, and commanded that you drink his also. You must do it, or I cannot answer for the result. Will you exchange goblets with me?" The gentleman at once signified his assent, and passed the stranger his own goblet, while he received his in return. Both lightly smote the rims of their glistening beakers together, and at once quaffed the delicious wine. In a moment more the stranger was again at the feet of the lovely bride, and lifting his jewelled cap from his head, he delivered into her hands a little packet, which he requested her not to open till he should be gone far from their sight. Again saluting the bride and groom, and the bridal party in its turn, the youthful and handsome stranger replacing his cap upon his head, and in a moment was gone from their midst. The eyes of all closely followed him. As soon as he was gone, the beautiful bride, Marina, proceeded to break the seal of the little packet which he had thus mysteriously entrusted to her fair hands, and to unfold it. She carefully drew forth what was within, the eyes of all being intently fixed upon her, and read aloud, but in a suppressed, and deeply excited tone, as follows: "FAIR LADY: "You have most gracefully entertained at your bridal party, none other than Rodolpho. Outlaw, as he is called, he still delights to honor loveliness and beauty, even if it exist in the family of his greatest enemy, the doge. May your path be strewed with roses! Farewell, RODOLPHO." The surprise and excitement that followed close upon the reading of this strange communication cannot be adequately described. Every heart beat more quickly at thinking of him whom they had entertained. To what extent their wonder would probably have carried them, had nothing interposed to prevent, it is difficult to tell. But while they were in the very midst of it all, there arose a wild shriek that pierced their very ears: "Francezeo! Francezco! Look at Francezco!" All turned simultaneously to him who had been honored with a conference with the daring Rodolpho himself. He was stretched out in a helpless condition upon the ground, his mouth wide open, his eyes rolling fiercely about in their sockets, and his hands frantically clutching at the empty air. He was in most terrible convulsions. The whole party ran hurriedly to him, and offered every assistance that humanity could offer; but their kindly meant services were of no avail. The wretched man gasped and died. Fear, such as rarely visits the hearts of men, then began to blanch the cheeks and lips of those whose faces were, but a short time ago, wreathed with smiles, and lit up with radiant sunshine. Then it was that they felt, above all things else, that the lawless brigand had truly been in their midst. One of their number, and he a young noble, had fallen a victim to the robber's stratagem. It was with slow steps and heavy hearts that they retraced their way to their boats, which were moored by the shore, deeply impressed with the fearful incident that had occurred to them, and regarding it as a most wonderful event in their lives. When at last they betook themselves on board their boats again, there had arisen a very high wind, and already were the waves tumbling and tossing about in a wildness of tumult that appalled the hearts of the gentler sex in the party. But there was but one thing apparently left for them to do. To stay on the shore during that night would be their certain death at the hands of the organized band of freebooters, whose head and chieftain they knew Rodolpho to be. They must go on, and allay their fears as best the elements would permit them. They had already sailed far out into the rough and chopping sea, and yet their hearts had grown none the more courageous. The winds had begun to whistle more shrilly in the cordage, and the restless waves had grown more yeasty. One of the light vessels was far separated from the other, so that in case of danger or difficulty it would be impossible for either one to pass a hail to the other. The vessel in which was the bride was far behind the other, and all those on board had grown fearful and well-nigh desponding. Darkest clouds overhung the horizon, and a gloom almost unearthly settled down upon the broad bosom of the water. Instantly the beautiful little craft pitched staggeringly into the watery gulf, and the lovely bride was cast headlong from her seat into the sea! Their alarm up to this point had been so great as to prevent their noticing a little skiff that hovered closely in their rear. In this skiff sat a young man and a boy, a mere stripling. As they discovered the sad accident that had occurred on board the vessel in their advance, and likewise saw that in the present condition of the sea it would be impossible for them to turn back to rescue the drowning lady, the young man steered swiftly up to the spot where he saw her floating and wildly tossing about on the waves, and grasped her by her hair just as a huge wave would have disputed its possession with him. Those on board the vessel instantly threw up their hands in gratitude at what they had seen. Immediately the young man, with his boy companion, bore down for the luckless vessel, and it was not very long before they came along side. He tenderly passed the lady whom he had just snatched from the wide jaws of the sea, over the side of his own little skiff into her own vessel, whither she was received by many anxious hearts and outstretched arms, of which her own husband's were first and foremost. As the little skiff would have turned as quickly as possible again to make its own port, across the sea in another direction, the bridegroom hailed the young man, who seemed to be its commander, and demanded to know whom he should ever thank for the preservation of his bride. "Rodolpho, the outlaw and brigand!" shouted the young man in reply; and in an instant he was out of their hearing, and seemed but a little speck upon the turbulent waters. It was a night of great rejoicing at the ducal palace when they arrived safely home again, and when the accident that had nearly destroyed the doge's happiness forever was made known. But no tongue or pen could possibly portray a tithe of the excitement that pervaded the palace, when it was known that he who had rescued the noble bride from a watery bed was none other than the rebel Rodolpho. This act of his fairly staggered the doge in determining whether he ought not at once to be forgiven for all his crimes, and freely accepted again a member of the state and an inhabitant of the city. page: 34-35[View Page 34-35] CHAPTER VII. THE PUBLIC RECEPTION AT THE DUCAL PALACE. IT was publicly proclaimed, a short time after this, that the doge would, on a certain day after, open the large doors of the palace hall, and suffer all the common people to pass through the same, and press his hand in congratulation of the event of his daughter's miraculous preservation. Possibly the reader may be curious to know what he thought at last respecting Rodolpho. On revolving the thing in his mind, he came at last to the conclusion that this kind act of the brigand in saving his child as he did, was not an adequate recompense for thus maliciously destroying the life of the young nobleman, and he finally grew, the more he thought the matter over, to be more opposed to Rodolpho than ever; so that when the day arrived when the preservation of his own child's life was to be publicly observed, the inconsistency presented itself of the doge being grateful for her salvation from death, but more decided against her preserver than ever before. Of all this Rodolpho was duly apprized, and hating the ingratitude of the doge, even as he hated every species of tyranny itself, he swore to have his revenge, let the occasion come when it might. The day at length arrived when the ducal palace was to receive its popular visitors. The sun shone never clearer, nor upon a people whose hearts were ever more in sympathy with the scene. Crowds of the working people were swarming into the spacious square of San Marco, and the flag of the state, bearing its heroic looking arms upon its ground, floated gracefully from the spire. Up the large flight of pure marble steps ascended the people, eager to behold the doge in his own palace, and anxious, more than all, to grasp him by the hand. Rodolpho had taken his leave of his companions in the cave on the evening before, and, dressed in the coarse and homely garb of a working man, went up the stairs to the palace with the many others who crowded there. His look was dull and expressionless, and it would have instantly struck any observer as belonging to one of the most honest and innocent hearts in the world. He seemed awe struck with the many novel sights that presented themselves, and took no pains whatever to conceal his wonder at whatever came across him strangely. He entered the hall with the others, and pushed carelessly along. No one dreamed that it was the far-famed and greatly dreaded Rodolpho who was walking through their midst so quietly. No one suspected that the object of their wishes was so near them at that very moment. At length he reached the doge, standing there in the middle of the vast hall, robed in his insignia of office, and looking as stately and noble as if it were within his right to dispute with every man his possessions, even that of life itself. Rodolpho for a moment cast a keen and penetrating look upon him, and then he dropped his eyes, and they assumed their expressionless and deadened look again. The doge extended his hand to him as he did to all the rest, and Rodolpho seized it and passed on. Not a word escaped the lips of either robber or ruler. He, Rodolpho, had not been suspected, and he was finally safe. But wherefore perilled he his gallant self, just to press the soft hand of him whom he hated? Let the sequel show. Passing along with the press of the people, Rodolpho found himself at length standing at the entrance of an ante-chamber, the door of which was ajar. It was the result of a lightning thought. He went fearlessly in. Walking up to a little table that stood not very far off, he took from his pocket a little packet, similar to the one given to the daughter of the doge before, and laid it down. Instantly he left the room. On that same night the doge was dead! The packet was duly found upon the little table, and all was at once explained. The name of Rodolpho at once became more feared than ever. All that night was the Council of Ten in secret session, to devise means to bring the bold Rodolpho to punishment; and the early streaks of morning light streamed through the panes of their lofty windows ere they had thought of the approach of another day. The manner of the doge's death was this: Rodolpho wore upon one of the fingers of his right hand a large and costly ring. It was most ingeniously made, and immense labor must have been employed to have succeeded in making it what it was. There, was a secret spring on its inner side, a pressure against which by the finger it encircled, immediately caused a sharp and exceedingly subtle lancet to protrude itself and enter the object against which it was placed, without being sensibly perceived. This lancet was purposely made tubular, and at the instant of its being pressed out, a fine and subtle poison, of a power sufficiently penetrating and active to work itself at once through all the arteries into the human system, escaped through the same and instantly went about its work. It was a wonderful instrument of death, and on this very account it was the more murderously efficient. Its like had never been known before. With the explanation of the doge's death, which Rodolpho purposely gave in the little packet, he closed his wonderful communication with these words: "So perish, in an hour they know not, all the enemies of Rodolpho the brave!" A terror, far surpassing any that had been felt before, seized upon the minds of all classes. The brigand is bold, said they. He has come into the very hall of the ducal palace, in open day, and there dealt out to the proud and mighty doge his doom; and yet he has not been caught! It was truly a proper subject to excite in their bosoms the most lively terror. None now could feel themselves safe anywhere. Their enemy travelled in the dark. His person was never seen. His tracks were diligently concealed. They could not tell of his probable coming or going. How could they feel safe? The marble walls of the ducal palace for three long days were hung in solemn black, in token of public grief for the sudden death of the doge. Long and mournful processions passed along the waters, and the saddest dirges were chanted up and down the liquid streets by the stricken gondoliers. The death of a doge was no common event. For the time, it seemed as if the state were without a government, and almost without order. The three inquisitors, with their thousands of spies, were never busier than now. Not a gondolier entered or left the precincts of the city except he first gave his name, age and occupation. A system of the strictest espionage was practised upon all. Yet none were able to describe the personal appearance of Rodolpho. Some said he was a slight and handsome man, young and tender; while others maintained as stoutly that he went about roughly clad, and always bore a heavy bludgeon with him wherever he went. There were, likewise, all manners of descriptions of his countenance. His eyes were a subject of debate as to what their color was. Then his nose, and mouth, and his hair. Of all those, however, who were quite sure that they had seen Rodolpho, Marina, the youthful bride, now called to mourn the untimely end of her father, felt much the surest. There was no deceiving her respecting the looks of the bold brigand, for she had seen him with her own astonished eyes. page: 36-37[View Page 36-37] The monk, Father Petroni, was summoned into the presence of Count Moralo, relative to the safety of Adrienne, in her present situation in the convent. They sat together in the large room in the mansion of the latter, and thus began the count: "Father Petroni, these are woful times for Venice." "Woful indeed; woful indeed;" replied the monk, drawing his cowl still further down over his eyes, and greatly increasing the grim fierceness of his aspect. "What of the convent, father?" "All goes well there, I believe," replied the monk. "But will it long? Have you any assurances that things may not be suddenly changed?" "None but what Heaven has always granted us. We always trust in Heaven." "True; but we are still bound to make what preparations we may be able, to ward off impending danger." "Certainly, sir count." "None of us could ever have dared to believe that a common outlaw was going to take the most valuable life in all Venice." "No, none of us." "And thus to deprive us of our chief head and support; what a fall, Petroni; what a terrible fate!" "True, sir count, true." "Has this villain Rodolpho ever been seen about the convent yet?" asked Count Moralo, anxiously. "How should we know, sir count? No one knows who he is." "I did not think of that, to be sure; yet it would be known to you if any man had been seen lurking about the place." "None ever have," answered Petroni. "Should you know it, if there had been?" "Undoubtedly." "But even if Adrienne is safe now, I do not feel that she will ever be. I have fears for her." "Why?" "Because this Rodolpho is so bold. He goes anywhere he chooses; there is no restraint to be placed upon him." "And do you think he could scale the convent wall?" "That was just what I thought." "Compose yourself, I pray you; there is no fear of that." "How know you?" "I feel confident. That is knowledge enough for me." "But not enough for me!" "You are nervous and skeptical." "And our good doge would have been alive this very hour, had he been nervous and skeptical, as you tell me." "Perhaps so." "Perhaps so! I know so. If he had been properly influenced by fear, and consequent caution, the rabble would never have thronged the ducal palace, and Rodolpho would never have found his way in with the rest." The monk was silent. He was fast being convinced. At length he said: "I know not, after all, sir count, but you speak that to which it would be well for us to heed." "I know I do, Father Petroni," answered Count Moralo, with increased vehemence; "else I should have said nothing." "Then what do you propose?" "Think you Adrienne is safe there?" "She might be more secure elsewhere?" "What I most fear is this: Rodolpho may the more easily find her where she is, for he is often in the city, though we know not where; and Heaven alone can tell with whom or how many he is leagued." "True, sir count." "Now, if Adrienne be secretly removed from the convent where she is, and, without any one's knowing it, transported to Genoa, and entered in a nunnery there, the matter may all be safely arranged." The crafty old monk thought a moment of the suggestion, and then suddenly raising his head, exclaimed: "You have spoken it, sir count." "And you approve my plan?" "To the letter." "And will you see that it is duly carried into execution?" "I will take it all upon me," answered he, a grim smile lighting up his fiendish features. "And how soon shall it be done?" "Within three weeks." "Not before?" "Not a day before, and perhaps not then." "And why not?" "For reasons, sir count, that may be obvious to myself, but not to you." "Pardon me, Father Petroni," exclaimed Count Moralo; "I was hasty in putting my inquiry. I shall, at any rate, trust all to you." "You may, and depend upon its being done." "Above all, be careful that it is done in secret." "Of that I shall take special care; else would my labor be all lost. I will represent to the abbess that Adrienne is dead, and we will have hymns chanted over her body. I can easily procure another," Count Moralo for a few moments was lost in deep thought. His countenance scarce ever before looked so anxious. Then, this short reverie over, he waved to the monk with his hand, to signify to him that his conference with him was over. Instantly the cowled monk withdrew, and Count Moralo paced his spacious apartment alone and thoughtfully. Just at the moment the monk left the room, a stealthy step glided almost noiselessly along behind the arras, and then was gone. It was the footstep of Juliette, the devoted maid of the lovely Adrienne. She hastened away to another quarter, to the balcony of old Nancie, the soothsayer. To her, as was her wont since her loved mistress had been removed from her, she confided every syllable that she had heard from her place of concealment. It was late that evening, when all the houses and shops were lighted, and the streets were thronged with gay people, that a young, boyish looking form was hurrying along, and kept on its course until it reached the house in whose upper chamber lived the old soothsayer. "Ah, you are come just in season to-night, my pretty Fedore," exclaimed the old nurse, saluting him. "And why so, good mistress Nancie?" he inquired. "Because I have much that, I would impart to your brave master, Rodolpho, at this time," answered she. "And is it of such import that I may not bear it to him myself?" "Did he commission you?" inquired Nancie. "He did. I have just left him." 'Where? Tell me." "In his secret cave, where spies and inquisitors never come," answered the boy. "He is safe on the Italian shore. The very rocks would fall on his precious head, ere it should fall from his trunk beneath the blow of the murderous headsman!" "So may it be. But what I would say is this." "I am all attention." "He loves the beautiful Adrienne." "He does." "And she is hidden from him." "He would know where. Tell me, Nancie!" "In the Convent dei Servoeti." "Is it so?" "Just as I have spoken it." "How may he see her?" "He must find his own way." "Do not you have communication with her?" "No." The boy stood thoughtfully a moment, his head bent downwards, and then he suddenly broke forth with: "I am sure he will not fail to find a way." "But it may be useless. I have more to tell you." "More?" "Within three weeks' time the cruel old monk Petroni has promised her father that she shall be carried away to a nunnery in Genoa. It is a solemn promise." "Do you speak truly? How found you out about it?" "You should not ask me such questions; it is enough for you to know that it is as I have said." "It is. I am satisfied. Rodolpho shall know of this at once." "Only be you sure that you are not caught and thrown into some dark dungeon before you reach him." "I have no fears," replied the brave young page. Nancie was again alone. Fedore hurried from the apartment down the stairs, and was soon lost in the crowd and whirl of passers in the street. page: 38-39[View Page 38-39] CHAPTER VIII. THE MONK AND ADRIENNE. THE monk Petroni was at the confessional, and the young and beautiful Adrienne humbly knelt before him. He bent over his head towards the wretched girl, eager to catch every syllable that might escape her lips. It was at the hour of even, and the twilight, so hushed and holy, was mantling the sky and the earth. A straggling star or two might have been detected, just peering from out the darkening cloak of the western sky. All else was sombre and sad. The heart of the young penitent was perfectly attuned to the influences around her, and those in particular that came to her from nature without were just such as impressed themselves most deeply upon her. "Tell me all, Adrienne," urged the wily monk; "thou hast not told me the half thy tender heart has yet felt." And then the guileless and confiding girl went on to pour into his ear all the history of her love and her fear; how she had loved Rodolpho, and how much she had perilled for that love. To all this the old monk listened with eager attention. Again, and yet again he pressed her that she should be guilty of concealing nothing in this the hour of her confession, and to relieve her heart of everything, if she would again be innocent and happy. At length he placed his lips close down to her ear, and dared -the hypocrite- to speak to her of flight with him! Instantly she sprang up from her kneeling posture, and looked him calmly in his wrinkled and passion-fired face. "Father!" she exclaimed. "Tell me all," said the old monk, coolly. "You are base! You are-" "Tut, tut! But Heaven shall visit you with its curses, if your lips dare to pronounce such words." "I care not," she resolutely replied; "I will emblazon your shame to the world." "But, my daughter, you are not of the world," said he, "No, but soon shall be again," replied she. "Never -never again!" "Adrienne!" he continued, after a pause. She returned him only a steady look for a reply. "Come with me now to the penitent's cell. We will each abase ourselves in the sight of Heaven for our sins!" What sort of a feeling or influence it was that came over the mind of Adrienne just at that moment, it would be difficult to tell. She instantly bowed her head, however, and submissively followed him. They went into an outer room in which sparkled a little lantern, and on one of whose walls hung many keys of various sizes. Some of them were huge indeed. Taking the lantern in one of his hands and a large key in the other, he beckoned the girl to follow him where he should go. On, on they pushed, till they reached a flight of large and circular steps. Following these, they wound round until they reached the bottom, from which point there ran along for a great distance a dismal subterranean passage. The walls were of solid and ragged rock, from which Adrienne could distinctly hear, ever and anon, the drops of rains falling with a most melancholy sound upon the floor of the passage. No light at any place from without, that she could discover, penetrated the passage; they were dependent alone upon the little, flickering lamp which Petroni had brought with him. The frail and sensitive form of Adrienne visibly shuddered as she went through the subterranean labyrinths, and in her very heart she believed she should have turned to go back again, if she were in the least assured that she should be able to find the entrance by which she came. Everything around her was dark, damp and forbidding. Presently they reached a little cell, seemingly cut from the solid rock itself. There was a heavy iron door before it, to the lock of which the monk applied the ponderous key he carried in his hand, He turned it, and a massive bolt slid from its socket. At once placing his shoulder against the door, he called on Adrienne to place hers in a similar position, and assist him in pushing back the huge mass. She did so; and just as it began to move, and had swung back sufficiently to admit of it, he suddenly thrust her through the opening and threw her violently upon the floor. In an instant he drew the door back again by dint of all the extraordinary exertions he could make, and again the bolt slid back into its socket. The wretched girl was more a prisoner than ever. Then the monk took the key from the lock and began to retrace his steps. He heard no cry from the young girl, for even if she had shrieked at the very top of her voice, the dull and heavy rock would have smothered her shrieks, until they would have been as listless as very whispers. Rodolpho was reclining upon his couch in his cave, in a deep recess formed by the solid rock itself, free from intrusion. His page, Fedore, alone sat beside him. The young boy was narrating to him the result of his interview with old Nancie, and what she had said respecting the removal of Adrienne to a place more distant, and of still greater security. He likewise confessed to Rodolpho that he himself had long ago been smitten with a passion for the little Juliette, the lovely maid of poor Adrienne, and that he never let pass an opportunity, whenever he was in Venice, to visit her by stealth. Already had he openly declared his peculiar passion for her; but, from his account, it seemed that Juliette, muchsoever as she might have secretly admired the little Fedore, nevertheless felt far too sad for her mistress, to think of reciprocating, or even receiving such professions. "And on some of these occasions, when you go to visit her," said Rodolpho, "you will assuredly be made a prisoner, and then what?" "Why," answered the boy, "a prisoner I shall be." "But they will make you disclose to them where I am," said Rodolpho. "I will not." "Then come the rack and the torture." "What care I for them? I will die before I would disclose a syllable concerning you, my master!" "Bravo, Fedore! well said -excellently said. But, at the least, I can advise you to be cautious. Their meshes may be entangling your feet when you think you may be entirely clear of them all." Then they fell to discussing again the change in the situation of Adrienne, and her probable fate, should no hand interfere to arrest it. Rodolpho's generous heart was sadly afflicted for his dear mistress; still, he was in so groat a perplexity that he scarce knew which way to turn. He had never felt so hemmed in before in all his life by the fate he so much dreaded and so steadily combated. For a long time he lay there, silently reflecting upon what had better be done. His dark eyes were cast down thoughtfully upon the floor, and he scarcely observed that Fedore was near him. The rest of the jovial band were in the cave, grouped together at different points of the same, some laughing gaily, some chattiig pleasantly about their recent adventures, same plot- page: 40-41[View Page 40-41] ting others for another day, -all light-hearted and happy. Rodolpho occasionally raised his eyes from the floor, and surveyed them as they were grouped about him. It was a sight that made him feel really proud. He could not bear to think, either, that he was the tried and trusty leader of so many and such valiant men, and unable, at that moment, to rescue the lady of his heart from her ignominious captivity. At length he sprang from his couch, as if a new thought had struck him. His countenance at once assumed an expression of vivacity and joy. His movements suddenly became those of life and quickness. His heart seemed to have grown much lighter, and his spirits danced to a more merry tune. "I have it, -I have it!" said he to Fedore, as he sprang up. "Have what, master Rodolpho?" asked the page. "I have my plan laid to rescue Adrienne. It shall be done; and you shall accompany me, Fedore." "To the very ends of the earth would I follow thee, my noble master," loyally replied Fedore. "Come, comrades," cried Rodolpho, stepping forth into the brilliantly lighted area of the cavern; "fill high your massive goblets to-night, for to-morrow must I leave you." "Leave us!" they all exclaimed; "why should we be bereft of our brave leader?" "I have a duty to perform in Venice," said Rodolpho, resolutely. "It must be done to-morrow eve, and I must be there at the time. It may be too late for me after that." The men glanced round upon each other, scarcely knowing whether it were safe to suffer their leader to leave them or not. In their very looks was legible a fear that he might never be returned to them again. Yet none of them were daring enough to express it. They too well knew the temper and the character of their courageous master. Then each man of them took his glistening goblet and poured into it a deep draught of the purest wine, and held up the vessel before him, obedient to the expected signal from their master. "We drink to the freedom of the prisoner;" gave Rodolpho, as a sentiment. At once every goblet was raised to the lips of him who held it, and down went the generous nice at a single draught. Their hearts were all in that noble sentiment of their leader -"Freedom for the prisoner!" And then they all joined in a merry song, that awakened the echoes of the solid walls again. And after this, joining their hands, they danced merrily around their table, singing in time to the tread of their agile feet. But Rodolpho was still sad. He could not help relapsing again into the thoughtful and speechless mood in which he had been since he received the communication from Fedore. Next day, just at even, he took his young page, and, clad in a suitable and unsuspicious disguise, set off for Venice. His men escorted them from their secret cave to the cliff by the shore, in one of whose embayed nooks slept a little boat upon the surface of the limpid water. Embarking in this, Rodolpho at once shot out over the bosom of the bay, and waved his cap many times to his silent followers, in token of his departure. All their countenances grew sad and lengthened to see him depart from their midst, and more especially at thinking of the narrow escapes he must necessarily have, if he would ever return safely to them again. For full a weary hour the young and robust brigand and his boy page pulled steadily at their oars, before they came in sight distinctly of Venice. And when at last the magnificent quays began to rise up before them, and then the towers, and the spires, and the domes, and the palaces, began to grow more distinct to their vision, and through and around all flickering lights gleamed faintly and fascinatingly, half setting them to dreaming ere they were there, Rodolpho partially rested from his labor, and would possibly have sat and reflected even where he was, unmindful of the place, and apparently forgetful of the emergency. But from this untimely predisposition to reverie he was gently aroused by the musical voice of Fedore, saying to him, in a low and meaning tone: "Master Rodolpho." "Well, Fedore," was his abstracted reply. "If we would reach the quay safely and without suspicion, we must hasten." "And why so, Fedore?" asked Rodolpho. "Because it is at seven that the night-watch is set, and it is almost that already. Between the close of the day-watch and the beginning of that of the night, there occurs a respite, in which the spies seem more relax and careless than at any other time. I myself have often taken advantage of this hour, master Rodolpho." "Fedore," answered Rodolpho, "you are very thoughtful. I will heed well your words. So bend again to your oars." Away they shot again, over the now dark and sullen looking waters, steering straight as lightsome oar could guide them, towards the Giant's Stairs. In a short time more they were sheltered in the dark and frowning shadows that lay upon the waters beneath them. Following closely in this line of darkness, away they glided through the sheeted streets of water, passing gondoliers, merry and singing, on their way, giving them a word of joy and pretended recognition as they floated on, Rodolpho, at times, himself carelessly singing an air of sweetest melody. In this way they passed unmolested and unsuspected, through the long lines of persons who would gladly have turned spies, had such a fearful suspicion for a second crossed their minds, as that Rodolpho, the murderous outlaw, was near at hand. Just as he drew up his fragile craft by the foot of a wave-washed stair, and he and Fedore had leaped lightly to the shore, a low and musical sound fell upon their ears. It was the slow tolling of the bell in the massive tower of San Marco, summoning the guards for the night to their various posts throughout the confused city. Taking a speedy-step, both Rodolpho and his faithful page were soon in the building occupied in part by the old seer, Nancie, and standing, as if listening, at the door. At that very hour, likewise, Adrienne was in her lonely subterranean cell, most piteously bewailing her saddest of all fates. The old monk had craftily given out to the abbess that his charge, Adrienne, had been suddenly smitten with a dreadful disease, which he greatly feared him was the plague; and that, in order to prevent its contagious ravages among the inmates of the convent, as well as to destroy the slightest causes for fear, either among them or the inhabitants of the city, he had caused the body to be secretly buried in a by-place, whence no cause of fear might take its origin. With this graceless story, he had at the outset set at rest all uneasiness and wonder respecting the sudden disappearance of Adrienne, should any be expressed or felt. In accordance, therefore, with this information, the pious and devoted abbess gave out directions that mass should be celebrated, and fervent prayers be said in the little chapel, removed but a trifle from the main building, for the repose of the soul of the departed. And it was, too, at this very hour of even, when nature wore a look of holiness and sweet melancholy, that they were chanting their dirges for the rest of the beautiful and youthful dead. The chapel chanced to be situated just above the spot where was excavated the cave in which Adrienne was confined. So that while their voices were raised in unison to deplore her sudden loss, and the soft and heavenly music rose and surged through the arched roof of the little building, Adrienne just caught the faintly sounding melody, and listened. She wondered what it could mean, not thinking for the moment that she was hidden in a subterranean vault beneath the chapel itself. Then, on a sudden, she seemed to recognize it all, and she was at once satisfied they were chanting the repose of some soul. "Perhaps mine!" her vague and fearful thoughts suggested to her; and she trembled and wept at the dream. She lifted her eyes instinctively -to where the roof of her cell should be; but they only fell against a thick bank of darkness, that seemed literally to wall her in on all sides; they were not able to penetrate it. She knew not whether the roof above her was very high, or very low. She stretched upwards her hand mechanically, to try to reach it; but she only groped about in the darkness. She felt more lost than ever. Again fell that sad wail of music indistinctly upon her ears; this time more sad, more melancholy than before. O, could it be that they were made to believe her dead! Could it be that they were at that moment singing hymns for her everlasting happiness! There was agony unspeakable in the thought, and she buried her face in her hands, as if she would shut out the very idea of the darkness that settled so heavily and oppressively upon her. page: 42-43[View Page 42-43] CHAPTER IX. RODOLPHO AT THE CHAMBER OF OLD NANCIE. THE same day, towards evening, when Rodolpho and his page Fedore were making ready to journey from the den of the fearless brigands to the city, and when Adrienne, too, was bemoaning her fate in the most touching strains, and wondering whether she was not already blind in the thick darkness that enshrouded her, the monk, Petroni, entered the mansion of Count Moralo, and was soon in close and mysterious conference with him. "I have come to tell you," said the monk, that Adrienne will go sooner than I had expected." "Sooner!" exclaimed Count Moralo, in evident surprise. "Yes; I have ascertained that a barge can easily be fitted off for that point to-night, and she can be placed on board that, and borne away from the power of Rodolpho at once." "This Rodolpho!" muttered the count, angrily. It seemed to him as if his name and very shadow rose up before him at every turn. He could not give reign even to his fancy, but it was to be suddenly checked and curbed by a fleeting and beclouding thought of Rodolpho. He could not suffer the tenderer feelings of his heart to break loose from the fastening he had tyrannically bound them with, but it was only to think of the hated, yet feared Rodolpho at the same moment. Rodolpho, in truth, was a vision that constantly flitted before his eyes to torment him. Rodolpho was a shadow that dimmed his sight always. He hated the very name. Yea, he would that moment have bestowed worlds, if he had possessed them, to extirpate him from the earth. "Adrienne will therefore go to-night," said the monk, "if so it be your pleasure." "My pleasure is always yours, Father Petroni," answered the wretched man. "I confide entirely in your skilful management." "You greatly honor me," replied the monk. "I only reverence your station," said Count Moralo. "Which I trust I do not dishonor." "Far be the thought from me that I should utter it, that you were not worthy of your station!" exclaimed the count. "Then all shall be done to-night," said the monk. "Shall I carry a message, -a last farewell to your daughter, sir count?" "Not a syllable! Let me be as a stranger to her! Speak not to her of me at all!" "It shall be even as you would have it," answered the obsequious monk. "But have you any desire that matters shall be so arranged that you can recall her at any time, sir count?" "Not the least. She shall take the veil, and thenceforth there shall be no outer world to her more!" "Amen," ejaculated the monk. "I have uttered it," resolutely said the count. Rodolpho, after leaving his barge, went, as we have stated, to the chamber of the old prophetess, Nancie. We left him standing at the door, his page at his side, and both attentively listening to catch whatever sounds might rise upon the silence within. But his quick ear caught not a single one. All was still as the very grave. Tapping gently on the door, and receiving the usual summons to enter, he opened the same and went quietly in, followed by Fedore. "Rodolpho!" incontinently broke forth Nancie, as soon as he came near enough to allow her to recognize him. "It is I," coolly answered Rodolpho. "But how came you in Venice to-night, Rodolpho?" "I came in my bark to the stairs on the quay, and from there I came hither on foot," answered he. "A poor time to joke, one would imagine," said Nancie. "And why?" "Is not all Venice in arms at this very moment against you?" "And am I not armed, and are not my faithful braves armed against Venice?" "Puny opposer to the giant strength of the state." "Huge weakling against the activity of a spirit!" answered he. "But what is your errand to-night? Be quick, for I would not have it known that you ever visit this place." "No more would I. But I will to my errand at once." "Do so; I tremble already." "Fear not, Nancie. Harm never came nigh Rodolpho. He bears a charmed life." ON saying this, Rodolpho threw off his outer garment, and stood before her, clad about his chest in a simple tunic of scarlet. His face was flushed with deep excitement, and his dark eye rolled wildly and actively about in his head. He was a very model of manly grace and beauty. "But to your errand, Rodolpho;" urged the crone. "Tell me farther of Adrienne," said he. "Of Adrienne?" "I would know all this night. I cannot venture my life in Venice often, and now that I am in its midst, I must perform all that remains undone by me." "Adrienne is in the convent." "I know it well." "This very night she is to set sail for Genoa in a barge already furnished and got ready." "What! Do you tell me truth?" "It is even as I say. Adrienne will leave the convent secretly this night to embark for Genoa. The monk Petroni is her guard. He will see that nothing prevents her going." Rodolpho paused in a deep silence. He could, for a moment, say nothing, so confounded were all his senses at what he heard. At length, having in a measure recovered from the stunning effect of the announcement, he said: "Is there no help for her?" "I know of none," answered the soothsayer. "Can this right arm of mine, so active, so strong, so willing, do nothing to shield her from her fate? Tell me, Nancie. I would know of a truth!" Nancie paused a moment, and then replied: "It will, after all, depend much upon yourself." "Then is she safe!" exclaimed Rodolpho. "Lend me a garment, Nancie. Give me a dress of spotless white -a female dress- that I may visit the convent at this hour, and see what may be done." "Fortunately," answered the woman, "I have a dress of white with me here; it is one left here by a young maid named Juliette." Fedore's face burned with confusion, and became literally crimson; but Rodolpho knew and heeded not the meaning of her words. The dress was at once produced, and adjusted upon the graceful figure of Rodolpho. It fitted him perfectly. A better one could not have been made purposely for him. Thus attired, he bade Nancie good night, and thrusting his own dagger into the belt of Fedore, that he might himself appear in every point an innocent female, he passed hastily down the stairs. They hurried along, the disguised Rodolpho and the page, until they reached the foot of the stairs to which their little barge was fastened, and then leaping into it, they pushed away into the still water. This time, however, Rodolpho laid not his hands upon the oars, but left all management and labor to Fedore. page: 44-45[View Page 44-45] They had glided quietly along through several streets, and passed rows and lines and groups of gondoliers, hurrying, now this way and now that, when they were suddenly challenged by a gruff voice that proceeded from a boat shooting out directly to them. "Who goes there?" demanded the voice. "No enemy to Venice," answered the soft voice of Fedore. "But who are you?" still cried the voice. Fedore made no reply. "Then I must see for myself," said the voice, and instantly he drew up alongside. "O, a female with you, eh?" ejaculated he, in surprise, as soon as he detected the persons sitting there. "Yes; but not for such as you to insult or molest?" threateningly replied Fedore, in a sterner tone, at the same moment laying his hand upon his dagger's hilt. "I am mistaken," answered the stranger. "I knew not who you might be; you may pass." "And again, it would be better that you should know, before you thus rudely challenge," muttered Fedore. The stranger left them, and again they glided swiftly along on their way. At length, after a long and somewhat laborious pull at the oar, they reached the outer grounds about the old convent wall. There was a pale moon in the sky, but a few shifting clouds were occasionally straggling over its disc. The convent wall, at the point where they approached it, stood on the back of a hill shaped as much like a ridge as anything else, and the acclivity from that to the water was considerably steep and precipitous. There was a sort of drain-way, or passage for superfluous water washing from the higher grounds, bored through the base of the wall in one place, and it had once been carefully defended with a row of iron palings. No one, however, would scarcely have supposed there was any necessity for this, for the directness of the descent from the base of the wall to the water seemed to guarantee defence enough against almost any attack that would be likely to be made in that quarter. Slowly and toilingly Rodolpho climbed this rugged steep, leaving Fedore in the boat alone, from whom he had taken the precaution to take his dagger again. At length he reached the summit, though much tired, and very greatly out of breath. Here he sat himself down a moment or two to rest, and then he began to look about him by what light the pale moon afforded, and to try to discover the most efficient mode of scaling the wall. He was yet in his female attire, and he feared that he might be seen, and cause an unfortunate alarm if he should be seen in that very showy costume on the top of the wall. While thus considering what was best to be done, he chanced to espy the gully that the water had formed in its impetuous running from the garden. Knowing at once that the water must have first passed through some prepared channel before it could have commanded concentrated force enough to wear a ravine so deep by its flood, he turned round hastily to spy, if he could, the place where it usually started. At the very first glance he saw all. There was the fortunate drain-way dug completely through the base of the wall. What would he have more? He bent himself down to examine it, but found to his dismay, however, that it was guarded by a row of standing iron posts, small enough, to be sure, yet sufficiently large and strong to resist any attempt of his weak arms to break through them. But, for all that, he was not disconcerted. He stooped forward, grasped the dull iron bars with both hands, and shook them as if enraged at the existence of this only barrier to the accomplishment of his wishes. Luckily enough, one of them had rusted clear through, from the effects of the constant flow of water, and it gave way readily before his pressure. He inwardly thanked Heaven for this last encouragement of his hope, and at once crawled through the aperture. He found himself within the convent grounds. Not a foot was to be heard stepping around, not a form was to be seen moving before or behind him. He ventured along cautiously, and directed his steps to the little chapel in the garden, which first of all he had espied. The door was already open, for the inmates of the convent had passed through but a short time before, and left it carelessly ajar. Stepping hastily within, he stole towards the little altar, and at once secreted himself behind the desk that stood there. Perhaps, thought he, Adrienne will herself come in this evening to say her lonely devotions, or sing her saddened hymns; and then -then all will be safe. What a joyful -what an inspiring thought! He had not lain concealed in that place a long time, when be heard a footstep near the door. He listened attentively, and knew that some one must be approaching. Perhaps it was only some one to lock up the chapel, and then what was to be done? But ere he could give way greatly to his fears, the footstep was heard upon the stairs, and then upon the stone floor of the chapel itself. It seemed to him like the tread of a man, yet he dared not peer out to see, for fear he might be detected. But his suspense was not doomed to be lasting. Instantly the person placed the little lantern, which he bore with him, upon the floor, and commenced pacing the room. "Adrienne!" said the person, soliloquizingly. Rodolpho, in his concealment, could not have been more struck with wonder had a bullet at that moment passed through his brain. He knew at once that this man must be no other than the monk, Petroni. "Adrienne!" continued the monk, still pacing the floor of stone, "it is for me to determine thy fate. Thou art now my prisoner. What shall I do now? That I must determine at once. That I am now come here to determine. "Adrienne! thy father thinks that thou wilt be secure from this Rodolpho; so likewise think I. But it shall not -it ought not to be so by shutting thee up within the walls of a distant nunnery. Thou shouldst be as free as the air we breathe. Thou shouldst be a merry bride, not a secluded nun. Such an office will never become thee; it was never created for those like thee! "But what shall I do, Adrienne? Here art thou in my power. If I sent thee to Genoa, as all along I have had no thought of doing, then will it be known here in the convent that thou art not dead; and where, then, goes my power? If I suffer thee to remain here, then wilt thou have to starve in this lower dungeon, for I cannot secrete food for thee long in such a place, and human life could not be long extended there. "But what shall I do? I am vexed. I am in a quandary. I am in a strange perplexity. Would to Heaven I had never known thee. And yet, who would not fall down on his knees and thank Heaven he has been permitted to look, if but once, within those eyes. "Here is the door to thy present dungeon cell. I stand my feet this moment upon it. It is beneath me even now. Adrienne, if I should open this double trap door and tell thee that thou shouldst again be free -if thou wouldst but escape with me to a strange and distant place. O, would that I felt assured of it! Would that some one could remove all doubts! But I will raise the door first and see. Yet do I dread it." The monk leaned over, and lifted a large, square stone from its position in the floor. Beneath this was an iron door, to which was fastened a ring. It was locked securely down by a bolt, and to remove that bolt by a single turn of the key he held in his hand, was but the work of a second. But before he raised the iron door, he called out: "Adrienne!" A faint response from below fell on his ear. Rodolpho heard it, too, in his place of concealment. "She is yet alive! Thank God!" said the monk to himself, aloud. That response, from the lips of the prisoner girl, was enough to set all the blood in Rodolpho's heart in turbulent motion. It sounded so muffled and exhausted, that he leaped at once out from his hiding place upon the floor, and springing upon the monk, with a single well-directed and vigorous blow, he felled him sense less to the floor. It was but an instant's work for him to raise the heavy iron door upon its hinges, and call out: "Adrienne -Adrienne!" She answered him, faintly, it is true, but yet there came an answer. "It is I -it is Rodolpho!" he exclaimed. "Rodolpho! My saviour!" came up a faint and suppressed voice from below. The young man was almost beside himself with impatience. "Reach me up your hand, Adrienne!" he cried. "Rodolpho!" was all the reply he heard. He reached his own hand far down into the darkness, and groped wildly about, from point to point, but no hand was extended to meet it. "She is dying!" cried he to himself, in a frenzy. What was to be done? page: 46-47[View Page 46-47] CHAPTER X. RODOLPHO RESCUES ADRIENNE. WHEN he had done everything but just what it seemed he ought to do, to discover in what condition Adrienne was, it finally occurred to him that there stood upon the floor, at but a little distance from him, the lantern of the prostrate monk. Seizing it in his haste, he instantly sprang again to the mouth of the cave, and lowered it down the entire length of his arm. It shone out in the thick darkness like the twinkling rays of a faintly shining star through the thick clouds. It had not the power to penetrate a gloom so awful. While he held it there, twice he called the name of Adrienne, and received as reply to his call only the name of Rodolpho. From the faint manner in which it was spoken, he knew at once that the girl was exhausted -perhaps at that critical moment, dying! He saw the rope extending from the ceiling to the floor, by which the chapel bell was wont to be tolled by the hands of the sacristan. It lay coiled up upon the floor beside him. But to descend by that would only be to sound the alarm which would discover him to them all. In a twinkling he cut the same at as great a distance from the floor as he could reach, and fastened one end to the iron ring in the trap-door, now lying flatly upon the floor. At once trusting himself to this rope, and taking the precaution to carry the lantern in his hand, he reached the bottom of the awful cavern. His limbs, as they struck the cold and damp floor of solid stone, almost refused to support him. He trembled like a very child for terror. A cold and deathly sweat stood in huge drops upon his brow. His hands were as moist as if just plunged into the water. Groping his way about, with his lantern extended before him, he discovered the body of Adrienne lying prostrate in the corner. He held the lamp to her face, and recognized those loved features again. A calm and gentle smile stole over them, speaking more loudly than words the depth and strength of her passion for him who was there to be her preserver. Just at that moment he thought of the monk whom he had left lying insensible on the chapel floor. Should his senses return to him again before he could ascend the rope, all would be lost. The wretch would undoubtedly take advantage of the occasion to consummate his revenge by shutting down the door again, and all Venice would openly bear him out in that revenge, because he would be destroying the much dreaded Rodolpho, the scourge and terror of the State. Inspired with this fear he dragged Adrienne to the centre of the cave, and bound the end of the rope tightly about her, beneath her arms. He waited not for words, and gentle and affectionate expressions; what avail could they be to him then? He must act, and act promptly. Seizing the rope again, he climbed up, still carrying the stolen lantern of the monk in his hand. As soon as he reached the floor again, he set down his lantern beside him, and commenced carefully drawing up the precious burden below. Slowly she rose with each effort of his, until finally she reached the light. The faint rays from the lantern gleamed in her face, and she opened her languishing eyes, Rodolpho was in an ecstacy of joy. As soon as he had drawn her safely to the surface, and laid her gently upon the cold floor, without uttering a syllable, he approached the body of the monk. He was insensible, yet breathing. Taking the key from his pocket, that fitted the lock in the heavy iron trap-door, he dragged the lifeless and resistless body to the brink, and cast him in. He leaned his head a moment over the dread aperture, and heard the dull sound of his fall upon the bottom of the cave, and the groan of agony that escaped him from the sudden shock. It was enough. Rodolpho was satisfied. Yet, to make all complete, he shut down the iron door, and, with the key he had stolen, securely locked it. And he overlaid the huge square stone again, and sat himself down by the side of the half-dead Adrienne. The fresh air had had the effect, in the meanwhile, to resuscitate her, and the moment Rodolpho addressed her, she recognized him as she used to do in former times, and would have him explain all; how it was that he had found her in her place of confinement. But he thought it no fit time to narrate his story to her then, and so he frankly told her; and likewise assuring her that the sooner they were beyond the convent walls the safer it would be for them both, she was soon able to raise to her feet, and with his assistance, to walk to the door of the chapel. Going out of this, Rodolpho slowly and cautiously conducted her along the least frequented parts of the garden, until he had finally reached the place that was to be the means of their final exodus from the precincts. Both of them crawled through this, and at length sat down beneath the shadow of the wall. Both were clad in white garments, though, in places, sorrowfully soiled, and looked like two of the devoted sisters of the convent, there met to converse upon matters pertaining to their religious happiness. Fedore, as Rodolpho saw by a glance, still sat patiently waiting in his little skiff below. Rodolpho, without permitting Adrienne to weary herself with asking questions, began and narrated to her every circumstance connected with his search for her, and the final success with which it was crowned. And when he came to tell her that it was the intention of Petroni to either send her away to Genoa, or to fly himself with her that night, her blood froze in her veins, and she was transfixed with horror. Many a time did she repeat her thanks to Rodolpho for having saved her from a cruel death, or an ignominious fate. She could not find words sufficiently pregnant with passionate meaning to convey to him the half of what she felt. After some time passed in this narration, they started to their feet. "And now where?" affectionately asked Rodolpho. "I have rescued thee from the very jaws of death; now where shall I take thee? I will go anywhere thou wilt, even to thine own home again." "Rodolpho," hesitatingly spoke the maiden, "how can I tell? How can I make up my determination?" "Thou shouldst go with me," said he, "but that I am at present an outlaw, and never shall that name disgrace thee or thy fair name, Adrienne!" "But where, then, Rodolpho? I know not what to say." "My cave on yonder shores over the sea is a fairy's grotto, yet it shall never be tenanted by angels like thee. It houses a band of brave men, loyal to my word and name, but never would it be fit place for thee, Adrienne. It is a fit place to hold three score brave hearts, such as would swear ever to defend thee and thine -but never such as thee!" "But tell, me where, Rodolpho?" again asked the perplexed maiden. "To your father's, Adrienne," answered he, decisively. "To my father's again, Rodolpho! He would send me back at once to that dreaded place!" "Then should he feel the stroke of my vengeance! Forgive me, my darling Adrienne; but I cannot repress my words when my feelings are fiercest. My lips know not how to refuse the promptings of my heart, much less to lie to them. page: 48-49[View Page 48-49] Yes, you shall back to your father's, and tell him all. Will you do as I say?" "Rodolpho," answered she, "you know my heart; you know I will." "In this disguise, then, must I accompany thee. We will be rowed in yonder skiff up to your father's garden gate. Fedore, my page, is even now in waiting." Taking her lily hand, he assisted her down the steep declivity, into the little boat. Not a word was spoken by either, except that Rodolpho gave orders for Fedore to row them where they would go, and again they were gliding swiftly over the still and sleeping water. Ere long they were at the gate of the garden, where stood the palace mansion of Count Moralo. "Now must I bid thee a long farewell," said Rodolpho, mournfully. "What shall I tell my father?" inquired Adrienne. "Tell him all, just as it has happened, Adrienne," replied he. "And what if he be displeased?" "Then trust to me," "But I may not see thee in time." "Fear not, Adrienne; I shall be nigh thee when thou might think me far away. I will guard thy steps. Farewell." He impressed a fervid kiss upon her hand, and in a moment was in his skiff, and floating over the water. Adrienne betook herself cautiously to her chamber, that so long had been tenantless and gloomy. On softly pushing back the heavy door, whom should her eyes first fall upon but Juliette, her devoted maid. "Adrienne!" exclaimed she, and she rushed frantically to her arms. The embrace of the mistress and maid was tender and long. Each wept profusely over the joy of the sudden reunion. Juliette loved her mistress to devotion, and scarce a day had passed since her absence, that she had not gone into her chamber and there secretly bewailed her irreparable loss. Adrienne told her all that had happened to her since she had been away; all concerning the convent, the monk Petroni, his enticing her into the subterranean cavern, her imprisonment, and her final and fortunate rescue. And then she very naturally fell into a high commendation of Rodolpho and all his noble qualities. Late that evening Count Moralo came home. His brow was wreathed seemingly with unclouded happiness. The Council of Ten and the Grand Council, unitedly, had held a protracted session, and had succeeded in electing a new doge to succeed the one whom death had taken away. The result of their election had just been made known. The Count Moralo was elected doge. It was with the pride and pleasure freshly inspired by this announcement that he entered his house. At once he summoned Juliette into his presence to perform some trifling service. The girl instantly obeyed the summons, and stood before him. The first words that escaped her lips were: "Adrienne has returned!" "Adrienne returned!" were all the syllables he could utter. "Yes; she is even now in her chamber, count." "Adrienne?" "Yes, sir count." "Summon her at once." Juliette departed on her errand, while the count paced the spacious apartment in great perplexity. A cloud suddenly came over him. In a moment the maid returned, bringing Adrienne with her. The latter reached the middle of the floor and here paused. "My father!" exclaimed she, affectionately. "Wherefore art thou here again?" he haughtily inquired. "Wouldst thou prefer that thine own child, thy daughter, should be under the care of such a one as Petroni?" asked the indignant girl. "Would I? What is that to thee? Did I not place thee in his keeping?" "Yes; and in what manner has he kept me from harm?" "He certainly has been remiss, that thou shouldst escape." "But never more will he escape. He is where no human power will at present reach him!" "Why?" "Let me not tell you a11, father, yet: much remains to be told." "But how didst thou escape?" "First tell me if he was authorized to drag me to a cold stone dungeon, deep down in the earth?" "Did he do it?" asked the count. "Then tell me if it was you who ordered him to starve my life out of me in such an awful place." "Did he attempt that, Adrienne? Tell me, Adrienne." "Yes, and even more. He is a base villain, and he knew full well that I discovered it, and had the power to expose him. He whispered, at one time, to me of flight with him, and I spurned him from my presence. I threatened openly to denounce him as a villain before the world. And it was for this that he sought to bury me alive!" "Is it so, Adrienne?" excitedly asked the count. "Even so, father, just as I have told thee. And now let him expiate his crimes where he is. There are none to hinder his uttering his prayers to Heaven for himself. He is even now reaping his punishment." "But how didst thou escape from this cave, Adrienne?" asked he. "You would not believe me, if I told you." "Tell me all. I believe you, every word." "Then will I tell you. Rodolpho released me!" Had a thunder bolt exploded in the room, Count Moralo could not have possibly been more shocked and alarmed. "Then Rodolpho is everywhere!" exclaimed he. "He has often, at least, been near me, to protect me!" replied the girl, taking courage, now that the secret was off her heart. "And you love him still, I suppose?" "Would you have me hate -despise my preserver?" "I said not that, Adrienne; but you love him still, I suppose?" The girl only cast down her eyes confusedly upon the floor. "It is enough," he at once exclaimed; "I am persuaded." "I should be a brute, did I not feel at least grateful for what services he has done me," said she. "Yes, you would," he rejoined, "but with gratitude should the feeling end." Adrienne replied not to this remark of her father. "Adrienne," at length solemnly spake he, "Rodolpho is an enemy to the State." "Is not rather the State an enemy to him?" asked she. "Has he not already murdered the doge, by his own confession?" "And did he not likewise save the life of that same doge's daughter, when all others, even her own husband, refused to snatch her from the boiling sea? Tell me that!" "But did he not likewise leave his dagger in the heart of the young Count Gonzalvo, whom I had determined for a bridegroom for thee?" "And whom I detested, for a paltry coward and spy!" "But, Adrienne, this Rodolpho must at some day come to punishment. He cannot long escape it. Would you, then, have it said in Venice that you loved this outlaw and criminal, whose right hand is already red with blood?" "I should care not, father, for already his good actions have outweighed those that are thought evil. He may yet be accounted a hero, as he is." "But there is yet another thing that thou shouldst know, Adrienne." "And what is that, father?" "I am the doge elect of Venice!" Adrienne was stupefied and speechless with amazement. "It is within my power to pardon this Rodolpho, if he should yet do an action worthy of the remission of his many crimes." "And would you not pardon him, my dear father?" The count seemed perplexed in his mind, as he paced the room. "Press me no further with your inquiries. I only tell you of my power, But how, think you, it would sound abroad, that the daughter of the doge of Venice was enamored of the dreaded Rodolpho, the greatest mystery of Venice? Think of it." "But he is every way worthy of that love." "So think you, Adrienne; I know not what to do. As doge, I must perform my duty in endeavoring to bring him to punishment. But, as the daughter of the doge, do you not dare, on the peril of your life itself, to whisper that either you love him, or are loved by him in turn. Remember that! And now, back to your chamber, and there seclude yourself. On the day after to-morrow I shall put on the ducal bonnet, and wear the ducal ring. Till then, await only my pleasure." As he spoke, Adrienne retired to her chamber, led by her faithful Juliette. As for the count, be continued pacing the apartment, in deep perplexity. page: 50-51[View Page 50-51] CHAPTER XI. THE MASQUERADE. On the morning of the third day, therefore, the massive bell of the Campanile, that was only rung on such occasions, told the people of Venice that a new doge was that day to be enthroned in the ducal palace. Its tones sounded strangely on many ears, and sent chilling thoughts through many hearts, for they remembered at once the circumstances of the death of the doge whose vacancy was to be then supplied. The streets were thronged with people, decked in their holiday attire, and the sheets of water that crossed and recrossed the city in all directions, were flaunting with gay flags and streamers, and crowded with light gondolas. Joy gleamed everywhere, from every thing. There was a glory in the very air, that heightened all spirits. A huge and dense procession was being formed upon the Rialto Bridge, to march to the square of St. Mark, and there give joy to the newly appointed doge. They bore large banners above their heads, and now and then gave out loud and prolonged shouts. Music floated over them, and its sweet and subdued strains were borne throughout the entire city, to inspirit all who listened. The bell kept up its glad ringing, peal after peal; the people continued their talking, and laughing, and loyal shouting; the gondoliers joined more merrily in their loud songs; the flags flaunted in the bright sunlight more gaily, and the crowds hastened towards the marble stairs of the ducal palace. Ere long, the newly elected doge, Count Moralo, steps forth to the top of the marble stairs of the palace, and thence overlooks the crowds of people assembled beneath him. The Place of San Marco was literally full of human beings. The house-tops, for a great distance around, were loaded with eager spectators. The gondolas, quietly reposing on the surface of the glistening water, could not have been made to hold more. As the doge made his appearance on the top of the stairs, the thousand people assembled around sent up a shout that rent the very air, and reached the empyrean itself, This act of loyalty and devotion the doge acknowledged by a low bow, and then it was repeated by the people again, and again. The doge was arrayed in the robes of his new office, and looked the personation of nobility itself. Then was gone through the ceremony of the taking of the ducal bonnet, and the putting on of the ducal ring, and all was immediately over. The people assembled were permitted to make this a new holiday, and to the utmost did they endeavor to do it. The city was, during the entire day, alive with their demonstrations of rejoicing. In the evening came the accustomed masquerade. "The monk, the nun, the holy legate masked, And all the madness of the carnival." Crowds were gathered at the place appointed, each individual determined to enjoy himself to the utmost. The doge himself was there, with his retinue, but only as a looker on. Fair ladies and proud gentlemen surrounded him, and added, by words and their presence, unitedly to make him happy. The large hall was thronged with the gay company. Jews and Huns, in disguise, mingled freely with the proudest Venetian nobles. Poor men clad in rags, but fortified by the concealment of the domino, met and conversed with high-born ladies, daughters of noblemen, wives of councillors, and, above all, of the secret Councillors of the Ten. Intrigues without number, and beyond belief, were entered upon during that gay scene. The daughter of the deceased doge was there, too; but she was doing honor to the occasion by gliding through the hall in her mask. Few could know who she was in her disguise. As she paced along through the hall, her eyes fell upon another pair, belonging to a face that was completely masked. Those other eyes met hers, likewise, at the same time, and their possessor at once moved nearer to her. "Most gracious lady," saluted the voice beneath the mask. "You do me honor, sir," replied the domino. "I am glad that you are well," said the voice. "And why should that be? What carest thou for me?" "I always take care that beauty may not be wretched." "By the holy angels! But, then, how know you that your congratulations belong to me? Dost think me a beauty, then?" "I am satisfied of it." "And how can that be? You know me not." "Be not too positive, fair lady." "Fair lady! Ha, ha, ha!" "I have spoken only what I know." "Whom, then, think you that I am?" "Marina!" The domino was silent. "Is it not so?" asked the mask. "Farewell," was all the response that came from the fair one, as she hastily turned away. Again the disguised one met, in passing, another stranger. From the voice, he judged it to be a man. "Whence comest thou?" demanded the now strange voice. "From the side of a pretty domino. What news?" "None as yet; but I trust we may soon have some." "What do you expect?" "We hope to hear of the capture of Rodolpho, the robber." "Ah! I am glad to know it. I trust he may be captured." "The doge will fit out, as soon as the ceremonies are fairly over, an expedition against this robber, Rodolpho, and his hand. He has lately heard, through his vigilant spies, where they shelter themselves, and he hopes soon to attack and overthrow them all." "Think you he can do it?" "Do it? Why not? Rodolpho's band is but three-score strong, or thereabouts, as he has learned this very day." "How did he hear it, pray? I am glad that it is finally ascertained." "It was learned through a little page belonging to this villain, Rodolpho. He was captured this very day." "What!" "It is so; he was this day captured." "And he told all?" "No, not all, but enough to make the doge believe that he could tell more." "And did he refuse to tell more?" "He did. He vowed that neither rack, nor torture, nor poisons themselves should have power to start his secret from him. He swore to die with it." "O, courageous little fellow! What is his name?" "Fedore, he calls himself; but we know not whether it be a name just now assumed." "Undoubtedly it is. But where is this page now?" "Immured safely in a dungeon." "When will he come to trial? Dost thou know?" "As soon as these festivities shall all have been concluded; not before. The doge would be unwilling to interrupt these rejoicings by announcing or hastening such a trial." "Precisely. But I am glad enough to know that they have taken him, and that Rodolpho page: 52-53[View Page 52-53] himself will soon be in their power. How many scores are marked against him!" "Of a truth." Then the two masks nodded to each other, and passed on. The one which had detected Marina, and had likewise just been the recipient of the intelligence aforementioned, walked composedly up to the side of a third person, and spoke in a low tone, that could not possibly have been overheard by any: "Adrienne!" Instantly the domino addressed quivered from head to foot. "Who called me Adrienne?" demanded the domino, taking courage, and raising itself to its proudest height. "It was I, fair lady," replied the other; "do not be angry with me for it." "But why think you I am Adrienne?" "I should not, gracious lady, had I not often before now gazed into the dreamy depths of those beautiful blue eyes." "You are mistaken." "Often, my lady, have I looked into them." "Where?" "At the garden gate of Count Moralo, now our doge." "And who art thou, then?" "Wouldst thou really know?" "I would be satisfied at once," "Lady fair, I am Rodolpho!" "Rodol"- "Hist! Ears and eyes are at this moment all about us, though we may not know whose they are. Adrienne! My darling Adrienne!" "It is Adrienne!" answered the voice. "How didst thou know me, Ro"- "Be careful! Pronounce not that name once aloud, else it may be too late for my escape. No matter how I knew thee, Adrienne; it is enough that I did. But tell me how thy father, now the doge, received thee the other night." "At first he expressed astonishment." "Rage, too?" "Rage not once; he was perplexed what to do, and so he told me. From his lips I first learned that he was to be enthroned doge, and then he said he should do what was his duty towards thee." "Didst tell him of your escape from death?" "No; but I told him of your rescuing me from death! That was the truth!" "And what said he?" "He knew not what to say, at first. He again demanded to know whether I loved thee as before. I asked him if he would have me hate thee. Then was he puzzled more. He named over thy many crimes, as he called them, and I offset them with thy many good deeds." "Adrienne, thou art a right valiant defender?" "And why ought I not to risk all for thee, when my life, at this very moment, is spared only because of thee." "But how camest thou hither?" "By my father's own wish. He said that no child of his should be prevented from joining in the festivities of his election to the ducal honors." "And he said rightly, too." "But I was warned not to make myself known to any one. So soon have I disobeyed him." "Not so. You did not make yourself known to me." "Why not? I am certain of it." "No; think a moment. I first called thee by name." "Right! Right -you did." "But does he say nothing more of the convent?" "Nothing more. I told him all your words." "And he will heed them?" "I pray he may; but I shall take my life before I go into a nunnery now!" "Speak not thus, Adrienne; you never will go there. I have spoken it." "And I put faith in thy words." "I have found out this eve that my pretty page is made a prisoner." "Fedore!" "Yes. The doge says he will bring him to open trial as soon as these festivities are over; and then from his lips he will learn where dwelleth Rodolpho and his band." "And do you think he will?" "I know that he will not, on the other hand. Never fear for Fedore. They shall pull his very limbs apart, tender and fair as they are, ere they wrench a secret from his sealed lips!" "Amen!" "Be cautious, Adrienne! Thou speakest treason!" "Then say I amen again, from my very heart!" "Farewell, Adrienne! I cannot tarry here; I must away." "Farewell, my love! And may sleepless angels watch over thee, on land and sea, whether sleeping or waking! Farewell!" Rodolpho raised her gloved hand to his lips, and imprinted thereon a lover's kiss. In a moment more he had turned away, and passed from her sight. Rodolpho was again among his lawless band of brave followers. His handsome countenance was sad, and it wore an exceedingly downcast expression. "Hurrah for our brave leader again!" shouted a score or two of voices, as he entererd the brilliantly lighted cavern. And then off came full three-score caps, with flowing plumes and glistening jewels about them, and up they swung, high in the air above their heads, and the whole cave rung and echoed with their noisy cheers. "Comrades!" exclaimed Rodolpho, taking his position in the centre of them. "Hush! Hist!" cried out a few of the older ones. "Our brave master calls. Attention, comrades!" Then reigned a silence through the high cave, such as had hardly ever been known. "Comrades!" again called out Rodolpho. All bent their eyes intently upon him. "I have just come from Venice. The new doge has this day been enthroned in state. He has put on the ducal crown, -a worthless bauble, on the head of a weak man,- and already has he given us an exhibition of what is his power." "What! What!" involuntarily cried out all voices at once. "He has taken Fedore captive!" answered Rodolpho. "Fedore!" all exclaimed, in surprise and alarm. "Yes; my brave young page is even at this moment immured in a damp dungeon. Escape is impossible. As soon as the festivities are over, consequent on the doge's enthronement, he will be brought to public trial. I have heard it from lips in Venice this night. So I must be ready to go again, as soon as the tournament comes on in St Mark's, and after that I shall attend the trial." "You!" exclaimed twenty voices together. "Yes, me! I fear nothing!" "But what if you are taken prisoner?" "Then I shall die with Fedore. But never shall I be their prisoner. I feel safe; my time has not yet come!" "The men looked one at the other, but offered no reply. It was plain that they deemed this a hazardous undertaking on the part of Rodolpho. Still, it was not for them to tell him. "Fill ups, comrades!" said Rodolpho. "fill high your goblets to-night; for we may now be enjoying our last meeting!" Round went the generous wine in the costly goblets, and each man stood looking upon his young leader, as if the view was the last he would ever take. "Now to the cause of the oppressed!" gave out Rodolpho, as a sentiment. "Yes; to the cause of the oppressed!" echoed all, raising their brimming goblets to their lips. And then they drained their beakers, and setting them down again, began, some to count over their recent gains, some to discuss new projects for plunder, and some to talk about the capture of Fedore; for Fedore was a general favorite, and his loss would most sensibly be felt. As for Rodolpho, he was entirely unable to become easy. He paced repeatedly up and down the side of the cave, his head bent downwards in deep thought, and his countenance wofully expressive of sorrow. He held no conversation with any for a long time, and none seemed disposed to interrupt the train of his meditations. At length he threw himself down upon the couch, that stood in an embayed recess in the side of the cavern, and there surrendered himself up to his feelings. He had not been there long, however, before one of his bravest men came and sat down by his side, and entered into conversation with him. "Good master Rodolpho," said the man, whose name was Roderigo, "when does the tournament in St. Mark's come off?" "On the morrow, Roderigo," answered Rodolpho. "And shall you certainly be there?" "Most certainly. I must watch closely the course of events; for report already says that the new doge has discovered the hiding place of Rodolpho and his men, and that he is making preparations to meet us here." "How many of our enemies, master, think you, could enter this cavern alive?" "Not one, while my men live," answered Rodolpho. "You have spoken truly. The grave is not more tenacious of its own, than would this cave be of those who now inhabit it. I speak what I know, when I say that this cave would never disgorge us alive." page: 54-55[View Page 54-55] "Never would it, Roderigo, I am persuaded. "Shall you enter the lists at the tourney, master?" "That will depend upon the challengers." "And your barb?" "I should find one in Venice; never fear." "It is, then, your determination to go tomorrow?" "I must betake myself away at early dawn." "And who will accompany you on this dangerous expedition, master?" "Will you, Roderigo?" "I will." "To morrow, then, while all are sleeping, we will be up and away. Venice is intoxicated, at this present time, with her three days' pleasure, and I have no fear of spies. But we must betake ourselves to rest, if we would be up betimes. Good-night, Roderigo." The signal sufficed to warn the brave follower away from the bedside of his master, after which, Rodolpho fell into an easy slumber. CHAPTER XII. THE DEPARTURE OF RODOLPHO AND RODERIGO. EARLY the next morning, while the inhabitants of the cave were all soundly sleeping, after their late Session of the night before, Rodolpho arose from his couch, and going, on tiptoe, to that of Roderigo, gently woke him. The latter was not a little ashamed that his master had thus got the start of him; but quickly rising, he made amends by the greater despatch in getting himself ready for his journey. They departed stealthily from the cave, and stole quickly to a little boat that lay bobbing on the tiny waves beneath the cliff, into which they sat themselves, and sailed away. Lightly they skimmed, like a bird of air, over the dancing waters, towards the queen city. The tumultuous waves were still. Not a breath stole from over the broad and free Adriatic, that could ruffle the water that gleamed and sparkled from their prow. Ere long they reached the quay; their bark grazed against the stone stair, and the two men landed. Venice was still asleep, Only her watchmen were not lost in slumber. The excitements of the preceding day had buried the pleasure-loving people in a deeper sleep than ordinary. Through darkened archway and recess, beneath overshadowing pillar and column, they went, sedulously avoiding contact with any one whose footsteps they might hear in time sufficient to warn them. At length they reached a place of safety, where they remained hidden until the day should come on. It was indeed a brilliant day for Venice; for the doge had given orders that preparations should be made on a scale of unusual splendor, for the celebration of the coming tourney; and, at an early hour, notwithstanding the pleasures that were crowded into the day before, the gondolas began to glide up and down the streets of water, and the walks began to be crowded with people. The tournament was no common affair with the citizens, and all made it a point to attend, who had it in their power. The square of San Marco, where the joust was to take place, was admirably fitted up for the occasion. Seats were ranged in rows, one above another, calculated to hold many thousands of spectators. The arena, or tilting ground, was fenced in with ropes and chains, from which everything was carefully excluded, until the knights who might be ambitious of the prize offered by the doge, should duly enter it. Meantime, the people continued to collect in dense and black masses. The great square was literally jammed full. Every house-top, every bridge, and all the marble stairs to mansions, from which might be obtained a glimpse of the page: 56-57[View Page 56-57] scene, were literally covered with human beings. It was more a gala day in Venice than ever. The hour approached when the amusement was to begin, and its advent was publicly proclaimed by the tolling of the great bell in the towers of St. Mark and St. Paul. Instantly a trumpet pealed forth its shrill and sonorous blast, and a thousand faces were turned instinctively to the opening of the arena, through which the combatants would enter. At once, a cavalcade of horsemen, variously mounted, and equipped with armor, poured into the arena through this entrance, and riding quite round the same, and doing honor to the doge as they passed him, retired, in a double line, to the side of the enclosure, nearly opposite the place of entrance. The doge rose with stately pride from the high, tapestried seat which he occupied, over which was a canopy of blue velvet and gold, and a herald instantly rode out into the centre of the ring, and loudly commanded silence. In a moment all voices were hushed, and the temporary silence became even oppressive. "In the name of Venice, hear!" exclaimed the doge. "I do hereby name Adrienne, the daughter of your doge, the queen of youth and beauty. Let him who may, enter the lists, to vindicate her claim to that seat. The competitor who shall be declared victorious, shall crown her with a wreath of laurel, and have the privilege of kissing her fair hand. Let the ambitious hear!" Instantly he sat down, and a buzz of voices arose around the entire space. For a time, the confusion was far greater than it had been before at any time. Everybody turned to the one next him, and discussed the appearance of the doge's daughter, the promise of the different combatants, and also the glorious character of the scene. It was a glorious scene, indeed. Rows upon rows of human heads were ranged about and above the enclosed area, from which place the view was well calculated to incite even the most cowardly to deeds of valor, and to inspire the most listless hearts with a deep and strong ambition. The haughty doge sat down near the bottom of these temporary steps, and lower still, even at his feet, was the peerless Adrienne, reclining gracefully on a half couch, half chair. The daughters of the nobles, together with their proud and stately dames, whose jewels profusely begemmed their persons, and dazzled the eyes of him who glanced in that direction, sat in long lines on either side of the queen of youth and beauty, attentively studying the unsurpassed beauty of her form and features, and surveying the magnificent and bewildering scene outspread before them. Again the trumpet sounded shrilly, and a horde of heralds came cantering in through the entrance of the enclosure, and galloped fiercely round the entire arena. They were attired in the most fantastic colors, and, cantering about as they did in a single group, with their snow-white plumes, and garments curiously embroidered, the bright sunlight fll upon them with a bewildering effect, indeed. They at once took their station in the opposite part of the amphitheatre from the point where were the lances, and awaited for the orders that should be given them. For some time all was as silent as death. Every one was waiting impatiently to see who should first make a stand against all the rest, for the honor of crowning the beautiful damsel, queen of youth and beauty. Presently, however, all hearts beat quickly, at beholding a young knight emerge slowly from the sheltered group of lancers and ride quite around the arena. As he came to the place where sat the youthful Adrienne, and the doge, and all his noble retinue, he suddenly reined in his steed, and gracefully saluted the noble personages who had favored the scene with their presence. Instantly he rode away to the farther part of the arena. As he turned slowly away, the thousands of spectators gazed in deep silence at his strange equipment. His steed was not a whit above the medium size -a milk-white barb, substantially encased in armor, from head to foot. The beautiful animal's housings were of the deepest crimson, that compared elegantly with his own color. His head and breast were well protected by a heavy and clanking shield and breastplate. The rider it was, to whom attention was chiefly directed. In stature, he was not tall and gaunt, but of a good size, and most gracefully moulded. About his limbs he wore an encasement of brightest steel, and over his hands and wrists were drawn gauntlets of the same material. His helmet shone and glittered wonderfally in the sun, and its crest was crowned with a long, scarlet plume, that draped quite over one of his shoulders But great was the surprise of all to observe, that instead of having his body protected by the coat of mail that all the other combatants wore, he was only clad in a light, silk tunic, in color, of the brightest crimson. A subdued, but quite audible murmur arose from all the spectators, as this fact became known. "He is mad!" said the doge, turning to one of his nobles near him. "He courts death very freely!" said a proud dame to her noble lord. "What an insane hazard!" was the remark that lay on every lip, whether it was spoken or not. Adrienne gazed at him with wonder, and for a moment her breathing ceased entirely. Her cheek turned ashy pale, for, in truth, she would not have wished that any one should consent to mar the festivities of the day by recklessly throwing away his life. The young and daring knight rode gracefully up to the feet of the queen of youth and beauty, and with much courtesy saluted first her, and then the doge, and the nobles that were grouped around him. This done, he wheeled majestically upon his steed, and rode slowly over to where the heralds were stationed to await their orders. Riding closely up to one of them, he bent his head over to him, and said something in a low tone. In a moment after, the herald addressed rode gaily forth into the centre of the arena, blowing a shrill blast from his brazen trumpet, and thus cried aloud: "Hear ye, knights and proud gentlemen of Venice! Don Manuel, the son of Spain, and the Knight of the Glancing Shield, challenges any one who will, to break a lance with him, in honor of the queen of youth and beauty!" The herald instantly wheeled, and retired to his station again. In another moment a trumpet rang from the opposite side of the amphitheatre, and a tall and stately knight rode forth into the arena, and, saluting the youthful queen, and her faiher, the doge, and all the nobles, as Don Manuel had done before him, retired to a station in the amphitheatre, opposite his challenger. The two combatants sat like marble statues upon their steeds, opposite each other, waiting for the accustomed signal for the encounter. The name of the one who had accepted the challenge of Don Manuel, was Signor Fuselo, and it was publicly announced by a herald, amid great applause from the admiring spectator; for Signor Fuselo was well known to be no ordinary lance, and the strergth of his right arm none thought the almost defenceless challenger could withstand. As they sat like rigid statues in their saddles, in their right hands they held their lances in rest, and in their left they bore their upraised shields, from whose surfaces the sun's rays were thrown back, as from polished mirrors. Their eyes looked out through the bars of their helmets, at each other, with a fascinating ferocity. The same herald who had first proclaimed the lists open, now raised his trumpet to his lips, and forthwith blew a blast that made the very welkin ring. All eyes were at once riveted on the combatants. Each drove the rowels deep into the sides of his steed, and at once they rushed forward, with a deadly ferocity, to the encounter. The shock of their meeting was as if a hundred shields had rung. It was tremendous, and the earth beneath their feet fairly trembled. The spear of his opponent was aimed most wickedly, at the unprotected portion of Don Manuel's body, and it had been his intention to despatch him at a single thrust. Don Manuel saw the malice of the design, in just sufficient time to avert it by a dexterous parry of his shield, and the point of his spear glanced off as harmlessly as would a light arrow from a tower of stone. Don Manuel, however, determined to punish his antagonist for the cowardly advantage he would have taken of his defenceless condition, and skilfully directing his lance, he drove it completely through the bars of Fuselo's helmet, destroying his left eye with the powerful thrust. The casque lacings at once broke from their fastenings, and as the wearer was driven back by the blow, until he fell nearly upon his horse's crupper, the dreadful spectacle was clearly revealed to the view of the horror-stricken spectators. Two or three heralds hastened to his support, and at once bore him, insensible from his wound, from the field. Again the herald of the stranger knight rode forth into the arena, and challenged any one who listed, to enter the field against him, in vindication of the queen of youth and beauty. For some time there was no response to the challenge, and the spectators began to think that the stranger knight would, wiih this single encounter, bear off all the honors with him. At least, it so began to seem to them. The doge, at last, unwilling that the contest should terminate here, rose from his cushioned seat, and stepping forth from beneath the velvet canopy above his head, demanded, in a page: 58-59[View Page 58-59] loud voice, to know if the palm was thus to be borne away from Venice; and that, too, when the doqe's daughter was the one who was to be crowned! This timely appeal to their patriotic pride at once pricked the hearts of the rest of the hesitating knights, and again the trumpet brayed forth defiance. There rode forth to salute the doge and the queen, as announced by the herald, young Count Valency, who, instantly after the salute, retired to his station, opposite the brave and bold challenger. He was the youngest and most diminutive of all the knights in the lists, and he rode a little palfrey, which none but a fair lady should ride. Both horse and rider were encased in a perfect coat of armor, and the youthful and ambitious Valency held his lance in rest most gracefully, waiting impatiently for the fray. Again the trumpet sounded, and the combatants rushed at each other. Valency directed his pointed lance at the same unprotected mark that his unfortunate predecessor had done, intent on doing serious and speedy work. But what was the surprise of all, at seeing that Don Manuel did not once raise his lance from its poise, but only rode up to meet the thrust of his adversary's weapon. All regarded it, on the instant, as an act of noble magnanimity. The lance of young Valency glanced harmlessly from the shield of his challenger, as had that of Fuselo before him. A murmur of approbation burst from all lips, at seeing the stranger knight still unharmed and unhorsed, that ran quite round the crowded amphitheatre. Both combatants retired to their respective stations. A third time gave out the trumpet its hoarse note, starting all from their listlessness, and awing them into silence. The plumed herald rode forth and announced that Signor Pedro Padilli would now venture to tilt a lance with the challenger, Don Manuel. The knight appeared in the arena, and after doing proper obeisance to the doge and queen, took his station. He was of a large and stalwart frame, powerfully made, and tall. His horse's armor was complete, as was likewise his own. But about his own armor he wore no furbish. It was all dark and rough looking. Not a single boss that shone was there. He looked as if encased in a coat of solid and impenetrable iron. In his right hand he poised a huge and heavy lance, that looked as if it might perforate his opponent's shield like paper. In his left hand he bore a massive shield, against which any lance would seem as powerless as a frail reed. The signal was given, and the two combatants spurred forward their steeds. Their rush over the sod was as the sound of distant thunder. In an instant they met, and the concussion was terrible. The lance of Pedro Padilli just struck against the outer edge of his opponent's shield, and bent it like pasteboard. But it did Don Manuel no harm. On the other hand, the lance of Don Manuel was driven against the helmet of his adversary with such a force, and with such unerring precision, that the latter was driven back upon the crupper of his steed, clear of the saddle. This was enough. The knight Pedro was vanquished by his enemy, and most courteously did he acknowledge it. He then retired from the arena. The stranger knight sat still in his position. All eyes were turned towards him, in wonder. For the time, he commanded more admiration than even the doge himself, or any of his nobles; for he was admired freely even of them. Again the herald of Don Manuel rode round the arena, and challenged any to the encounter; but there was not one who offered to make response to the challenge. The amphitheatre was left clear to the victorious knight, whom all united in honoring. A consultation of the judges duly appointed, was forthwith held, and Don Manuel, the son of Spain, was unanimously declared the victor; the one alone worthy to place the wreath of laurel upon the brow of the fair Adrienne, and on bended knee, to press his lips to her lily hand. How many knights envied him his joy! After refreshments had first been partaken by all the nobles and ladies, during which time Don Manuel sat perfectly motionless in his saddle, where he had, from the first, stationed himself, the voice of the herald who had first appeared, was heard, announcing that the act of crowning the queen would now be performed by the victor. The announcement was received with the loud plaudits of the entire amphitheatre. A couple of heralds rode up to Don Manuel, and ordered him into the immediate presence of the doge. At once he rode slowly and gracefully towards him, and made proper obeisance. "Don Manuel! Son of Spain!" said the doge, "you have right valorously, this day, proved your knightly prowess. I do now pronounce you victor of the tourney, and to you belongs the esteemed and envied privilege of placing a laurel wreath upon the brow of the queen of youth and beauty, and receiving her fair hand to kiss. For your gallantry this day, in the presence of the doge and these nobles, I do reward you with a cross of honor, circled about with this laurel wreath. You are, by this, constituted forever a trusty member of the doge's select guard of honor; and all thy faults heretofore, how many soever they may be, and all thy missdeeds hereafter, are hereby remitted to thee!" As the doge spake these words, he tossed the circlet of honor towards the valorous knight, which he gracefully caught within his highly furbished shield, and acknowledged, by a low bow of his head, even to the flowing mane of his milk-white barb. The fortunate victor then rode proudly up to the feet of the youthful Adrienne, and, taking the laurel wreath within his mailed hand, reached it out towards her. She bent gracefully forward to receive it, and he placed it upon her head. Extending her hand for him to receive and kiss, he drew off, in an instant, the gauntlet from the hand and wrist of his right arm, and gently pressing the proffered hand upon the tips of his fingers, he raised it respectfully to his lips. He then wheeled upon his horse, and rode back to his wonted station as slowly as he came. page: 60-61[View Page 60-61] CHAPTER XIII ARREST OF DON MANUEL, ARISING from his seat, the doge commanded silence, through his herald. At once all was still. "In behalf of Venice, great and wealthy, the mistress of the seas, and the queen of the hundred isles, I return thanks, most graciously, to all you proud nobles and fair dames, and you people here assembled. This night the palace hall is wide open for my loyal and valiant subjects, and I will drink your healths in sparkling goblets. On the morrow we all unite against the bold outlaw, Rodolpho. I have that in my possession, which will make the hearts of the people glad. Rodolpho will yet be ours!" All rose from their seats, as if about to depart, for the tournament was now over. The thousands of spectators that were crowding and jostling around the lists, now began to move, and confusion again set in, to reign throughout the vast square. But suddenly there was heard the clear blast of a trumpet again in the amphitheatre, and all noise became hushed. The spectators turned to know what it could mean. They beheld a herald in the centre of the arena, wildly brandishing his trumpet over his head. They gave ear to what he said. "Once more, all people!" cried he. "Though the doge hath dismissed you already, yet listen to the words that Don Manuel, the victor knight, desires to speak!" All resumed their positions again, and the whole place was as silent as at any time during the joust. The thousand eyes were bent earnestly upon Don Manuel. Riding forth from his chosen position with a slow and stately step off his horse, he reached the centre of the arena, and there halted. He threw his shield and spear upon the ground, and adroitly removing the heavy helmet from his head, held it in his hand. Elevating himself to his utmost height in his saddle, he cried, in a loud voice, that echoed back from the massive walls of San Marc: "The doge has given out that he will go out against Rodolpho, the outlaw, and his followers. I proffer my services at the head of his army!" On hearing this from the lips of one who had proved himself so gallant and brave, the spectators sent up a loud and deafening shout of applause. The doge himself gazed on him with an ecstacy of delight. He continued: "Rodolpho is styled the bold outlaw. Venice hates him, and would pursue him to the very ends of the earth. Every one fears him. His name is whispered by pallid and trembling lips. But fear not. I will go against him, wherever he is! I fear him not!" Again the spectators loudly testified their applause. "Hear ye, people of proud Venice! I have said that my name is Don Manuel, and that I was the son of Spain. As Don Manuel, and as a son of Spain, did I crown the queen of youth and beauty, the daughter of your doge. But now do I renounce that name. I am Rodolpho, the outlaw!" Never before, in the Spacious square of St. Mark, had such a tumult been known as then arose. Every one gave himself up to a most earful excitement. A passion surged and swept over the vast crowd, even as a hurricane drives its destructive way through a dense forest. Some tossed their arms in the air, and loudly shouted- "Down with Rodolpho! Death to the outlaw!" Others rushed frantically towards the arena, as if they would not be satisfied with what they had heard. The countenances of all the ladies, haughty dames and timid virgins, turned perfectly livid with fear. The doge sat still for a moment, unable to utter a syllable. His nobles sat around him, on his either hand, but offered not a word. Adrienne still filled her chosen seat, speechless; but her features were as rigid as of chiselled marble. Presently the doge cried out to the heralds, while the bold outlaw still sat motionless in his saddle, his countenance showing no symptoms of fear: "Arrest yonder traitor! Arrest him, -the outlaw!" Instantly three or four of the plumed heralds rode fearfully up to where Rodolpho sat on his steed, and were in the act of laying their hands upon him, when, with a motion of his helmet, which he still held, he waved them away. "But, by this cross of honor, noble doge, I claim full pardon for my crimes, whatever you may think them!" exclaimed Rodolpho, in a loud voice. The doge was momentarily perplexed, but on several of his nobles crowding closer around him, he repeated the order to the heralds: "Arrest the traitor! Bear him away to the dungeon!" "As thou wilt then, proud doge!" exclaimed Rodolpho. "But I fear thee not! I possess this badge; it is a sacred pledge of the word of Venice!" "Away with him to the dungeon!" again cried the doge. The heralds instantly surrounded him, and seized him. It was necessary that they should have escorted him to the dungeon, else he might soon have been destroyed by the excited people. The tournament was at once broken up. In every street of Venice, during the remainder of the day, and even late into the evening, there was nothing but continued crowds and excitement. Every tongue had somewhat to say of Rodolpho, and his wonderful appearance. The sympathies of the masses could not, after all, but be divided for the robber, for he had conducted himself admirably in the lists, and vindicated valorously his name for a good and true knight. There was a magnanimity about him that took instant possession of all hearts. In all circles was the character of Rodolpho freely discussed. The fair ladies could not repress the expressions of their astonishment, at finding him so young and handsome; and many a beautiful lip trembled with its own words, when it attempted to say that the outlaw should most surely suffer death for his crimes. All wondered what could possibly be his object in thus volunteering the disclosure that would only be the sure means of his punishment; and some supposed that there might be some sinister purpose in his openly making himself known. So the excitement continued, each hour running higher rather than lower. At the time when the doge was to hold his grand levee, in the evening, it was publicly given out, that on the morrow, at precisely the hour of ten, the great enemy of Venice would be brought before the doge for his trial. This announcement created great excitement of itself, and added hugely to that already on foot. They came to his dungeon doors at an early hour in the morning, and bade him prepare himself for the event that was about to take place. Accordingly, Rodolpho made himself ready in earnest. He took especial pains with his attire, scrupulously arranging every article that had been displaced in the encounter and arrest of the day before, and seeming anxious to appear his best before the audience he would find assembled in the ducal palace. Ere long he was led away, in charge of attendants, to the chamber of justice, within the palace. As he entered the room, he could not but observe the crowds of spectators already assembld. Ladies of the rank of nobility, with their interested daughters, were there to behold him who was termed the terror and the mystery of Venice. The doge sat in the large chair he always occupied on such occasions, clad in his robes of office. Officers sat on his either side, page: 62-63[View Page 62-63] attentive to his slightest wish. The scene was one of the most absorbing interest. It would be, every one knew, tragical in its issue. The people gazed on the captive robber as on a caged lion. If they before thought him a mystery, now, that he had boldly avowed himself, when he might just as easily have escaped, -what thought they of him now? He was more than a mystery. He was a riddle to them all. When he first entered the hall with the attendants, all eyes were riveted on his person. Public curiosity had never before in Venice been wrought up to such a pitch. He did not look downcast and demure himself, but freely returned the glances that were bestowed upon him. He looked about him with an air of haughty pride. "Uncover, sir! Uncover, in the presence of the doge!" ordered two or three of the subordinates. "I bare my head to him!" exclaimed the prisoner, with a deep meaning; "never! Why should I do obeisance to him? Because he wears the ducal bonnet? As well may he bare his head to me, because I wear the crimson plume -that badge of the leadership I hold!" "Thou art haughty for a robber," said the doge. "Dost thou know full well the doge's power?" "Yes, I know the doge's power full well. I know the power of his inquisitors, his council, his spies. But I fear none of them. Across the waters of yon blue Adrian sea, sir doge, whence come the odor-laden breeze to the nostrils of your people, I possess a power as mighty as thine. There am I leader of a brave and loyal band. None fear me, -all love me; and I am rich in their love. Why, then, should I wish to kneel to your power here? I know no master, I acknowledge no human superior. I devote myself only to defending the weak, and relieving the oppressed. I stand foremost in the van, beat back with all my merciless strength, the powers of oppression and tyranny. Why, then, should I do honor to thee? Why shouldst thou not rather do honor to me?" "Art thou ready for thy trial now?" demanded the doge, not a little affected with his impassioned words. "My trial? Yes. Hasten it along! For what am I to be tried, sir doge?" "For subverting every law of Venice and of humanity." "I stand my trial on that latter charge, and then, to the first, of course, I have to plead guilty. Go on." "Are you Rodolpho, in truth?" "Am I Rodolpho? Go, ask the blue waves of yon sea, that have so often floated me into your midst, to terrify you after your dreams at night. Ask the twinkling stars, that have so often lighted my lonely path at midnight, like silver lamps of heaven. Ask the cave where my three-score valiant men this day await their master and sovereign leader!" "Bring in the boy!" commanded the doge. Instantly the door of an ante-chamber opened, and the young page, Fedore, was ushered into the room. He was dressed gaily, and his beautiful hair fell in profusion over his square and well set shoulders. His countenance bore an expression of such gentleness, mingled with strong determination, that a deep sympathy was at once raised in the hearts of all in his favor. The rmoment he entered the room, he bowed low to the doge. As yet he saw not Rodolpho, and was even ignorant of his capture. He thought this trial was his own. "Look on yonder prisoner," commanded the doge, pointing with his finger towards Rodolpho. Fedore turned his face, and his eyes fell upon those of his old master. "Know you him?" asked the doge. "Is he, in truth, Rodolpho?" The boy hesitated. He continued looking Rodolpho in the face, as if he might take the coloring of his answer from his expression. "Tell me if he be Rodolpho, or no!" again said the doge, imperiously. "He will not tell, sir doge," cried out Rodolpho, seeing the boy falter. "He wishes not to tell. I will tell thee all. I am Rodolpho! If not, then let him speak." Fedore bowed a silent assent. "But now shouldst thou release him, since I am your safe prisoner. What need hast thou of him more?" "Yes," said the doge, hoping to propitiate popular favor; "yes, you are at liberty from this moment, Fedore. Go; but return to better employment -not to vice; for wrong doing will surely lead thee to death by the headsman. Go." The astonished Fedore for a moment stood perfectly still, so bewildered was he; then he silently withdrew from the chamber, bearing with him the memory of the last look his master gave him. "Now for my trial, sir doge," said Rodolpho, while all others preserved a dread silence. "Art thou guilty, or not, Rodolpho," asked the doge, "of the murder of Count Gonzalvo? Answer that." "I have answered it already." "Where?" "Was not my own dagger found buried in his faithless, coward heart? Was not that answer enough?" The spectators shuddered with horror. "Again," continued the doge; "art thou not guilty of poisoning Francezco, the son of a noble, the scion of lordly stock?" Rodolpho was silent. "Afraid to answer me?" asked the doge. "No. Rodolpho fears nothing. I did poison the wine of Francezco -the man who had publicly sworn to have my life. He drank it, and he died. What else could I have done, as I was situated?" "Hold! Didst thou not murder, most foully, because secretly, our late doge?" "Who says it?" demanded Rodolpho. "Didst thou not write it in a little packet, and leave it purposely on a table in one of the rooms of this very palace?" "How knew any one that packet was mine?" "Was not one similar to it given by your own hand to Marina, the deceased doge's daughter?" "The one which I saved from the jaws of the hungry sea?" "Yes." "When her own bridegroom refused to do it, from very cowardice?" The doge made no answer. "Yes, sir doge," continued Rodolpho, "that packet was from mine own hand. The confessiotn was written within it with this right hand, that but yesterday vindicated the honor of thine own peerless daughter. You are right." A dark cloud passed over the doge's brow, and it grew perceptibly darker, when the spectators turned, each to the other, and began their buzz of approbation. Rodolpho was fast finding friends amongst them. He had already favorably disappointed them in his looks, for their impressions had led them to think him, in person, as he was in name, a monster. "Then, for this crime of murdering the doge, thou hast richly merited death." "But look at this sacred cross, sir doge," said Rodolpho, holding up his prize, won the day before in the lists. "What sayest thou to that?" "I say nothing. It cannot have power to absolve thee from this crime." "From all crimes, sir doge!" "Be not too confident." "At any rate, so said you; from all crimes and faults already committed, and all that may be committed hereafter." The doge for a moment was thoughtful. At length he said: "I see not how this pledge absolves you from so high a crime as that." "And wouldst not see if plainly writ before thee," rejoined Rodolpho. "No; but thou must away to the secret council, and then thou wilt take courage to rob me of my only treasure left -my life. What then becomes of your boasted badges of honor -your crosses, and stars, and coronets, and wreaths? Where go they all?" There was an involuntary murmur at this moment among the audience. They had become deeply excited with what they saw and heard. "I must at once dismiss the assembly," said the doge, rising. "I must convoke the Council of Ten." "Then farewell, life!" exclaimed Rodolpho. "I am now in thy power, within thine iron grasp. I yield to a tyranny wherein lives no spark of magnanimity." "This assembly is from this moment dissolved!" announced the duke, in a loud tone. "And from this moment, too, this cross of honor is disgraced!" said Rodolpho, seizing the coveted badge, and trampling it passionately under his feet. "Thus do I spurn thee, doge, and thy craven minions! Honor no longer reigns in proud Venice. These high and noble walls are stained -stained forever in the sight of high Heaven!" "Drag him away!" ordered the doge to the attendants. They proceeded to bind him forthwith with heavy chains, and all the spectators stood in their places to see it done. There was a spell about the person of the prisoner that bound them to him. Already his wretched condition had their sympathies. The doge arose and left the hall, followed by his retinue. One by one the vast audience dropped away, until the large hall was left entirely empty. The doge repaired instantly to the secret council chamber, there to determine how the proper punishment could be consistently melted out to the lawless Rodolpho. It was a strange event in the stranger history of Venice. page: 64-65[View Page 64-65] CHAPTER XIV. THE DAY OF THE PRISONER'S EXECUTION. ON the third day after the event recorded in our last chapter, it was announced that the outlaw and freebooter, Rodolpho, the mystery of Venice, was to be executed by the headsman, on the Giant's Stairs. This was the place where all noted criminals against the State were wont to be beheaded. Here had dropped a doge's head, and rolled, trunkless, down the marble stairs. Here had fallen many a grizzly head of conspirator, and robber, before. Here was to fall, declared the doge, the head of the brave Rodolpho. The large square was filled with human beings at an early hour, all eager to behold the spectacle. The liquid arteries of the city were blackened with boats, and these boats were filled with people. Stair, housetop balcony, chamber, turret, spire -all held their quota of excited spectators. The young man, the prisoner, was led forth by the guard, from the dungeon into which he had been thrown. His dress was as gay and striking as it had been while roving in the trackless sea, or prowling in the dense forest. His egs were encased in a pair of kid breeches, each outer seam of which was fancifully embroidered by a fair and skilful hand. The tunic of crimson silk, that he had worn in the tourney, still enveloped his chest, and it was fastened about his waist with a scarf of blue. On his head he wore his bejewelled cap, from whose crest flowed his long plume far over his shoulders. His lustrous hair hung down luxuriously about his neck, and a deep flush played upon his cheeks and about his curled lips. His eye was as bright and piercing as ever, and when he glanced over the assembled spectators, it gave them such a look, half of chiding, and half of love, that a deep sigh could be heard, drawn from every breast. "Prisoner," said the doge, "the people have come to see the great enemy of Venice punished as he deserves. If aught thou bast to say, before going into the eternal Presence, say it at once. Thy last hour has come!" "People of Venice!" said Rodolpho, his eye kindling anew, "you behold me doomed to the headsman! You have all seen how, but a few days agone, I earned, in the lists, a free and unconditional pardon for all the wrongs that I have done. But of what service was it to me?" "That is enough!" interrupted the doge. "That question we have determined. Wouldst thou speak on anything else?" "But one word more, then, and I bow my head. Venice! though I die as an outlaw, yet do I love thee still. Thy name shall be last upon my lips. For thee alone has my ambition been strong! for thee my whole hope bean fed! And now I leave thee. I die yet loving thee, though called an outlaw." "Roll on, thou clear, blue Adrian water, roll! Throw back to the sky, ye liquid streets and canals, the glory of this noble city! But, crumble, ye palaces; and fill up, thou harbor, before the long years of desolation yet in store in the future! Venice, farewell!" He bared his fair neck with his own hand, and laid him gently down across the begrimmed block, beneath the executioner's axe. "Now strike, headsman! Strike but a single blow!" said he, in a loud voice, to the executioner, making the sign with his uplifted hand. The grim headsman raised his glittering blade high in the air, to gather the force requisite for the fatal blow. Just as he held it, swinging aloft, there was heard an unsual buzz and bustle in a farther part of the crowd, and the cry was in an instant raised: "Stop! Stop the execution!" "Hold!" cried the doge to the headsman. All now turned their eyes in the direction whence came the cause of the confusion. The crowd in that part of the square instantly gave way, and a woman's form came rushing through, screaming and shouting at the top of her voice. "Stay! Stay the execution!" were the words that came from her lips. "Stay! Stay the execution!" the excited thousands repeated after her. The headsman refrained from letting fall his deadly blade, obedient to the command of the doge, and stood intently gazing at the person of the woman as she hastened towards him. The cause of this sudden disturbance, and, as it proved, fortunate delay, was none other than old Nancie, the astrologer. She came rushing up to the side of the doge, a loose robe flowing much at random about her limbs, a large hood upon her head, that more than half concealed her face, and with her features expressive of the wildest anxiety. As soon as she arrived near the doge, her long and shining hands being still stretched out supplicatingly to him, he turned haughtily upon her, and demanded to know what she would have. "Doge -doge!" screamed she at the top of her voice, "would you murder your own child?" "What mean you?" exclaimed the doge. "That prisoner, whose head is on the block, is your own son!" "Take away this woman," he added; "she must be insane." "No, no!" still louder shrieked the woman in his ears; "I am not insane. I am as reasonable as you are at this moment. Know you not old Nancie, the nurse of your own child?" He gazed fixedly for a few moments in her eyes, and at last said: "You do resemble her somewhat." "I am she -I am she!" she cried, in reply. "And how comes it that this is my son, then?" he asked, in great excitement. "Should not I know?" said she. "Was not I his nurse? I do but tell you truth, doge. I am Nancie, and that is your own child. Would you see him beheaded?" Instantly the doge ordered the prisoner to be raised from the block, and, together with the old astrologer, to be borne into the audlence chamber. The crowd was commanded to disperse, and the execution was deferred till another time. In the audience chamber sat the doge and his council, and the woman and the prisoner were brought in. "Woman," said the doge, "tell me truly now respecting this young man before us, or forfeit your own life by your falsehood." "By the holy angels! sir doge, but what I now speak, I would not hesitate to utter with my dying breath. Well rememberest thou that I was the nurse of thy child, long, long years ago, dost thou not?" "Yes, perfectly," answered the doge. "When I was called to be the nurse of thy child, its mother was already dead." "Yes; go on." "At that time I had another child in charge, a girl. It at once occurred to me, after seeing that babe -who now, as a full grown man stands before you,- that this world is full of chances. I determined to see how far I could thwart fortune, and oppose her favorites. I conceived the plan of exchanging these children, unbeknown to thee, and giving my little weakling the chance of the young noble; for, said I to myself, why has not this defenceless little girl the same right to the privileges of high birth as the boy?" "And you exchanged them?" "I did. I made thee think, doge, that the girl, Adrienne, was thine own, and the boy -thy real child,- I thought to throw upon the waves of the world, and let them toss him about and buffet him." The doge looked incessantly at the young man. page: 66-67[View Page 66-67] "I will finish in a brief sentence," continued the astrologer. "Thy true child, Rodolpho, I gave to a poor boatman, a gondolier, who labored early and late for the comforts of life. He and his wife were childless, and, as this boy of yours was handsome, and showed the marks of good family. they resolved at once to adopt him. They did so. He grew to be brave, and strong, and beautiful. He already adored his father, who taught him everything that his limited means allowed him. He took him on his boating excursions with him, showed him all the sights and wonders of this proud city, and told him how the mighty State was governed. The boy was fired with ambition, because he became more intelligent, and already the true spirit was in him; it was born in him. He already felt within his breast the sprouting of a germ, -the desire to do something to distinguish his name in the State. "Suddenly came the spies upon his father, and, for a cause all unknown to him, tore him away from his family, and threw a dark shadow over his threshold. He was borne away to a dungeon. No one saw him after that, alive. No one gave any reason for his imprisonment. His family made inquiries for him, but all in vain. At last, one day, when Rodolpho was sailing over the Laguna in his lost father's gondola, he chanced to spy a floating body not far from him. He approached it, and turned it over. What must have been his astonishment to recognize his dead father! "A sudden frenzy seized upon him. He all at once boiled over in his hatred to Venice. He swore vengeance. He vowed to revenge himself upon this proud city. He instantly disappeared, no one knew whither. His revenge is already well enough known. No one can say but that he has had it, and that it has been sweet to him." "But the girl -Adrienne! What of her? Whose child was she?" interrupted the doge. "She was the daughter of a Sicilian lady, who had come to spend some time in Venice. I accidentally became her nurse in sickness, and so great was her fondness for me, that when she died, she entrusted to my keeping a little packet, which she said would be of great value hereafter to her child. Adrienne was but a few hours old when she died, and then she became yours." "But the packet; where is that?" asked the doge, excited more than before. "Here it is," said the woman, drawing it forth from her bosom, and holding it up to his gaze, though still retaining her hold upon it herself. "But first own thy son, proud doge, else do I destroy what I have in my hands!" The doge turned to his son. Rodolpho was just then gazing upon his father, with a moistening eye and a sorrowful expression. "My son -my own son!" exclaimed the doge. "My father -yes, I know it is my father!" cried Rodolpho, while the tears poured from their eyes freely. "And I so deceived? Have I been so cruelly wronged?" said the doge, greatly affected. "My father -my father!" was all the son could utter in reply. The entire Council was moved to tears. Such a scene was calculated to soften their flinty hearts. It was a novel sight to those designing, ambitious, intriguing nobles, to behold such an overflow of true affection in their midst. It fairly overcame them. After the excitement had in some degree subsided, the doge turned to Nancie and said: "Yes, woman, you have told me truly. This is my son. I see his mother's features there." "I would not have deceived thee for worlds, at such a time as this," she replied; "but thank Heaven, not me, that your own proud child was not beheaded before your eyes." The tears trickled down his burning cheeks, and reaching forth his hand to Nancie, he said: "Now for the packet; let me know the contents of that." Nancie passed it to him, and, taking it in his hand, he broke the seal. On opening it, it was found to contain a miniature. It was, said Nancie, a perfect likeness of the good lady herself. Then the doge opened a paper that was carefully enfolded within the packet, and began to read. The contents of the paper were as follows, in substance: The lady, whose name was Madame Cecile D'Harveur, desired that her child should, first of all, be named for herself. Then, she bestowed upon that child all her possessions, consisting of a beautiful villa and extensive lands in the north of Sicily, as well as her title, which was that of countess. Concerning her marriage, she expressed it as her highest wish that she might be united to a noble family of Venice, but that she should still reside upon the possessions granted her in Sicily. So that Adrienne, instead of being the daughter of the doge, was, in fact, a countess -the Countess D'Harveur. All opened their eyes wide with astonishment, but the doge more than the rest. He was astounded to learn the revelation that had that day been made. "Send for Adrienne at once," said he; let her be present, and the whole matter shall be explained in her own hearing. Let her see her own mother's miniature, and take upon herself the name, Cecile, that really belongs to her." An attendant was despatched to the chamber of Adrienne, now Cecile, but instantly returned without her, She was nowhere to be found! page: 68-69[View Page 68-69] CHAPTER XV. RODERIGO RETURNED TO HIS COMPANIONS. LET us now betake ourselves, attentive reader, across the swelling and rolling waves of the blue Adriatic, and visit the cavern where dwelt the bandits, who were all trustiness and truth to Rodolpho, their youthful leader. Roderigo, who had accompanied Rodolpho to Venice on the morning of the tourney, returned not long after, and announced to them all assembled, that Rodolpho had openly declared himself in the amphitheatre, in the presence of doge, nobles and people, to be the outlaw and freebooter whom they all sought to capture. He minutely described to them the deep excitement that arose upon this bold announcement, and detailed in their order the subsequent events of the trial, the dismissal of Fedore, and Rodolpho's condemnation; and they all supposed that ere now his head had rolled down the Giant's Stairs. In this excited conversation respecting such a step on the part of their young leader, they were indulging on the evening of Roderigo's arrival, when they were startled by a shrill whistle at the door of the inner cavern. It sounded like the whistle of their brave leader, Rodolpho. Every man started in a twinkling to his feet. At once the door of the cavern was opened by one of them, and Fedore entered, conducting a companion. The brigands all received the young page with joy, before they thought to criticize the person whom he brought with him. Then, after their astonishment had subsided, they gazed upon the form of the stranger. He was dressed and equipped exactly as a brigand should be, and his stature, though not tall, was certainly commanding. The velvet cap, crested with a waving white plume, was upon his head; a scarlet tunic, fancifully embroidered, was about his chest and body, and his limbs were encased in soft and well-dressed leggins of the whitest kid. About his waist he wore a shining belt of leather, embossed with bright silver, and fastened at his left side with a clasp of pure gold. In the belt were stuck a dagger, with a handle of purest pearl, and a pistol. From his left side depended a sheathed short sword. The brigands all looked at Fedore, expecting him to make some explanation of this novel appearance. They looked not long in vain, for in a moment he said: "Comrades, ere this hour, Rodolpho has been smitten by the headsman! Here comes a new leader to you, -one who has sworn to bear his name, and avenge his death! Is it your pleasure to hear him?" All cried out at once: "Let the stranger guest speak. The followers of Rodolpho are still loyal to his name. Speaks, stranger." Then the youthful stranger spoke: "Brave followers of the dead Rodolpho, I come to you from Venice. I have heard much of your gallant leader, and my heart smote me sorely when I learned that he had been doomed to death. I knew that he was no enemy of Venice, but only an enemy of her enemies! I knew that he had often befriended the helpless, and defended the oppressed. Of many of his gallant and generous acts I myself have heard. I need no other means by which to judge his character. I have left Venice to offer myself as leader to the brave men of Rodolpho. I have assumed his name already. I have sworn, sacredly sworn, to be revenged on Venice for his wrongs. Full well I know that I have no experience in leadership, and that no deeds of mine are yet known; but, still, revenge burns balefully within my troubled breast, and I have years of experience in the spirit that guides me. I feel myself a leader already." Cheer after cheer rent the silence of the cavern after this speech, and, at length, the oldest and most forward of their number stepped forth from the rest, and said: "Comrades, ye have heard the words that have fallen from the lips of the brave and generous stranger. Are you yet true to your leader, Rodolpho?" "We are -we are!" all shouted, in reply. "Will ye have this stranger for your leader, then?" "We will!" responded they, with equal enthusiasm. "And shall he still bear the honored name of Rodolpho?" he demanded. "Rodolpho forever!" answered every mouth in the cave. "Then so it is," said the speaker. "You have made your own free choice." Then turning to the new Rodolpho, he said: "Welcome to our cave, Rodolpho. Welcome to the leadership of our band. Welcome, thrice welcome, to the favorite scenes of thy brave predecessor." "I accept," said the stranger, "the favor ye have thus freely shown me, with profound gratitude. As I have ever known Rodolpho but to admire him, so shall it be my highest ambition to make myself worthy of his name." Then they all passed around the cavern, and shook the hand of their new leader heartily. He returned it with joy, though a tear stood glistening in his deep blue eye, as he did so. This fraternal ceremony over, they all filled up their goblets with wine, and pledged their new leader to the bottom. Then followed the conversation, the jest, and the laughter; and after that came the song -the same song they had sung on the occasion of the induction of their previous leader into office. These were the words: "Fill high! fill high! our comrades brave! Fill to your goblet's brim! We drink, we drink the joyful draught In honor now of him! The gleaming eye and sinewy arm, To person light and strong, To noble heart and open hand, We raise our merry song! Drink deep! drink deep! to dark dregs drain! In token of the vow, We take upon our hearts henceforth, For aye and ever now! Not sheeny shield, nor shining spear, Not turrets high, nor towers, Shall pale the cheeks, or loose the lips Of such stout hearts as ours. Toss off! toss off the beaded wine Within the goblet deep! And let it give our hearts new strength, And rouse us from our sleep! Our leader hath a heart of steel, To brave the outlaw's doom, And we will ever follow him, Through shifting gleam and gloom! Fill high! fill high! our comrades brave! Fill to your goblet's brim! We drink, we drink the joyful draught In honor now of him!" The echoes of the song were repeated many a time in the arches, and angles, and dark recesses of that brilliant cave; and it was a long time ere order and comparative silence were again restored. Let us now return to Venice, kind reader. When it was ascertained by the doge that Adrienne was nowhere to be found within the palace, there ensued great confusion throughout the Council. Messengers were at once despatched in every direction to learn something of the missing maiden; but all in a short time returned, bringing only the intelligence that there was no trace of her anywhere. At length, however, a youthful page belonging to the palace, came running in, in great page: 70-71[View Page 70-71] haste, saying that a little packet had been found upon her table, directed to the doge, in her own hand. He produced it as he spoke. The doge grasped it with trembling hands, fearing that the contents might prove the very worst that could be imagined. Hastily breaking the seal, he read: "MY BELOVED FATHER: You know not the wretchedness of my heart at this moment. That I have long loved the outlaw, Rodolpho, I need not attempt to conceal from you, That I have been loved by him in return, I am fully assured. It is this that gives the sting to my present grief -this that now determines me. Rodolpho is doomed to die at the hands of the bloody headsman. I can never be happy again. I could never light up your halls with joy and mirth. I shall ever be sad, wherever I may be. I shall never again enter a convent; my experience there yon are familiar with. The world around me can never make me happy -make me myself again. What, then, shall I do? "I have determined what to do. Fly. You ask me whither? I know not -I care not, so I but clear myself of the awful memories that hang about the ducal palace, and the office of the doge; so I do but outstrip the speed of the very winds, that would bear to my ears the whispers of the death of my loved one -of him who was condemned to death by thee! Let me go to the most distant ends of the earth -anywhere- so I be but quit of the agonizing reflections that prey upon my heart here! "I will drown my misery in excitement. I will join in the hunt, the chase, the rover's life, and be in at a true and wretched rover's death. I will never more suffer my thoughts to conquer me. I will bid them down, and they shall be obedient. I will drown all cares, all heart-wearying reflections, in the wildest actions. They shall no longer prey upon me. "Look not for me more. Make no search; it will all be idle. When this seal shall be broken, I shall already be far beyond Venice and the power of the doge. Farewell. I live only in the memory of Rodolpho. Farewell!" As the doge finished reading this strange and frenziedly written document, he looked fiercely at his council, and exclaimed: "She has fled!" "Fled!" repeated three or four of them at once. "Yes; I will read." And then he began and read through the entire letter aloud. Rodolpho appeared more excited than all the rest. He spoke out at once, without hesitation: "Father, I must find Adrienne again!" The words, few though they were, were spoken with such a wildness of expression, and such a depth and huskiness of voice, that they were known to convey their full and important meaning. "But why find her now?" inquired the doge; "she is not my daughter." "No, father," answered he, "but nobly worthy of it, nevertheless. Never sprang nobler fruit from any stock; never flowed nobler blood in any veins!" "But the Council have not pardoned thee yet," again suggested the doge. "Nor do I think they will, father," he answered; "mayhap it may give them pleasure to behead the son of the doge, and the only heir to his honors!" "Take him from the room," commanded the doge to a couple of attendants. "Confine this woman, likewise, in another room. Have both ready at a moment's call." The attendants immediately removed them from the chamber. For long hours were the doge and council in secret session. This was a case to which no similar one had ever presented itself in the annals of the State. Rodolpho paced mournfully and slowly up and down his apartment, while their consultation was going on, his heart conflicting in turn with doubt, fear and hope. He was in a paroxysm of perplexity. His soul was tormented, first with fear, and then with doubt; and then hope glimmered faintly over its disturbed surface, but revealed no sight but that of wrecks already nearly complete. He was at length interrupted in the midst of his gloomy reverie, by the attendant announcing that his presence was required in the council chamber again. "Then they have determined my fate?" said he, inquiringly. The attendant made no reply, but at once conducted him into the chamber. As soon as he was in the presence of the Council again, the doge spoke: "Rodolpho, the Council have determined that your life can be spared on but one condition." "And what is that, father?" he asked. "In their name, and as doge of Venice, I declare it. It is, that you deliver up your entire band at once to the State." "That I should tell where is their hiding-place?" "Yes." "Upon my life! I hesitate." "Why do you hesitate, son?" "Because it were a pity that such brave men should be all condemned to death, that only my life may be saved." "Then you value theirs more highly than your own?" "Why should I not? They have ever been all loyalty -all devotion to me. Why should I not?" "Rodolpho," calmly said the doge, "let me counsel you in this matter" "It is true that I may need my father's counsel; but, yet, I know what you would say." "What?" "You would advise me to think on my father's name; to think on the name and fair fame of Venice." "I would, Rodolpho." "Ha, then I have guessed rightly. But what is my life worth against that of so many brave men? Nothing, absolutely nothing." "But they plot against the doge -against your own father!" "Let me but appear amongst them, and I warrant they will no longer?" "Yet should their lives be forfeit; they have earned death a thousand times." "And so have I, according to your code." "But you are now the doge's son, while they are robbers." Rodolpho hung down his head a moment, during which he appeared lost in deep thought. Then quickly looking up again to the doge, he asked: "Can I have a moment's interview with old Nancie -she who preserved my neck from the axe?" "Bring in the woman," ordered the doge. "No," quickly cried out Rodolpho: "no, I would see her a moment alone." With some hesitancy, a privilege so uncommon was granted him, and he retired in charge of an attendant. In a short time afterwards he returned again, and signified to the doge that he was willing to accept the proposition made him. "Say on, then," replied the doge. "Where is the mysterious band of outlaws you have so long commanded?" "They will be found on the Italian shore, beyond the blue waters that encircle our harbor. They live in a cavern, at the base of the proud cliff that overlooks the sea for long miles. The name of the cliff is St. Asaph, and it has long been consecrated to him. It is a name they have themselves given it." "How can the cavern be found?" asked the doge. "I will go myself and lead the way," he answered. "No; that is not our pleasure. Venice will send there an armed force, that will take every one of them captive." "The door is formed by a wooden trap, inserted ingeniously within the rock. It is well calculated to deceive one by its resemblance to the stone. But it may be known by this: before the door stands a tall tree, trimmed to its very crest of its tall branches. All the other trees are as they first came from nature's bosom." "Which is the better time to take them?" "By day. If your army goes by night, they will entrap them into the cavern, and there destroy them. But if by day, they may be found outside, where they will probably make valiant fight, as would their leader, if he were but there." "Remove the prisoner!" commanded the doge. "Then am I deceivsd -ensnared? Am I still a prisoner?" "Until the result of this expedition is known. Then, art thou free as ever. Farewell, till another time." Attendants removed Rodolpho from the room, and the doge and Council were left in session. page: 72-73[View Page 72-73] CHAPTER XVI. THE PLAIN BEFORE THE CAVE. THE beautiful plain before and about the cave of the lawless brigands was a scene of charming beauty. The weather was unexceptionable. It was a balmy air, that regaled the senses and exhilirated the spirits. Not even the lightest fleece from a cloud floated over the crystal bosom of the empyrean. There was a holy hush in the air, that commanded silence more loudly than could words. Upon the smooth and velvety carpet of the plain, was a wild sight of horses and men, some carelessly accoutred, and others equipped in all the regalia of their rank and position. Gaily-colored garments flaunted and flared in the clear sunshine. Plumes nodded slowly with the motions of those who wore them. Embroideries exhibited themselves to the highest advantage. Scarfs and sashes fluttered with the lightest breezes from the water. Jewelry glittered and shone as jewelry could shine and glitter nowhere else in the world. Some were engaged in fastening upon themselves the various articles of their equipment. Others were rolling and tossing carelessly upon the sward, chatting idly, and joining in merry laughter. There were groups eagerly discussing the object Rodolpho had in thus boldly rushing upon death. There were other groups, plotting some new encounter with some party, and wishing that they might soon be blessed with a rich haul of booty. It was, taken altogether -the charming landscape, the balmy air, the fresh, soft sward, the glistening armor, the dancing plumes, the noble, neighing steeds, and the determined and ferocious-looking men, -a scene of the wildest and most fascinating beauty. Rodolpho, the new young leader, was sitting lazily upon the ground, in conversation with Roderigo and Vivolus. His countenance was not expressively gloomy, or sad, yet it was constantly swept by a passing cloud of sorrow, -some shadow. "And how thinkest thou, Roderigo," he asked, "that Venice may best be punished for their cruel murder of your old leader, whose name I unworthily bear?" "There is a time yet coming," answered Roderigo, portentously. "Yes; and it will come soon, too;" added Vivolus. "To what dost thou refer?" asked Rodolpho. "I am ignorant." "I refer to the time when the doge shall again wed the sea; it is an annual festival. Then will be our time." "Right," answered Rodolpho; "we might lay a train for them, then, should nothing happen beforehand." "And we should be very likely to make our vengeance felt, too, at such a time as that," said Vivolus. "I would not so much seek to harm the doge," said Rodolpho, "as to-" "The doge does but speak for Venice," answered Vivolus. "Touch him, and Venice feels the shock." "That's it! that's it!" said Roderigo, excitedly. Just at that moment, Fedore, the young page, came running over the brow of the acclivity beyond, and sped straight towards Rodolpho. "Master Rodolpho!" exclaimed he, "I would see thee a moment! Quick!" Rodolpho hastily rose from his seat on the ground, and went with Fedore into the cavern. There they remained for some time. Presently they both came out, and Rodolpho shouted to his comrades: "Hasten, comrades! The armies of Venice will soon be upon us! I have just heard of their approach. Rodolpho, your former leader, is not yet dead. His life has been temporarily spared, by consenting to disclose the place where his followers are. He has rightfully done so, but first sent us word that we must be on our guard. He has secretly warned us against the fate that might have overtaken us. He sends great joy to us all." There was a great confusion among all the brigands after this announcement, such as that place had never known before. "Arm yourselves at once for the worst!" loudly ordered Rodolpho; "we have no time to lose." The excitement greatly increased, as the men went about their necessary preparations for a successful defence. All was hurry, excitement, and confusion. Men ran one way and another, coming suddenly in contact with each other, and putting themselves to much unnecessary labor. Eyes grew suddenly dark and flashing, beneath brows of threatening expression. Lips curled haughtily, and with fierceness; yet none quivered, and no muscles were relaxed. What was before a scene of such placid beauty, became all at once a scene of seemingly inextricable confusion. Suddenly a shout rose upon the air from a few straggling men, who were spying about for the new comers: "They are upon us! They are upon us!" All turned their eyes in the direction whence the shout proceeded. Surely enough, the soldiers of Venice were closely upon them. "To horse! To horse!" shouted Rodolpho, their leader. But the command was a useless one. Before it was given, every man had mounted his steed, and all had joined in one solid array, to meet the shock of the coming enemy. Then rattled dagger and clanked spurs. Then swords leaped flashingly from their scabbards, and pistol locks clicked sharply for the fray. The brigands sat proudly -bravely on their steeds,- the latter as eager as they for the coming encounter. On, on came the troops of Venice and, obedient to the fierce shout of their commander, charged like a storm in upon the brigands' ranks. Right and left they cut with sword and scimetar. Shields and helmets rattled bravely, stirring still more deeply the spirits of the frenzied combatants. "Death to the outlaws!" cried the leader of the soldiery. "Death to our cruel enemies!" shouted young Rodolpho to his men. For fully an hour was the contest fiercely and uninterruptedly maintained. Numbers of the Venetian soldiery had fallen, dying, and dead, yet not one of the bandits had bitten the dust. The sight of their unbroken numbers inspirited them. They felt the glow of a fresh vigor upon their hearts, and their right arms grew far more strong, and they dealt out the death-blows more fearfully than ever. But at length Fedore falls, wounded and bleeding. He drags himself slowly away from the scene of the deadly fray, and lays his weary self down in a sheltered place to die. Then their leader, Rodolpho, is captured by an unexpected and bold sally on the part of the soldiery, and torn triumphantly away from their midst. Bereft thus ignominiously of him, -their pride, their only object for maintaining a defence,- they made one almost superhuman effort to retake him; it proved futile. They were driven back by the Venetian soldiery. Finding them selves thus circumstanced, they thought it useless to fight longer, more particularly, when they would only be throwing their lives away for nought, -and determined at once to retreat. This they set about at once. Not a man of them all, miraculous as it might seem, was killed outright. Several had been wounded, more or less, and Fedore was missing, and Rodolpho was captured; they were otherwise still an en- page: 74-75[View Page 74-75] -tire band, and before death had singled any of them out, they determined to go. Their flight was sudden and instantaneous. The soldiery at once entered the cavern, which they readily found by following the directions of Rodolpho, and commenced appropriating every article of value they could lay their hands upon. Silver and jewels of inestimable value, formed their booty, -their prize money for the undertaking. It had before been promised them by the doge. As soon as they had stripped the cavern of everything that was valuable, neglecting to find the fallen body of Fedore, they hurried to the seashore where they had disembarked previous to the action. Taking their prisoner with them, they reached Venice at about eight o'clock in the evening. The leader was at once thrown into one of the darkest, dampest, and most secure dungeons. Not a ray of the moon's golden light was allowed to enter it by night, nor a ray of the sun's by day. The cell was dark and cheerless. The walls had not even a crevice between their stones, into which a prisoner might place his emaciated fingers, to draw himself up to the grated window. A sort of slime sweated from the stone roof, that chilled the whole air, and rendered the same most unwholesome for breathing. Altogether, it was indeed a horrid place. The doge sat in one of the private chambers of his palace, at an early hour the next morning. He was alone. The Council had not yet been called. The prisoner he had not yet seen. Re determined to see him, first of all, by himself, when none others were near. In a short time the leader of the robbers was sent for, and an attendant ushered him into the door of the chamber. His dress was the same that had been worn on the day before, when his comrades were set upon by the soldiers. He wore his plumed cap on his head still; the sword still hung by his side. As he entered the room, the doge regarded him with a look of the deepest interest and intensity. He gazed long and steadily into his eyes before speaking a word. At length he said: "You are in the presence of the doge." "What if I should tell thee I already knew it?" replied Rodolpho. The doge listened, and looked again; this time quite as attentively as before. "You will uncover your head, then," spoke the doge, imperiously. Rodolpho complied. "Adrienne!" shrieked the doge. "Adrienne!" and he spread out his arms and folded her to him. "Why this deception? It is you! it is- it is! Why have you done this, Adrienne? You have jeoparded your very life! Adrienne! Adrienne?" "But, father"- "Nay, Adrienne, call me not father! Call me not so!" "And why not so?" "Because I am not your father! I have been most wickedly deceived, Adrienne!" "Do you disown me, now that my fortune has turned?" "No -no! But I have been deceived, Adrienne! We have both been deceived?" "How? By whom?" "You are not my child! Rodolpho is my child! And I was standing by to see him beheaded! Think of the mistake, the awful mistake that would have happened!" "Rodolpho your child!" exclaimed Adrienne, whom the reader, by this time, will recognize the second Rodolpho to be. "Rodolpho your child!" "Yes, Adrienne; Nancie, the old nurse, has explained all. I am satisfied. I have been duped, but I am unhappy, even now, that my true child has been restored to me." Then the doge sat down, and taking Adrienne, equipped as she was in her brigand's dress, in his arms, went through the entire story to her. He told her of the manner in which the deceit was first practised, and how it had been kept up by the secret knowledge of old Nancie, and of her alone. He went through the particulars of the final discovery of his mistake, and told her with tears how it had wrought upon his feelings. Before showing her the package, however, which Nancie had so sedulously preserved for her future use, he questioned her a little respecting the object she had in thus taking arms against Venice. "That I might, in some degree, avenge the murder Of him I loved!" she replied; "yes, of your own son!" "But he was not beheaded," he suggested. "No; but how should I know that? I was an exile: I had voluntarily and forever estranged myself from hated Venice, determined never to see it again." "How sudden a change!" said the doge, in a whisper. "Yes," answered she, "sudden indeed, but not, therefore, unfortunate. I am restored to Rodolpho again!" "No, no, Adrienne," he protested, though it evidently cost his heart a pang. "And why not -why not restored?" "Because you are a prisoner -a traitor to Venice,- a brigand, and an outlaw! Is not that reason enough?" "But I shall be happy in thinking, at least, that I can be permitted to lay my head on the block where he laid his!" "Stay," said the doge; "I will send for Rodolpho." "Is he near?" asked Adrienne. "In the palace." "O, send for him at once! Send for him!" The doge touched the handle of a silver bell, and instantly the private guard of Rodolpho made his appearance. "Bring in Rodolpho, alone," he commanded, Rodolpho in a moment stood before them, He had heard nothing of the encounter of the soldiery with his former followers, and he did not expect to meet any of their number in the chamber; but as soon as he glanced at the attire of Adrienne, he recognized the uniform of his band. He instinctively approached her, thinking her, of course, a man; and she turned her beautiful blue eyes fully upon him. "Adrienne? Adrienne? It is -it is!" exclaimed he, clasping her in his arms. "Yes, Rodolpho, it is I," she murmured, yielding herself up tearfully to his embraces. "Whence came you?" asked he. "There is no time for questions now," said the doge, interrupting him. "I will explain all that is necessary in a word or two. Adrienne was taken fighting at the head of your troops." "Adrienne!" exclaimed Rodolpho, looking at her in astonishment. "She was the only prisoner taken, and I have sent for her thus early, ignorant that she was the same one who had been, for years, brought up so tenderly by me"- "And then placed in the power of a monk?" interrupted Adrienne. The doge looked at her half sorrowfully, half reprovingly. "Now, that you are both here," said he, "I will inform Adrienne of the fortune that is in store for her." "For me!" exclaimed she. "Yes, for you!" and he produced the packet left by old Nancie. Adrienne was overwhelmed with astonishment. It was too good fortune for her. She looked thoughtfully a moment upon the floor, and then said: "But of what service is it to me? I am a prisoner. I shall go to the headsman." "Fly! fly at once!" said the doge, "I will explain all to the Council, Fly beyond their reach, before they know aught of your arrest! Fly to her new home with Adrienne, and may God above make you happy! You have both loved each other long and faithfully. It would be a pity to separate two such noble and brave hearts. Here, let me embrace you once, before you leave me. Leave Venice, and all will yet be well." He embraced them both, and they left the chamber and his presence. Dressing themselves in complete disguise, they hastened to place themselves far beyond the reach of proud and cruel Venice. page: 76-77[View Page 76-77] CHAPTER XVII. THE ESCrAPE. THEY hastened to the quay, and were not long in finding a little skiff, into which they sprang, and in a few moments they were skimming over the water, towards the Italian shore. It was a long and weary sail; but, by continued perseverance, and with the assistance that stout hearts lent, they succeeded in reaching the point where Rodolpho had often landed before. They clambered over the rocks and ledges for a time, until at length the ground began to appear familiar to each of them. In company they reached the outer door of the subterranean cavern, which Rodolpho found tightly closed. But he well knew how to open it. It fell back on its hinges, obedient to his touch. Along for some distance they groped, until they came to the door of the inner cave. They listened a moment. The sound of suppressed voices met their ear. In an instant Rodolpho applied the little silver whistle to his lips, which he still carried about him, and blew a long, shrill blast. It started all to their feet in a moment. Their noise, low as it was before, was now entirely hushed. Not even a lisp reached the ears of the new comers. Again Rodolpho sounded his shrill whistle. This time it was answered from within, by a similar sound. It seemed to pierce the very walls with its shrillness. The door swung suddenly open, and Rodolpho and his companion entered. What a sight met their astonished gaze! There sat, ranged all about the interior of the cavern, every man whom Rodolpho had felt proud to command. They gazed, overawed, at the presence of the two Rodolphos. "I am come back to you," said Rodolpho, "do ye not know me?" "Long live Rodolpho! Long live Rodolpho!" rent the brilliant cave. "This was your last commander," said Rodolpho, pointing to Adrienne. "She is my betrothed." "What! a woman -a woman?" loudly exclaimed the stupefied brigands. "Yes, comrades," said Rodolpho; "you have been commanded by a woman, since losing your old commander. And that woman was my betrothed. She came amongst you, and asked to take her lover's place. She swore to avenge the death which she supposed I had suffered. Most nobly, from what I have learned, did she conduct herself, too!" "Yes, she did, -she did!" answered all. "She was captured in a recent fray with the soldiery, and carried, a prisoner, to Venice. She was brought into the doge's presence this day, and he recognized her as she whom he had always guarded as his own daughter!" "Impossible!" whispered some, loud enough to be heard. "Nevertheless, it is true," answered Rodolpho: "The doge knew her at once, and sent for me. I knew her, too, for she had been my betrothed. Why should I not have known her? Think ye I was not proud to know that she had drawn the sword, in male disguise, in defence of the name I left behind? Ah, proud indeed was I. It was the proudest moment of my life. But I have a greater piece of intelligence to give you. I am the son of the doge, -the doge's only child! Believe that, if you all can!" Such a look of supreme astonishment as passed at that moment over every countenance, words cannot describe. They cannot convey a tithe or tittle of its deep meaning. "What I tell you is true," continued Rodolpho. "I am the son of the doge. Until now, he has thought this fair maiden, Adrienne, to be his child; but now he has been made to know his mistake. He has given us money, and bade us fly; but not to fly to take up arms against Venice. I shall never do that again, comrades. My roving days are over. I have already tasted to the fill my revenge upon Venice for her cruel treatment of him I thought, until now, my father; and now my appetite is satiate. Come, comrades, let us all drink once more to our old days, now gone forever, and then separate. But, first of all, promise me that this mode of life shall be brought to an end now. You may, all of you, yet turn and succor Venice, or you are welcome still to quiet villas, and small and beautiful tracts, where I and my beautiful betrothed are going. Will you renounce, from this day, your present mode of life?" "We will!" answered they, almost unanimously. "Will you swear?" "We swear -we swear!" replied they. "Once more, then," said Rodolpho, "drink the generous wine, and then farewell to the wild brigand's life forever." They filled their wine cups to the brim, and, joining in a merry song, tossed off the liquor. It was their last revelry in the robber's cave. Altogether, too, it was an occasion of sadness. Their wild life had charms for them that no other had. It was full of romance, adventure, escapes, dangers and hazards. It stirred the blood that would otherwise have been sluggish in their veins. It sent their pulses dancing to a merry tune. It had its most exciting hopes, even if it likewise had its deep and dark disappointments. "Now, men, to the nearest port with me," said Rodolpho- "those of you who will still follow my fortunes -and with our gold let us purchase a vessel. We will at once embark in that vessel for Sicily, where I shall evermore make my home. Come, who will go?" Perhaps a full dozen of them volunteered. "And what will the rest of you do?" asked Rodolpho; "where will you go?" "We will separate, and fall to honest labor," said they. "Do you tell me truly?" "We do." "Then I must bid you farewell. Whenever any of you, my most faithful comrades, approach my coast, never forget to call freely upon the name of Rodolpho. It shall always secure you a hearty welcome, and a happy home. Farewell!" The scene of their parting was touching beyond description. Few could believe that bold and fearless brigands possessed such spirits; but it was even so. They have hearts like others; they feel like the rest of humanity. Their calling does not make them all callous to the impulses of tender feeling. Among those who followed the fortunes of Rodolpho and Adrienne, were Roderigo and Vivolus. But Fedore -where was Fedore? the reader may well ask. He crawled off, during the encounter with the soldiery of Venice, to die by himself. He chose to breathe out his life on the still and unstained air, where no din of battle, no shouts of victory could molest him. Falling into a deep swoon, he lay in that condition until long after the ground had been cleared. The soldiers did not chance to espy his body where it lay, and therefore returned without it. He already knew that Adrienne had been taken prisoner, and his heart sunk within him. His ambition left him forever. He cared not to live. As soon as he recovered himself again, he instinctively staunched his bleeding wounds, and refreshed himself with a draught of wine that he found within the cave. He saw that the cave was deserted, and he feared the worst. He believed that his comrades had either all been captured or killed. Not a living soul was anywhere to be seen. He remained in the cave alone for a long time, carefully nursing his loneliness. He knew that page: 78-79[View Page 78-79] he must soon, at any rate, leave the place. It was deserted. What could there be there for him? He crawled off to the desert and disappeared. Nothing more was heard of him. Thus far he had been traced. Farther than this nothing could be known of him. The little party of emigrants, headed by Rodolpho, at once left the place and made for the strand. They followed the course of the shore until they came to a little village not far off, and there they purchased such a vessel as was adapted to their wants. Embarking on board this, they set sail from the land, and bade the shores they had known, and loved, and frequented so long, a final adieu. Tears stood in the eyes of most of them on looking at their loved spot for the last time, but they could not be kept back. Hearts are everywhere, at some time, human. Their voyage was long and boisterous. They encountered many severe storms on their passage down the Adriatic, that at times threatened to make shipwreck of their frail vessel. But notwithstanding that, their courage held out to the last. They had looked too many dangers in the face to be dismayed at that late hour. At length they reached the little, quiet haven where they would go. Hauling in shore, they anchored, and soon landed. The landscape was lovely in the extreme. The face of the country was rather level, but luxuriantly clad with the most beautiful verdure. Standing, like a sovereign, far back from the little bay which they had entered, was a low, stone house, seemingly much gone to decay. It was evidently not tenanted. It was to this that Adrienne looked, as to the home that her mother had left her, nearly twenty years agone. To this they all hastened their steps. They wound slowly up the serpentine walks, pausing at every few steps to admire the beauty of some fresh view upon which their eyes rested. Finally they reached the door. Rodolpho and Adrienne, accompanied only by Roderigo and Vivolus, advanced. The rest remained a little way behind, mute and motionless. They took hold of the latch of the door, and it obeyed their pressure. They pushed against it, and it swung back, still obedient, upon its hinges. Alas, what a sad scene of decay met them at every step. The ceiling was dripping with foul moisture. The walls were gaping with seams. The stairs were tumbling down, one over another. The floors were opening to let them through below. Cautiously they went into one of the rooms on either side of them. It was so darkened that nothing was perceptible. Rodolpho hastened to fling open a blind. In an instant a glare of the golden sun flashed within the untenanted room, as if it had penetrated a tomb long shut. But, lo! what was there upon the wall? Adrienne at once caught the image with her quick eye. It was a portrait upon canvas. She drew forth the miniature that had been left to her by her mother. She held it up excitedly before her. She looked, first at one, and then at the other. They were like -yes, very like. The faces were one and the same. Those were the features of her beloved mother! This was her own mansion. These were truly her own domains. There was no room for deception here. It was already established by evidence incontrovertible. They passed through this room, and groped towards another door. Laying his hand upon it, Rodolpho hastily opened it. As it swung back on its hinges, there was revealed the figure of a man, flitting like a dark shadow across the room. "Who could it be?" asked Rodolpho of himself. "Who could it be?" he exclaimed, at length, to the others. Roderigo and Vivolus volunteered to go and ascertain beyond a doubt. They pushed fearlessly in through the room, and, in a minute or two, returned, bringing with them a stranger. He was clad almost entirely in rags; his hair and beard were long, his features were sharp and fierce, and his eye was wild and wandering. He looked the very picture of despair. He seemed half famished already. "Who are you?" demanded Rodolpho of him, before he had fairly been brought into the light. "Bring him out into the light," cried Roderigo. Forthwith he was dragged, trembling, haggard, and fearful, into the middle of the room. Adrienne then, for the first time, suffered her eyes to fall fully upon him. She gave a piercing shriek, and would have fallen, but that she was supported by Vivolus. "What is the matter, Adrienne?" shrieked Rodolpho. She could only point fearfully at the stranger in reply. "What mean you, Adrienne?" he cried again. "The monk! The old monk!" she cried; "Father Petroni!" "Do you tell me true, Adrienne? Is it -can it be so?" "Yes, yes, Rodolpho," she answered, it is the monk -the cruel monk- old Father Petroni!" "Is it so?" demanded Rodolpho of the monk. The guilty wretch could only bow his assent. His identity was well enough proven. "Craven!" shouted Rodolpho, "how came you here?" "Must I tell thee?" asked the affrighted monk, now breaking the silence he had preserved. "Tell me, or take this dagger to your heart, where long ago it should have been!" answered Rodolpho. "Stay -stay the dagger!" cried the monk, "and hear me." "Shy on, then, old wretch -old villain!" "You thought me dead, when you tumbled me into that dark cavern under the convent chapel. I should have been, long ago, but that I chanced to know the place too well. A subterranean passage, I knew, led from its dark wall beyond the convent grounds, even to the river. As soon as I recovered myself, I crept along this passage upon my hands and knees, until I came to the aperture. I escaped. Once without those walls, I resolved to flee. I could not bear the thought of remaining there a day- no, nor an hour longer. I took a boat and left the city. I wandered about in disguise from day to day, and begged my bread. I stopped nowhere, except just long enough for rest. I spake with no one. I resolved to go on, to keep travelling, until I should come to some old ruin. I felt that my mind, my existence was most like a ruin, and I determined to inhabit, to haunt one all the rest of the days of my life. I found this. Here I have long dwelt, alone, and unmolested by any one. The spirits that were said once to haunt this house, are now all obedient to me. I have no fears of any of them. I have made myself as happy as wretchedness could ever be supposed to make itself. And here, in this condition, you -you, whom I least expected ever to behold again, have at last found me. Where shall I go now? I fear the earth itself is not now wide enough for me!" "Fear not," said Rodolpho. "Then can you forgive?" asked the astonished monk. "I have no need to nurse revenge, when you are as wretched as I now see you," replied Rodolpho. "But her!" said the monk; "it was she whom I once tried to murder!" "Yes, and now you shall pay the penalty," said Rodolpho. "Mercy! have mercy, even as you hope for it!" screamed the monk, trembling and pallid. "This is your punishment!" "What, O, what? It is already greater than I can well bear!" he exclaimed. "You shall now unite in marriage those whom you once labored to separate." "I am not worthy. O, no, no; I am not worthy." "Worthy, or not, you shall do it, and none but you. Come, make yourself ready." "At once -at once," exclaimed the affrighted monk. The twain, Rodolpho and Adrienne, then stood up together before the crafty and treacherous old monk, and with his own lips he pronounced them one. More than this -he craved the blessings of high Heaven to rest upon them, henceforth and forever. This was Rodolpho's hour of triumph. As soon as the ceremony was over, Rodolpho turned upon the monk, and said: "Henceforth, never cross my path again. On peril of your life, heed well my words. Here is money -take it. At once begone! Never come near me more. Go and wander now, at your pleasure, up and down the face of the earth. Go and haunt your own soul, if you can, with the single knowledge that you live. That were torment enough for onc like thee!" Without adding another word, he bent a fixed and stern look upon the guilty monk, until he withdrew from his presence. That look was enough -sharp, piercing, deep. It would have made any man quail before it. It would have gone through most hearts, again and again. As soon as he had withdrawn from their presence, Rodolpho took Adrienne fondly in his arms, kissed her again and again upon her ruby lips, and exclaimed in tones of passionate endearment: "My bride -my bride! Earth's powers may not separate us more!" page: 80-81[View Page 80-81] CHAPTER XVIII. THE DOGE EXPLAINS ALL TO THE COUNCIL. THE doge narrated the story of his wonderful discovery to his Council, and assured them that he had suffered both his own son and Adrienne to escape beyond Venice, on condition of their not returning again, during many years, at least. It was, they knew, a severe trial to him to lose his only child, and they felt that they, the Council, could not suffer half the pangs in losing Adrienne from their hands. So they made no complaints respecting the doge's course of conduct, but preserved a silence. The people of Venice were kept entirely ignorant of the whole affair. It required just such secret machinery as was in use then, to seal up such a secret forever. It could have been done nowhere else in the world. The Council sent for the old woman, Nancie, who had alone been instrumental in working such a wonderful change in matters of the State, and in thus singly obstructing what would seem to have been the true course of justice; but she was nowhere to be found. She had mysteriously disappeared. Her old turret was vacant and still. The implements of her mystic profession still stood around the darkened and gloomy chamber. There was the clepsydra, or ancient water clock; there were the curtains with which she draped about the various articles she at times pretended so mysteriously to employ; but she was not there. The real object of their search was gone, and had left no trace behind her. Years flew away. The brave men who had followed Rodolpho to the home he had chosen, were scattered here and there, at various distances, around him; but none were so far removed from him that they could not visit him at almost any moment, and advise with him on such matters as were of imminent interest to them. They lived in little neat villas, painted the purest white, sprinkled all over this sweet landscape from house to shore. Rodolpho and Adrienne preserved the old stone house as a memento of other days, and tried fortunes. By its side they erected a lovely villa, built in the purest Italian style, all hedged about with sweetest-scented shrubs and clambering vines. It was a glimpse of perfect heaven there. Nothing was wanting to make it a place of uninterrupted happiness. Adrienne soon took the name, Cecile; from her mother, and at her dying request. Little Juliette, the pretty waiting-maid of Adrienne, when she discovered where her mistress had gone, perhaps forever, at once became inconsolable. She embarked on board one of the first vessels she could find, and took her way across the sea, to France. She entered a nunnery in one of the little towns on the southern coast. There she could live secluded from the world, with nothing, not even a thought, to interrupt the devotion she treasured for her lost Adrienne. She became heartily tired of the world. Venice -she sickened of the word itself. There seemed no comfort remaining to her; no solace for her crushed and bleeding spirit. She would be alone, and in her solitude pour out those thoughts and strangely wild feelings that possessed her soul. She woke [unreadable] no one, no thought even, intrude upon [unreadable] -tity of the devotion she felt. Within the walls of the town, without whih was situated the nunnery, there was, on a time, to take place a tournament. Several of the nobles had come to witness the gay and chivalrous sport, and the town was crowded with people of all conditions long before the day came for the joust. All anticipated a brilliant occasion. The sun, on the morning of the day of the diversion, rose in unclouded splendor. The air was balmy and exhilarating. The landscape was surpassingly attractive and beautiful. There hung, over the distant and dim hills, a sort of halo, woven, as it were, of the light mists and the fine threads of the sunbeams. It seemed to encircle the entire scene with a degree of unwonted beauty. The amphitheatre was erected in a sightly place, and into it were crowded dense masses of people. The scene thus presented was unusually exciting and grand. Presently the exercises of the tournament began. Trumpets brayed; heralds galloped gaily to and fro; ladies waved their bright scarfs, and encouraged by their brighter smiles; and all was "Merry as a marriage bell." After the joust, and the general melee which followed it were over, a brief consultation was held by the appointed judges, who declared Signor Claudio the victor of the tournament. He was commanded into the presence of the judges, and from them received with courtesy and gratitude the jewelled crown, which it was expected he would place upon the head of her he thought the fairest. He rode around the lists slowly, upon his coal-black steed, eagerly surveying the array of beauty that rose on each side of him. His eyes were bewildered with what he saw, and he feared that he should most be troubled with an abundance of real beauties from whom to make his selection, rather than with a scarcity of them. He was perplexed. His eye at length, however, caught a charming face, -such a one as seemed to call up in his heart old visions and pleasant memories. He instantly rode up to her, and most gracefully addressed her, and crowned her queen of beauty. The stranger lady received his decision and the crown from his hands, with infinite satisfaction and delight; and his own heart beat high with pleasure at noticing the feelings with which his decision inspired her. The tournament was at last declared to be over, and the parties separated again for their homes. There was a silver moon hung in the sky that evening flooding the landscape with its own unsurpassed beauty. It was after the amusements of the day had long been over, that Signor Claudio left his hotel, and wandered forth alone. The city was never so gay, all being taken up with lively discussion of the events that had that day transpired. As he passed the various groups that were collected at the different points in the streets, Claudio could overhear them talking freely of himself, and of the manner in which he bore himself in the lists. None, however, knew that the passer was himself the victorious knight of the day. He was unknown to any in the dress he had temporarily chosen. He walked on, on -he knew not whither, until he found that he had reached the walls of the town, and was even now beyond them. So much in keeping with the character of his spirits was the scene, and all the associations surrounding it, that he took a secret pleasure in continuing his walk. He went on, on, until he reached the walls of a nunnery. He knew at once the character and design of the structure. He found a silver stream, silently winding its way round through the gently sloping hills that were on one side of the walls. The moon begirt this stream with all its own heavenly radiance. The scene was enchanting to his soul, because it accorded so perfectly with his spirits and his present feelings. Here he sat himself down beneath the wall, and began to ruminate. Why should his heart be sad? Why should he, the victor of the day, on whom bright eyes had bestowed their brightest glances, and for whom the rosiest lips had page: 82-83[View Page 82-83] wreathed their most seductive smiles, -why should he be sad? It was beyond human knowledge to divine. There was some secret cause. He must have been unhappy. And why unhappy? He was not recently bereft of a living friend by death's stern decree, because he wore no badge of sorrow upon his person. Still, he was sad, and being sad, he was thoughtful. A long time was thus passed by him in solitary rumination, when he suddenly broke forth in singing. He sang only such songs as were suited to his feelings. They were old songs -songs of another land. And while he sung, his tones at times grew tremulous and mournful. He struck, at length, upon a song as familiar to him as household words. He sang it through with a depth of expression he had never given it before. It affected him -his own singing of it did- even to tears. Again and again he went through the words, each time becoming more sad with the same, yet each time enjoying more keenly the exquisiteness of his msdness. He ceased, and in a moment more he heard the same song repeated over the wall. He dared not utter a word, for he knew not to whom to utter it; but he sang the song once more. And once more was it repeated over the wall. He took courage, and called: "Juliette! Juliette!" A voice instantly answered him: "Fedore -is it Fedore?" "It is -it is," answered Claudio, who was, in reality, none other than the wandering and long unhappy Fedore. "O, joy -O, happiness inexpressible," cried Juliette, from the other side. The wall was high and thick, and all idea of scaling it would be then preposterous. All they could do was to carry on the conversation as they had begun it. "Is there no way by which I can reach you?" asked Fedore, earnestly. "None to-night," was the reply. "I must see thee, Juliette. I must once more look upon thy face." "But it cannot be to-night, Fedore," she replied. "When, then?" "Come to-morrow eve, at this hour." "To this spot?" "No; come to the farther gate. You will pass it on your way back to night." "And shall I meet thee there?" "Yes, I will be there with the key." "To escape?" inquired he. "Yes, to fly with thee." "O, moment of rapture!" "At that time I will explain all," said she. "Then farewell to-night," exclaimed Fedore. "Farewell. Be certain to be at the appointed place to-morrow eve." The lovers, who had thus providentially met, in a manner. too, so unexpected to themselves, separated -Juliette to her lonely chamber, and Fedore to the hotel in the town. Words were [unreadable] to describe the emotions of each of [unreadable] this greatly desired discovery. [unreadable] evening Fedore was punctually at [unreadable] gate, but he had not a moment to wait. Juliette was already there before him. What a greeting was that of the two lovers! What words of endearment -what syllables of affection, were then poured out freely by either of them? How they strained themselves, each in the other's arms! But the reader will have anticipated this already. She fled with Fedore -both of them disguised- and both directed their steps to the sea shore, determined to set sail in the first vessel that would bear them from the country. They knew not, and scarcely cared whither they went, so they were but quit of the coast that yet bound them. Early the next morning, they found that they were far advanced towards the shore. They congratulated each other on their progress, and each fed freely the other's hope and ambition. They trusted they would soon be free. As they were busily pursuing their journey, they encountered a group of strolling fortunetellers. They stopped, and inquired of one of them, an old woman, the nearest route to the coast, where they might at once take vessel. She readily consented to point them the direction. As they would have turned to depart on their way again, a sudden expression of Fedore's countenance caught the eye of the old crone, and it lighted up with peculiar interest. Looking earnestly a moment beneath the cap of Fedore, she said excitedly: "I have seen that face before." Fedore looked the picture of astonishment. "I have seen that face before," exclaimed the woman, pursuing her remark. "I know that face. I know I have seen it." "Where -where?" asked Fedore. "Yes, and this other one, too," she added, with vehemence, looking at that of Juliette. "But where -where?" demanded Fedore. "In Venice, if you would know," answered she. "Where?" repeated Fedore. "In Venice," she replied again. "But who are you?" asked he. "Do you not know [unreadable] inquired, with a look of eagerness. "No;" answered he. "Nor you?" she again [unreadable] "No -no, indeed," replied she. "I am Nancie!" "Who -what?" exclaimed Fedore. "Yes, I am old Nancie, the old witch -the astrologer, the soothsayer, the old fortune-teller. You know me. You remember me, I know." Of a truth, now that she had discovered herself, they did know her. They remembered her features well. They recognized the old woman, to whom they had confided so many secrets -in whom they had reposed such uninterrupted confidence. The old sorceress was there before them. But, alas, how greatly altered. What a change had been wrought in her features. But for revealing herself, they would never have known her. They all sat down together, and she related to them the manner of her escape from Venice, and the course of life she had since pursued. It was, indeed, a strange mixture of romance and reality. They listened to her narration in wonder. And then they confided to her their own experiences, since last they were in Venice. They were, the reader may well be convinced, of a nature to astonish as well as entertain her. In her turn, she told them all that had transpired in Venice since Rodolpho had been condemned; how he was finally pardoned, how Adrienne disguised herself, volunteered to lead the robber band, and was taken captive and brought to Venice; and how, at last, both she and Rodolpho escaped beyond the seas. "Rodolpho! ah, my poor master," exclaimed Fedore; "would that I knew where he now is." "And I suppose I can tell you," replied Nancie. "You! can you! O, can you? Tell me at once then. Tell me quick; for I will be by his side, with Juliette, as soon as the winds and the waters will carry me." "Be patient," enjoined Nancie, "and I will tell you." Forthwith she rehearsed to them the manner in which she had discovered who Adrienne was, and the title and possession to which she was discovered to be the rightful heir. She likewise told them where those possessions lay, and that Adrienne and Rodolpho were probably at that moment settled upon them. This announcement filled their hearts with unutterable joy. Again and again they thanked her for her kindness towards them, and freely offered her of what they had for the prosecution of her journey; but she refused every farthing offered, assuring them that they would need it more than she. With tears in their eycs, they took their leave of her, and continued their course. They arrived at the coast in time to embark on board a vessel that was bound to a port of Sicily. They at once engaged their passage, and joyfully set sail. We need not go through with them the various incidents of their voyage, nor the particulars of their sea experience; they are much the same that are encountered by every one who enters upon all such undertakings. In due time they arrived at their point of destination, and at once set out together for the place where resided the objects of their affection. They were several days upon their journey -a journey that would have been excessively fatiguing but for the hope that bravely buoyed them up, and bade them struggle onward. At the close of one of these days of toilsome travel, they encountered a form passing not far from them. Fedore passed over to him to inquire the way towards the villa of Rodolpho, and instantly, on seeing his features, clasped his hands wildly, and cried out: "Roderigo -Roderigo!" It was he. He had wandered away from his own little hut, in which he had lived since the arrival of his party, and thus accidentally encountered Fedore. He soon showed him the way back to the house of Rodolpho. Such a meeting as occurred beneath that roof is rarely known. The two friends, master and page, who had long persisted in thinking each other dead, page: 84-85[View Page 84-85] had at last been restored to each other again. The mistress, too, and the maid, Adrienne and Juliette, were once more restored to each other's embraces. In that spot lived all for years after, enjoying in the serene quiet of the place that measure of happiness from which they were estranged by the former evil tenor of their lives. Only Nancie and the old monk wandered -the two whose deeds had provoked mischief, and perhaps incited to crimes. For long years thereafter the name of Rodolpho was mentioned it busy Venice in a low whisper. His deeds remained in the memories of all. His was a stormy and fearful life; but it was gilded, at last, at its sunset, by a halo as rich as that which lights up the clouds in the sky, after a day of long and troublous storm. THE END. [FROM GLEASON'S PICTORIAL DRAWING-ROOM COMPANION.] LOVE'S TRIUMPH: THE MUSIC TEACHER'S CONQUEST. BY SYLVANUS COBB, JR. CHAPTER I. MR. LUKE VANHORN had retired from business worth nearly half a million, and for comfort in his old age he had erected a splendid mansion on the banks of the noble Hudson. His family consisted of his wife, his son, and two daughters. Egbert Vanhorn was twenty-three years of age, while Fidelia and Julia were both younger. The son had graduated from one of our best colleges, and had just been admitted to the bar in the courts of New York. In one of the front rooms of Mr. Vanhorn's mansion, on a bright morning in summer, sat a girl, over whose head some twenty years had shed their lessons of experience. In form, in feature, and in bearing, she was lovely and beautiful; while from out her soft blue eyes, spoke a soul that could live only in an atmosphere of virtue and purity. Such, in brief, was Isabella Vansey, an orphan girl, who had been engaged as a music teacher for Fidelia and Julia. She had been recommended by one of Mr. Vanhorn's intimate friends, and at the time of which we write, she had been an inmate of his residence about five weeks. As Isabella sat by a window which commanded a view of the river, there was a shade of melancholy upon her beautiful face; but it rested not long there, for in a few moments it gave place to a look of hopeful resignation, and she arose and seated herself at the piano. After running her small white fingers for a moment over the keys, her voice swelled forth into a gentle strain of melody. The feathered songsters that fluttered among the garden foliage hushed their music, and the passer-by stopped in his walk, as the sound of that sweet song woke the air to life and joyousness; but upon the soul of no other person fell those strains as they did upon Egbert Vanhorn. Half hid by a clustering vine that grew over a trellis near the window, he stood and listened to Isabella's voice. The glow that came and went upon his face, spoke of the rapture that swelled within him; and, until the song ceased, he seemed hardly to breathe, lest he might lose some breath of the fair songstress. Just as Isabella finished her song, Julia Vanhorn, a laughter-loving, buoyant-hearted girl, came tripping into the apartment. "Isabella," she said, as she laid her finger upon her music teacher's shoulder, while a roguish twinkle sparkled in her eye, "I declare, you must not sing any more such songs as that, for I verily believe that you will turn poor Egbert's head. He has been standing under your page: 86-87[View Page 86-87] window like a statue, and, upon my soul, I think I heard him say something that sounded very much like- 'What a divine creature!'" Isabella thought of looking up into Julia's face and smiling, but she knew that there was a deep blush upon her own face, and so she gazed earnestly out at the window; but there was a trembling of her wavy curls that betrayed her; and Julia bent forward and looked into her countenance. "What! Blushing?" exclaimed she, in a merry mood. "Ah, Isabella, you must learn to be flattered a little, for one so beautiful and gentle as you, must needs receive much of it. There, I did not mean that as flattery." Isabella saw in a moment that Julia guessed not her secret, and with a happy smile, she said. "Thank you for your compliment, Julia, and you may rest assured that your kindness is duly appreciated. It is ever a source of pleasure to an orphan girl like me to find friends among those who stand high in society, and I trust that I may long possess the friendship you extend to me." "So you shall. But come, let us to our lesson, for Fidelia will be ready for her's before long, and you know she does not like to wait." A shadow flitted across Isabella's face as Julia mentioned her sister, but it was only momentary, and she began her morning's instruction. No two sisters could be more unlike than were Fidelia and Julia Vanhorn. While the latter was as gentle and mild as the playful lamb, with a heart running over with kind and generous feelings, the former was cold, proud, and overbearing, and towards Isabella Vansey she exercised a disdainful haughtiness. In a few minutes after the music lesson commenced, Egbert opened the door and looked in. "Can I enter?" he sportingly asked. "O, certainly," replied Julia, "that is, if Isabella has no objections. She is mistress here, you know." "If you can put up with our noise, you are most certainly welcome," replied Isabella. Egbert came in and seated himself by the window, where he had a fair view of both the teacher and her pupil, and whenever Julia cast her eyes towards him, she found his gaze fixed upon Isabella. Once, and only once, did Isabella raise her eyes to the face of the young man, but when she did so, she met his earnest, admiring look, and the rich blood mounted to her white temples, while her fingers trembled upon the keys. At length the music lesson was finished, and Julia rose to call her sister. Fidelia entered the room, and having requested her brother to leave while she took her lesson, she ordered Isabella to proceed. The gentle girl felt a quick reply to this haughty treatment trembling upon her lips, but with an effort she subdued it, and commenced the lesson. "What was Egbert doing here, Miss Vansey?" asked Fidelia [unreadable] her lesson was concluded. "He can [unreadable] hear us play, I expect." "Yes, [unreadable] he sit here after Julia had left?" [unreadable] as she cast a searching [unreadable] of sufficient import to you, [unreadable] him," replied Isabella, as a [unreadable] her features. [unreadable] exclaimed Fidelia, somewhat startled by the reply, "do you mean to be impudent?" Isabella gazed into the face of the haughty girl without speaking, but for once in her life Fidelia trembled beneath the look of one whom she looked upon as an inferior. There was something in the whole bearing of her teacher so noble and so commanding, that she could not but feel that, in some respects, at least, she had found a superior. "Miss Vanhorn," at length spoke Isabella, in a tone of conscious pride, and somewhat stern withal, "I am here to teach you a knowledge of music, and for those services I am well paid by your father. I trust that you will not so far forget the dignity of your station as to render your company unpleasant to me." "Well, that is very fine." retorted Fidelia, hardly able to speak from the passion that raged within her bosom, -"very fine; but I'll soon learn you to know your betters. You told my father that Julia made more progress than I did, did you?" "Yes." "What did you mean by that?" "My language to your father conveyed its own meaning," calmly replied Isabella; "and if you cannot devote more time to your studies, I fear my next report will be worse still." "Impudent hussy!" muttered Fidelia, and with that she sailed out of the room, but not, however, till she had threatened to have Isabella discharged. CHAPTER II. SHORTLY after Fidelia Vanhorn left the music room, and while Isabella still sat at the piano, the door was slowly opened, and Egbert re-entered the apartment. "Excuse me, Miss Vansey," he said, as he took a seat near her, "but I wish to ask you a question, and I trust you will not think me impudent in doing so." "Anything that you may ask shall be answered with pleasure," replied Isabella, while a deep blush suffused her face, as she met again the ardent gaze of her companion. "Then I would ask you where it is that I have seen you before. I caannot get from my mind the impression that we have met [unreadable] came to teach my sisters." "You may have seen me in New York [unreadable] plied the fair girl. "When my father [unreadable] did business there." "That may be, but still there is something else -something more -more -something that seemed nearer than a mere casual meeting." As Egbert spoke, he gazed fixedly into the face of his companion, and his heart leaped with a quicker motion as he caught the beaming look that dwelt upon him. There was something in those two soft, blue eyes that haunted him, and in vain did he try to recall some circumstance whereby he might arrive at the truth. At length a quick flush passed over his features, and half-starting up from his seat, he asked: "Did you ever live in Troy?" "No," faintly answered Isabella, as she strove to keep down the agitation that so strangely moved her. "Then that cannot be," murmured Egbert to himself, as he settled back, disappointed, in his chair. "Mr. Vanhorn," said Isabella, "though I never lived in Troy, yet some twelve years ago I spent a few weeks at one of the hotels in that place." "Then that was it. I was not mistaken," exclaimed Egbert; and with a joyful look he rose from his seat and approached the piano. "You are the little Bella with whom I used to play -whom I used to call my little-" Egbert did not finish the sentence, for at that moment his eye caught that of his fair companion, and reaching forth hit hand, he drew her to a seat near the window. Isabella trembled like an aspen, but she went willingly, and when she sat down she did not withdraw her hand from him who held it. "Isabella," he said,- "pardon me for calling you that, -you will, I trust, appreciate my motives if I come rather suddenly upon the subject which lays nearest my heart; but I would know my fate ere the chains grow stronger that bind me. Tell me? Isabella, if you think you could love me." "Do you know what you ask?" uttered Isabella, while a strange light beamed forth from her eyes. "Do I know?" repeated Egbert. "Yes, Isabella, I would ask you to be mine. I have considered this subject well, and I would ask of you to make me happy in the possession of your hand and your heart. Be frank with me. I know not how to bandy those hollow, unmeaning phrases which drop only from the tongue, but as my heart is, so I speak, and that, too, plainly." The gentle girl was, for some moments, so overcome that she could hardly speak. It was not surprise nor astonishment, for she seemed to have hoped for this moment, but it was a feeling of overpowering joy, a sort of palpitating at the heart at the suddenness of the fulfilment of her most soul-cherished wish. At length she raised her eyes, and in a tone of open-hearted frankness, said: "You have set the example of plainness and candor, and I may follow it. I do love you, Egbert." "O, noble girl, I thank thee for that. My cup of happiness is full. You will, then, be mine?" "Ah, Egbert, you know not what you ask. I fear that may never be." "How!" uttered the young man, while a cloud of pain rested upon his features. "Love me, and not be mine!" "Do not misunderstand me," returned Isabella, as she gazed upon her companion's face with a look of alternate hope and fear. "As yet you can know but little of me -of my character and habits." "There you are wrong," exclaimed Egbert. "I know everything. Mr. Emerson, who recommended you to my father, has known you from infancy, and to me he has told all, -of your goodness, your gentleness, your virtue, and your honor; and I have studied you myself. No, Isabella, you are wrong there. I know all about you." Isabella blushed as she heard thus related what had been said of her by her old friend, Mr. Emerson, but she felt grateful for the compliment to her character; but, while an earnest, meaning look settled upon her countenance, she said: page: 88-89[View Page 88-89] "Perhaps in that respect you speak the truth, but one thing yet remains -an obstacle which I fear cannot be overcome. Even the girl who drudges in your kitchen is no poorer than I am. I can bring nothing but my virtue and honor as a dowery." "And what more can I ask?" responded the young man. "In your every feature you are rich -rich in all those graces and attainments which make a valuable companion. Of this world's goods I have enough, and now shall I barter away a life-time of happiness and peace for paltry lucre!" "If your parents could feel thus!" murmured Isabella. A quick change came over Egbert's face. He knew the stern, unflinching character of his father, and the aristocratic notions of his mother. "To see their son wed with their daughter's music teacher!" continued Isabella, as she tremblingly watched her companion's face. "Isabella," at length spoke Egbert, in a calm, firm tone, "I have spoken plainly thus far, and I will speak plainly now. I do not expect that my parents will ever give their consent to our union. My father may cut me off with a shilling; but I am my own man in the pursuit of happiness and peace. I am strong and healthy, and I will not hang upon my father's money bags. I speak to you as a free man -as one who knows what he does, and who is both able and willing to abide by the consequences. I am able to support you, for even now I have a fair practice, and it is daily increasing. Now, Isabella Vansey, will you become my wife?" The noble girl arose to her feet, and extended both her hands to her companion. There was a rich flood of mellow light pouring out from her eyes, and in a firm tone she answered: "Egbert, I have loved you truly and tenderly. You have long had my heart, -there is my hand. I will be your wife!" "Hoity toity!" exclaimed Julia, as she at that moment came into the room. "O, Egbert, -O, Egbert, -who would have thought it!" The buoyant girl was about to rattle on, when she caught the gaze of Isabella fixed upon her. There was something in that look so trembling, and yet so joyous, -so imploring and yet so proud, that Julia sprang forward and threw her arms around her teacher's neck, exclaiming, as she did so: "Fear nought from me, dear Isabella, I know it all. I care not what others may say or think, but for my part, I know that my brother has found a pearl of the first water, and if he will only give you to me for a sister, I shall love him more than ever." "Dearest, best of sisters!" dropped from Egbert's lips, and the next moment he clasped her in his arms. CHAPTER III. ON the afternoon of the next day after the scene just recorded, Egbert Vanhorn found his father and mother sitting together in one of the parlors. He had determined to make them [unreadable] with his choice of a wife, and he knew [unreadable] more fitting than the present. He took a seat near the old folks, and with a slight tremulousness in his voice, he said: "Father, you know I have entered into business, and am now in a position to be making arrangements for some settlement in life. In short, I have thought of a companion." "A wife, I suppose?" suggested the old man. "Yes, father, -a wife." "Well, I have no objections to that. As soon as you find the lady we will consider the matter." "I have already found one that will make me all that I can desire in a wife." "Ah!" muttered the old man, with a look of surprise; while Mrs. Vanhorn closed the magazine she was reading, and gazed up with a sort of nervous wonder. "And who; pray, is the fortunate lady?" "Miss Isabella Vansey," returned Egbert, in a calm tone. "Well, that's quite a joke, upon my soul!" Mr. Vanhorn said, utterly unable to comprehend that his son could be in earnest. "Our music teacher!" ejaculated Mrs. Vanhorn, as she dropped her magazine, and gazed into her son's face. "I assure you that I am in earnest," continued Egbert, growing somewhat bolder, now that he had broken the ice. "I have even offered my hand to Miss Vansey, and she has accepted it." "And perhaps she has accepted your fortune," said Mr. Vanhorn, in contemptuous irony. "I had no fortune to offer her; but I assured her that my profession would sustain us in a comfortable living." "That was considerate -very considerate," returned the old man, with a bitter sneer. "No, -you have no fortune to offer her, and you never will have from me. I have no authority over your actions, but over my property I have, and not a penny of it shall go to uphold you in any such mad freak as that." "O, the designing vixen!" gasped Mrs. Vanhorn, as she fanned herself furiously with the magazine, which she had picked up again; "to think that the low-born, ill-bred music teacher- O! O! Mr. Vanhorn, do not allow it!" "Low-born! Ill-bred!" repeated Egbert, at the same time casting a look into his mother's face that made her cower. "Mother, who and what were you when my father gave you a home? and, tell me, what are your peculiar characteristics of good breeding?" This retort -called forth by the most taunting aggravation on the mother's part -brought to her mind an uneducated, uncouth and ignorant country girl, and she had but one answer to make, -she immediately disposed herself into a safe position, and then fainted. "Father," said Egbert, as he cast a most significant glance at the form of his mother, "I ask you as a man, as one who has had experience in the world, if money can make a loving and loveable wife?" Mr. Vanhorn cast a nervous glance at his consort, who immediately recovered at the sound of the word wife. Egbert continued: "You know what Mr. Emerson told you concerning Miss Vansey, and you have seen enough of her in your own family to judge somewhat of her character. She is an unprotected orphan, deprived by adverse circumstances of that fortune which some look upon as the god of the social altar, but she is too proud to be a pensioner on friends who are both willing and able to sustain her, and hence she earnls the bread she eats. Her heart is noble, her soul is pure and virtuous, her mind is rich in intellectual and moral culture, and joy and happiness dwell within the sunshine of her bright smiles. Now, shall I lose such a prize as that? No! The Almighty has not made my heart of slate-stone, upon which to be constantly cyphering up 'profit and loss.' He has made it for the home of a purer joy -a joy that asks no interest per centum, but which can grow and flourish within itself." This speech set not very easily upon the feelings of Mr. Vanhorn. He had still the feelings of a parent, though they were overrun and seared by the aristocracy of wealth. But he was not to be driven from his position, and so he very decidedly answered: "I have once told you my mind. As for Miss Vansey's character, I know of nothing against it, and so there are thousands of beggars who may have as good; but you know very well that as members of a peculiar circle in society we owe something to that circle -a circle which sustains us in our independence; and though this idea of honest poverty is a very fair subject for moral dissertations, yet I can see but little practical good in it. You are at liberty to act your pleasure, and you know full well what will be the consequences. If you can support yourself by the education I have given you, you can certainly take the leap you propose, but remember, you draw no more from my purse!" Egbert Vanhorn left the parlor, and for several moments there was a sort of unhappy feeling in his bosom. For the first time in his life he had openly resisted the wishes of his parents, but when he came to reflect that obedience to those wishes would have made him forever miserable, the scale was turned, and his unhappiness was gone. Shortly afterwards he saw Isabella walking in the garden, and when he reached her side, he wondered that aught could cause him a pang when fortune gave him the heart of a being so lovely and so noble. "I have seen my parents." "And what said they?" returned the fair girl, as she raised her beaming eyes to Egbert's face. "Just as I expected. I am at liberty to do as I please, and my father claims like privilege." "And that-" "Is to keep his money and let me have you." Isabella trembled violently, but still she gazed searchingly at the features of her companion, as if to read the thoughts that dwelt within his bosom. "Alas!" she murmured, while her small head shook, and her eyes glistened with starting teardrops, "I dare not hold you to such a pledge, Egbert. Perhaps you may yet find one who combines the qualities your parents so much desire with those of the loving woman." "What! my own Isabella, -and can you think me so degraded as that? Good heavens! do you suppose I can tear my heart from out its resting-place, and let them crush and mangle it beneath a keg of dollars? No! I speak from the bottom of my heart when I tell you that I feel more pride in thus receiving your love than were I backed up by the glitter of wealth. Before God and man we will acknowledge our love, and hand in hand we will journey up life's hill together." Isabella cast one look into the soul-lit eyes o page: 90-91[View Page 90-91] her lover, and then, while her heart sent forth its load of joy, she laid her head upon his bosom. "O, Egbert!" she murmured, "I thank thee for this, and if a life-time of gentle care and love can repay thee, thou shalt never regret this moment." CHAPTER IV. MRS. VANHORN and her eldest daughter, Fidelia, held a long and spirited conference over the "recklessnes" of Egbert, and the "designing impudence" of Isabella, and at length they sent for the latter to come to their room. She was in the music room when she received the errand, and she at once obeyed the summons. The two ladies received her with a vast degree of dignity; but without seeming to notice their looks, Isabella very modestly inquired what was wanted. Fidelia was upon the point of speaking, but her mother motioned her to be silent, and then, casting upon the poor music teacher one look of withering-rebuke, she said: "Miss Vansey, I have called you for the purpose of informing you that your services are no longer required in the family." Mrs. Vanhorn was utterly confounded at seeing that Isabella did not even tremble beneath her look. "We do not wish to harbor beneath our roof one who knows not her station. Do you understand that, Miss Independence?" This remark was the outgushing of Miss Fidelia's indignation, and the approving nod of Mrs. Vanhorn plainly indicated that she also thought the same. "Then I suppose I am at liberty to go," mildly remarked Isabella, taking no notice of Fidelia. "Mother, did you ever see such impudence?" uttered the incensed daughter. For an instant there appeared a flush of indignation upon the fair features of Isabella, but it passed quickly away, and was succeeded by the same bright smile that usually rested there. She looked at Mrs. Vanhorn for her answer. "The sooner you go the better," returned the old lady, "and let me tell you, miss, that your schemes shall yet be thwarted. My son shall not throw himself away upon such an- an-" "Wicked hussy!" whispered Fidelia. "Such a wicked hussy!" added the prompted dame. Isabella knew that Mrs. Vanhorn and her daughter had worked themselves into a passion that debarred all calm argument, and without waiting to hear more, she very deliberately thanked them for their kindness and good opinions, and then left the room. The two females were thunderstruck when they saw their victim thus leave them, but they consoled themselves with the reflection that she knew, at least, what they thought of her. Mr. Vanhorn had pondered deeply upon the affair of his son's love, and the more he thought of it, the more angry he became, because he knew that he could offer no sound argument to sustain his position. He knew that Isabella was a most excellent girl, and he moreover knew that she would make a most estimable wife, but she was poor, and he had long since set his heart upon a fortune in his son's alliance. Upon one thing, however, he was determined, -if Egbert did marry the music teacher, he should thereafter depend upon his own exertions for a livelihood. This, he thought, would be a punishment sufficient, with the understanding, of course, that the penniless wife should never darken their doors. With a firm and unalterable purpose, Egbert made all his arrangements for his passage to the city of New York in company with his promised bride, and by dint of great perseverance, Julia had obtained permission to make it the occasion of a long contemplated visit to the same city. Had her father noticed the roguish twinkle in her eyes, he might have refused her request, but, firmly persuaded that she did in reality wish to visit her New York friends, he made but little opposition; for, after all, he preferred rather to trust her in the care of her brother than to have her go alone. Mr. Vanhorn saw his son depart, and though his wife still uttered her spite against the " designing vixen," and though Fidelia felt glad that the house was rid of the "independent hussy," yet the old man could not keep back the tear that started to his eye as the boat that contained his son swept out of sight. His anger had been great -his heart had been stern, but he could not forget that Egbert was his first-born- his only son. A week had passed away, and during that time the happy party -Egbert, his promised bride, and his sister- had been boarding at one of the hotels in the great city. Isabella and Julia had spent much time in visiting, while the young man had been making arrangements for his business campaign. It was Tuesday evening. Isabella Vansey was arrayed in her bridal robes, Julia was placing a small rose in her bright ringlets, while Egbert stood by, gazing in rapture upon the lovely being whom he was so soon to call wife. It had been Arranged that they should be married at the dwelling of one of Isabella's friends, who had extended to them an invitation to make it their home until they might make other arrangements, and the carriage which was to convey them there was momentarily expected. As soon as Julia had performed her task, Egbert stepped forward, and taking the small hand of Isabella in his own, he pressed it to his lips, and then placed upon her finger a marriage ring. There was a strange light in Isabella's eyes as she received the pledge, and for a moment her feelings nearly overcame her, but she soon regained her composure, and in a tone of peculiar sweetness she said: "This, then, is our pledge of lasting truth and love." "Yes, dearest," returned Egbert, gazing with something nearly akin to surprise at the strange expression upon his bride's changing features. "Then let me, too, give a pledge." As she spoke, she drew from her bosom a small casket and opened it, -then she drew her lover's hand towards her and placed upon his finger a massive ring, within the elaborate setting of which flashed a diamond that might have become a royal diadem. Egbert gazed first upon the ring, and then into the beaming eyes of his promised one. There was something in the affair he could not comprehend. The gem that sparkled upon his finger was worth an independent fortune, and she had given it to him. "There," said Isabella, "don't look at me so hard. My poor father sent that to me from India, and perhaps if we cannot live without, we can sell it." "Here comes the carriage," exclaimed the happy Julia, as she clapped her hands in her glee. "O dear, now I shall see my music teacher married. I am so happy." Egbert assisted the ladies into the carriage, and then seated himself beside them. During the ride a strange whirl of half formed ideas possessed his brain, but on no ground could he account for them. His buoyant sister seemed almost ready to jump out of her senses, and even in the darkness of the evening he could see the light that sparkled in Isabella's eyes. At length the carriage stopped in front of a splendid mansion, an array of servants stood waiting upon the steps, and ere long Egbert was ushered into a sumptuous apartment. The feet fell softly upon a luxurious Turkish carpet, the heavy carved furniture, surmounted by polished marble and crimson cushions, the large mirrors, and the golden chandeliers, all spoke of wealth and ease, but no one, save themselves, was there. "Tell me, Isabella," said Egbert, as he turned from the sumptuous scene about him and gazed into the face of her he loved, "what friend of yours lives like this?" Isabella returned her lover's gaze, but she did not speak, -her emotions were too violent. "Shall I tell him?" whispered Julia. "No, no," quickly answered Isabella, and then summoning up all her courage, she continued, turning to her lover: "Egbert -dear Egbert, pardon me if for once I have deceived you." "Deceived me!" iterated the young man in blank astonishment. "Yea, -deceived you, But listen, and you shall hear it all. Years ago I saw you in Troy. You know what passed between us there. I was indeed young, but my heart took from our childish friendship an impression which time has not effaced. I have often seen you since, and I have kept your image in my mind. From Mr. Emerson I received a statement of your character when you entered college, and since that time I have kept myself informed of your life. This pursuit, added to the impressions of the past, was by no means calculated to allay the flame that was burning in my bosom -the flame that had burned with a quenchless glow since I was a laughing child. When my father died in Calcutta, I persuaded Mr. Emerson to keep his pecuniary circumstances a secret, for I had no desire to be a mere bait for the gold-fish that swim within our fashionable circles. People thought me poor, and I was blessed with peace. At length I saw in one of the daily papers that your father had advertised for a music teacher for his daughters, and at that moment, a strange idea took possession of my brain. It was a daring project, but I determined to enter upon it. I knew not why I should see the idol of my soul's purest love still free from the chain, without making an effort in my own behalf. I told Mr. Emerson to secure the place for me if possible, and finally, after hearing all my reasons, he consented, and he succeeded. Then I was near page: 92-93[View Page 92-93] you, and I determined to make the conquest. Something told me that I might be 'loved for myself alone,' and O, Egbert, you know not the pure, ecstatic joy that thrilled through my veins when I knew that you loved me. My point was gained, I stood upon the threshold of my earthly heaven, and I was happy. After Julia so unexpectedly gained our secret, I confided her mine, but it is astonishing how she has contrived to keep it, for she has been almost crazy beneath its weight ever since." "O Isabella, -if I had thought you could talk so, I would have told him as sure as the world." "Well, it's too late now," replied Isabella. Then placing her hand in that of Egbert, she continued, while a heavenly smile beamed forth from her eyes: "There is my hand and I hope you will not refuse it now, when I tell you that a million of dollars, at least, goes with it." Is it any wonder that for a moment Egbert's tongue refused him utterance? Is it any wonder that he opened his arms and clasped the noble girl to his swelling bosom? "Ah," he uttered at length, "I am almost sorry that you are rich in this world's goods, for I had hoped to convince my father that I could be happy without his aid; but-" "Never mind now," interrupted a voice, and as Egbert turned he beheld his father. There was a smile upon the old man's face as he spoke, and stepping quickly forward he grasped his son by the hand. Then he turned towards Isabella. She -roguish girl- raised her ruby lips to the old man's face, and by a single kiss she won his heart forever. "My children," he said, "I have been stern, and cold and angry, but as sure as there is a God in heaven, I wept when you had gone. I received Mr. Emerson's letter, in which he stated that you (patting Isabella on the cheek) wished me to attend your nuptials, and I have come, but until I arrived I knew not of your wealth. But I have come, though I had to come alone, for I would not have the sin upon my soul longer, which has cankered there for the last fortnight. There, take this hand, Isabella, and let me assure you that you have caught a good husband." "And this, too, is your work," exclaimed the happy youth, as he gazed through his tearful eyes upon the radiant countenance of his beloved. "Look out! look out!" cried Julia. "There comes the minister, and his whole train at his heels. Now for the consummation of THE MUSIC TEACHER'S CONQUEST." That consummation was not long in waiting, and Egbert soon found out who the friend was that owned the mansion where he was married, for ere he slept he held the deed of the whole estate himself. He knew, too, why his mother and Fidelia came not with his father, but from that time neither he nor his faithful and loving wife have alluded, by word or deed, to the unpleasant recollections of the past, but by a course of kind and forgiving friendship, they have striven to blot out all that can tend to dim the bright sunshine of their peace and happiness. [FROM GLEASON'S PICTORIAL DRAWING-ROOM COMPANION.] THE ARREST: -OR- THE DARING OF A PATRIOT LOVER. BY F. CLINTON BARRINGTON. WHEN the English General Howe found himself master of Boston, he began to revolve in his mind how he should best punish certain distinguished families, who had been most active in opposition to royal authority. His chief source of information was a young tory, who, by means of his wealth and birth, had gained the confidence of the British chief, and was now an inmate of his military household. The name of this traitorous person was Jenkins Wosley, who had no other recommendation than his fine person, his money, and his high family; for one of his ancestors had been lieutenant-governor of the Commonwealth. The general was pacing up and down his library in deep reflection, his lips compressed and his brows bent. The young tory was standing in a recess of the window, seemingly engaged in watching the measured movements of the sentry in front, but in reality furtively scanning the face of the English general. Suddenly the officer turned and said, with some excitement: "Are you prepared to prove this, Mr Wosley?" "Here are the letters, sir. It is well known that she has been more active than her father, if that were possible, in inspiring the colony with the opposition to the crown. It was she, sir, who copied, and it is rumored, half-dictated the resolutions which passed in May last in Faneuil Hall. If she remains in the city, general, she will plot to your mischief." "She must be secured! You think this plea of illness is but an excuse to be suffered to remain to act as a spy upon us?" "Without doubt, sir. I have no question but that she is in secret correspondence with Samuel Adams, John Adams, Hancock, and other rebel chiefs, of whom her uncle is not the least." "To be of his blood is enough to lead me to fear her, and to see that she is not suffered to do us injury. Here is her artful letter to me." And General Howe took from a file before him on the table, a paper, which he read aloud, as follows:- "SIR:- As you do not war upon women, I trust that you will permit me to remain in the city with an aged relative, who is decrepid and long an invalid, whom it would be fatal to attempt to remove from her house. As, therefore, she cannot avail herself of your permission to leave with others, and as I cannot, in duty, desert her in her infirmities, I respectfully ask of your excellency permission to remain quietly in our house, under the protection of a permit similar to that you have granted to some other families." "This is her letter," remarked the general, with some sharpness. page: 94-95[View Page 94-95] "It is to deceive you, sir. I know her well, your excellency. She is as talented as she is beautiful, and proud as she is patriotic." "Beautiful, and also young" observed the general, looking at him inquiringly. "Yes, your excellency. She is twenty, perhaps, and with the regal loveliness of Cleopatra." "I do not wish to arrest such a person," said the general, shaking his head. "I have placed the proofs of her capability to do you mischief in your excellency's hands," responded the young man, biting his lips and looking vexed, as if fearing that the object at which he aimed might be defeated, after all his efforts to effect it. "Yes; the proofs are clear enough. She has done enough as agent for her rebellious uncle, and for Hancock and Adams, to forfeit her head as well as they," he responded, with angry decision. "By having her in my power, I may not only obtain papers of importance in her hands, but have a hold upon her disloyal uncle, and bring him to terms. The arrest shall be made!" Thus resolving, the British general seated himself at his table, and wrote hastily a few lines, which he read over to himself, and then placed in the hands of an orderly, whom he called from the hall. The man, receiving the note, touched the front of his cap, and departed to place it in the hands of the officer to whom it was addressed. As the door closed upon him, the face of Jenkins Wosley, the rich tory colonist, lighted up with malicious gratification. "You seem to be pleased, Wosley!" said the general, who could not but remark the expression of elation on his face. "Yes, your excellency; I am always pleased to see the enemies of the crown secured from doing mischief." "Where shall I imprison her?" asked the general, as if perplexed to know what he should do with his fair prisoner after arresting her. This inquiry was not addressed to any one, but was rather thinking aloud. "For my life, I don't know what to do with her." "Place her on board one of the ships of war, sir," suggested Wosley; "it will be difficult to effect her escape from one; while in the city she may elude the vigilance of the guards." "That is the suggestion. I will send her on board the George, and entrust her safe-keeping to her old gray-headed captain, Griffith. He will be an honorable and safe jailer for her, and can give her one of his cabins. That affair is settled!" At this moment two or three gentlemen of his staff were announced, and Jenkins Wosley glided out of the apartment with the step and look of a man who has been doing a disgraceful thing, and fears to meet the full gaze of honorable men. There stands at this day a venerable house in the centre of the city, which still bears the air of aristocratic respectability in its elaborate front and massive style of architecture within. Towards this house, about nine o'clock in the evening, and about two hours after the issue of the order of arrest of the young rebel lady, a file of eight soldiers advanced, led by a British captain. There was a green yard in front, in which stood two large sycamore trees, through the pending branches of which a light shone out from the parlor windows on the east wing of the mansion. "Halt!" commanded the officer in an under tone. The file of soldiers halted in front of the gate, which the officer softly opened, and passed through alone. The lower shutters of the window were drawn, and he could not look into the room; but listening, he heard the sound of a female voice. He returned to his men, and having ordered two to the rear of the house, he lifted the brazen lion's head and knocked at the front door and at the same time trying to open the door, which he found strongly secured. At the sound of the knock, a young lady who was writing at a small escritoire in the room from which the light came, raised her head quickly, and placing a sealed letter in the hand of a tall, handsome young man in a half-military costume, she said, earnestly: "Go! do not delay a moment! Colonel Warren must have this before day." The young man hastily threw over his dress a countryman's coarse, blue frock, placed upon his head a slouched farmer's hat, and taking the letter, placed it in the bottom of one of his coarse brogans. Again the knock was repeated, heavier than before. "This bodes no good, Lawrence," said the young girl. "Do not linger! Everything depends on your quitting the town in safety." "If danger menaces, I cannot leave you, Miss Elizabeth," said the youth, respectfully and earnestly. "You will show but the sincerity of your frendship for me, by obeying," she answered, with an air of resolution. "I know I am presumptuous to hope, where I am so lowly, and you are so far above me, but-" "Here the speech of the young colonist was interrupted by a third knock, louder and more imperative than the last; kissing her hand respectfully, he obeyed the entreating command of her eyes, and instantly left the apartment. He did not, however, on reaching the hall, go out by the door by which he had an hour before entered, bearing a letter to the maiden from the camp of the army outside, but alarmed for her safety by the loud knocking, he hurried to the upper entry, and went out upon a balcony, from which he could look down into the front yard and see who was at the door. Upon discovering the English officer, who at that moment had called his men to break in the door, he flew to warn the young lady of the character of her visitors. But in descending the stairs he came upon the bayonets of the two soldiers who had come round by the rear "Stand! you are our prisoner!" they cried, presenting their weapons close at his breast. Quick as lightning, with a countryman's staff which he held in his hands, he knocked their glittering bayonets down, and dashing the men outside, in a moment stood in the presence of the young lady. "It is you they have come to arrest! Fly with me, dearest Elizabeth!" "And leave my dying aunt? Escape with the dangerous papers you have on your person! Do not fear for me! They are all that can convict me or harm me! In your instant escape lies my safety!" "True! I will hope the best! They dare not harm you!" "You have not a moment to spare!" she cried. "The door is broken open and the hall is filling with soldiers! Escape by that way!" The young man hesitated, as if he was balancing duty against duty, and the next moment opened a door on the south side of the room, and passed through it. It was occupied by an invalid female, who asked what was the cause of the uproar. He, however, did not reply. He felt that he had about his person evidence that would imprison the young lady, whom, though in humble life himself, he loved; and trusting to the honor of British soldiers to respect a lady, he hastened to secure the letter which he had no time to remove from his person and destroy. He sprang through a window to the ground, and through the gardens finally succeeded in reaching a boat in Back Bay, in which he embarked for the opposite shore, where the patriot army lay. His distress and anxiety, as he rowed across the silent waters, can only be imagined. He at one moment condemned hmself for leaving her; but the next, he excused himself as he reflected that his own arrest would confirm the suspicions which had probably led to the visit of the soldiers. Having reached the camp and presented the letter to its address, a letter which detailed a plan "how General Howe might be surprised at head-quarters," he returned immediately to the besieged city, indifferent to his own safety, so long as he was left in suspense of that of the maiden. Upon reaching the mansion, about four o'clock in the morning, he found a British sentinel on duty before it. The house itself was still, and he resolved to gain access to it that he might learn whether his fears were realized. To have questioned the sentry would have exposedd himself to suspicion. He, therefore, by a way well known to him as the bearer of letters to and from the maiden, gained a poplar tree that stood near the west end of the house, and by climbing it he reached the roof, through which by a trap door, he descended softly into the apartments of the house. Upon reaching the parlor he found a light burning; but as he was about to enter, he started back with a cry of horror. Upon a table lay the corpse of the invalid, just being laid out by two old women. The escritoire was broken open, and books, papers and furniture strewn about in disorder. He was about to enter, forgetting the risk he would run, for he recognized one of the old women as a bitter tory, when he heard one say to the other: "That is the first corpse I ever dreamed as died o' fright! No sooner had they carried off the young rebel miss, than she got right up out of bed, ran in here, which she haint done for five years, screamed after her niece, and full dead as a stone!" "It was time she was dead," said the other old crone. "I don't see the use o' folks livin' arter they get to be bed rid, and are worse than dead. What did the captain say he'd give you for help layin' out?" "Two dollars!" answered the hag, chuckling as she bound the jaw of the corpse. "That's what he promised me. It'll be a pretty job. I wonder what they'll do with miss?" "I reckon they'll hang her! They say she's been doin' enough to hang ten rebels." "It would be a mity pity to put a rope round page: 96-97[View Page 96-97] her pretty, white neck," answered the other, with a shake of her head. "A pretty white neck'll fit a hangman's rope as well as a dried and shrivelled one like yours or mine!" responded the taller and uglier of the two, with a sneer. "If we was found carrying on correspondence with the enemy outside, they'd hang us up high as Haman. Her beauty, I hope, wont save her!" "It oughtn't to! A little vitriol sprinkled in her face will soon spoil that!" Lawrence heard all this with mingled interest and indignation. That the maiden was arrested, was now clear to him. But where was she? In whose power was she? By whose order or information? These were questions which he could not answer. He was about to enter the room and ask them if they could tell him where she had been taken; but an instant's reflection showed him the weakness of thus exposing himself; for he knew that he was suspected of being a spy, and that men were on the watch to detect him; and therefore did he change his disguise every time he came into the town. His uncertainty was, however, relieved in an unlooked for manner. The front door was abruptly opened, and he only had time to withdraw into a shaded niche, when the captain and two soldiers came in, and crossing the hall, entered the parlor where the corpse lay. Upon seeing it, he uttered an oath expressive of angry surprise. "What! not in her coffin yet?" "The man hasn't brought it yet, yer honor," answered one of the women. It aint our fault. We've yearned our four dollars." "Confound your dollars! This body must be carried out and buried before day. It is the orders from the general. The sight of it by day will raise a riot in the town, for they will say we killed her. It is an ugly affair, and must be hushed up." "When is the young lady to be hanged, captain?" asked the shortest of the women. "I'd give a dollar to see it!" "You'll not have that pleasure, old woman. She is to be kept a prisoner." "In the jail?" asked the other. "Not exactly. If you don't behave, you may get there! This young lady will probably be honored with a ship-of-war for her prison. And the general, by-the-way, desires me to find some female who will be her attendant." "Be locked up with her?" "Not exactly locked up. She will have a cabin to herself. You will do to wait on her. Will you take the office?" "For gold!" answered the crone, extending her thin, bony hands. "You shall have a guinea a week." "Done," answered the woman. "I am ready." "Be at the end of Long wharf at eight o'clock, where you will find a boat going off to the George frigate. I shall be there to take you on board with me," answered the officer. At this moment a soldier came in, followed by the undertaker, carrying upon his back a rough, pine coffin, in which to place the body of this delicately nurtured and well-born lady. It was rudely nailed up, and on the shoulders of four men was carried forth and buried by torch-light in an obscure corner of the Granary burying-ground -buried as murderers bury their victims. Lawrence had followed at a distance unseen, and beheld where they laid her, that he might be able to inform the young lady, her niece, should he ever behold her again. He knew where she was to be held a prisoner; and he took his way from the grave towards the water-side. It was just break of day when he found himself on the pier-head from which the British boats embarked to the fleet at anchor in the harbor. He was still dressed as a farmer, with his goad stick in his hand. As the red, morning sky deepened into the glory of sunlight, he searched with his eye among the ships for the George frigate, as if he would know it instinctively. But he at length resolved to wait until it was eight o'clock. "Perhaps," said he, as he sat down upon the end of a spar, and gazed wistfully over the water, "perhaps she is not yet taken on board. Perhaps they will bring her down at eight o'clock." It seemed to him as if the time would never arrive. His suspense was exquisitely painful. She whom he loved above all earthly objects, was in the hands of her enemies, either in the town or on board one of the ships. In either case she was helpless and in their power. Resolutions to effect her rescue filled his mind. But how to effect it, or what he should do, he could not conclude upon. He tried to wait patiently until eight o'clock came, hoping then something definite would be revealed. Seated in his coarse frock and brogans and slouched harvest hat, leaning upon his goad-stick, he watched all that transpired around him. He saw the sentinel pace up and down till relieved by the relief-guard; he saw boats passing and repassing from the fleet to the town; he saw gay officers land and walk up into the city, and others embark. He beheld boats, crowded with troops, rowed from point to point. People came in numbers on the pier, to gaze at the scene. But his attention was drawn to the presence of Jenkins Wosley, who came lounging along near him, playing with a superb watch seal, and wearing richly laced clothes, with a silver-hilted sword at his side, and diamond buckles in his polished shoes. Upon seeing this man, Lawrence's heart beat quicker, and a spirit of resentment rose in his heart. He observed all his movements. He was immediately impressed with the suspicion that he knew of the arrest of the maiden. These suspicions were well-founded; for he was aware that Jenkins Wosley had been an unsuccessful suitor for the hand of Elizabeth Hancock, and that he held towards her, like all low-minded men, a feeling of resentment! Unfortunate is the intelligent lady who is addressed by an inferior man, who may have only money to countenance his presumption. Her refusal is the signal for his vengeance, as her acceptance of him would be the seal of her degradation. Jenkins Wosley had not the generosity to treat with civility the maiden who had wounded his vanity by rejecting his offer of marriage. Lawrence, though of humbler birth, without fortune, and having a good education, a fine intellect, courage, and his devotion to her, found more favor in her eyes. Yet she loved him not well enough to consent to become his wife. Moreover she said: "this is no time to think of ourselves. Let us give our hearts, Lawrence, to our bleeding country." Yet Lawrence did not hate her. He devoted himself more assiduously to her wishes and her happiness. "Though she love me not," said he, "I will be near her, and try to be happy in her smiles, and in listening to her voice. I know I am too humble for her to look upon me; yet, if I may not be her lover, I will be her servant." At the risk of his life he became the bearer of her letters to the patriot chiefs. For her sake he exposed himself to a dozen deaths. Without hope of her love, he devoted his very life to her interests. He knew that she had rejected Jenkins Wosley, with all his wealth. He had, accidentally, overheard part of their interview. He heard her say that she would not and could not be tempted by wealth without worth; and that "a luke-warm colonist should never have her hand, though he were possessor of the Indies, and had the manly beauty of Apollo." Lawrence heard the bitter anathemas with which the defeated suitor left her presence; and from that moment he looked upon him as both his own enemy and that of Elizabeth Hancock. When, therefore, he now saw him a few minutes before eight o'clock idling aboutt on the pier from which the captain was to embark for the frigate, the idea flashed upon his mind that he was aware of the arrest; and he added, half aloud, "perhaps he has been an agent in it!" No sooner did this suspicion enter the mind of the brave young colonist, than he resolved to watch him closely; In a few minutes the captain, who had made the arrest, appeared at the end of the pier, and saluted Wosley cordially. "That was an unfortunate arrest, last night, captain, eh?" he said, in Lawrence's hearing. "Yes. It would seem so. I regretted it. She is a splendid girl! Her beauty and dignity overawed me! I treated her as if she had been a queen." "She can be haughty enough," answered Wosley. "The general did right in arresting her. She is the most dangerous person in Boston." "And the most captivating. By the girdle of Hebe, she fairly took my heart! She is not so much a prisoner as I am! But here is the old woman whom Howe sends on board to wait on her." As he spoke the woman appeared. The officer called to a seaman, who was waiting by a boat at the foot of the pier stairs, who conducted the old crone on board. "I am going to the frigate, Percival," said Wosley. "Here is the general's permission." "I should like your company." "Did you take her on board without trouble, last night?" "Yes. She went with us like a lady. I felt my conscience smiting me. Old Griffith, when I presented her to him, seemed all taken aback! He raised his little blue cap from his gray head, and bowed to the deck. When I told him she was his prisoner, and that he must be responsible for her safe-keeping, he looked blank and uneasy. But I saw him lock her up safely in the cabin, before I took my leave." Lawrence waited till he saw them embark. He then went to a boatman and said, in the country dialect: page: 98-99[View Page 98-99] "Friend, I would much like to have a nearer sight o' them big war-craft, with their black guns poking out o' them winders in their sides. What do you ax for a bit of a row that way?" "Two shillings, bumpkin!" "Wall, there they be; but it's a mighty big price to pay for a little paddlin' about." Lawrence having entered the hired boat, directed the man to pull after the other boat. He followed it until they saw it stop along side of one of the frigates, and the party get on board. From the boatmen he learned that it was "the George," the very vessel he sought. "Sposen you row me round it, and let me see it all over, a bit?" he asked of the man, while with a keen eye he was scrutinizing every part of the ship which contained the maiden for whose safety, though she returned not his love with one ray of hope, he would have laid down his life. As they rowed under the lofty stern, he saw through the cabin windows a female figure. A closer glance enabled him to recognize the face of the maiden. But scarcely had he discovered her before she disappeared. He was no longer now in doubt. He knew where she was imprisoned. But one thought took possession of his bosom; this was her rescue! But how should he attempt an impossibility? As he rowed round the ship he inspected every part of it, observed the means of ascending and descending its sides, marked the position of every rope that hung over the sides. But as he gazed upon the formidable battleship, bristling with cannon, crowded with hostile men, and full three quarters of a mile from the shore, his heart sank within him; and he felt a sensation of despair creeping coldly about it. "Wall, bumpkin, how d'ye like the looks o' the kritter? Aint she a tall one, hey?" asked the boatman, patronizingly. His voice recalled Lawrence to himself; for he had forgotten for the moment his assumed character. It was difficult for him to assume it and its dialect in the present aspect of his feelings. "Yes, it is a large ship," he answered, as the boat once more came under the stern. "Row in close." The man obeyed until they were nearly under the taffrail, when the sentry ordered them to keep away. But Lawrence had noticed all the particulars relating to the stern, and treasured them in his memory; and now, fearing detection, he returned to the town, resolving that he would rescue the maiden, or die with her. Elizabeth Hancock, our patriotic heroine, was standing at the cabin window, looking after the boat as it receded, for she thought she recognized the disguise of Lawrence there, when she heard her name pronounced behind her. Upon turning round, she beheld Jenkins Wosley, who had passed the sentry at her door by means of a permit from Captain Griffith, who had received orders from General Howe to that effect. The British general had been led to believe by him that he could obtain from her facts of importance to be made use of in the campaign. In a word, he had permitted Wosley to bribe or menace her into giving information. "Sir, what brings thee here?" she demanded, haughthy. "Have they made thee my jailer? If so, they know well thy capacity, and how to annoy me!" "Miss Hancock, I am sorry for your misfortune, and-" "Sir, I do not deem any suffering for my country a misfortune; and did I regard it so, I should feel it a tenfold misfortune, with your sympathies added. Leave me, your presence here only insults me, and dishonors you!" "I have come to tell you I have your fate in my hands!" he answered, fiercely. "So I have guessed. In reflecting by what malice or treachery I have fallen into this snare, my mind fastened upon thyself as prime mover." "You have well guessed. I did it!" "Go and boast among thy fellows how you have avenged yourself upon a woman!" she said, with a curling lip and flashing eye, that cast upon him withering lightnings of contempt. Jenkins was awed, and felt his own insignificance; yet he thought he never saw her look so splendidly beautiful. He stood gazing upon her in a sort of stupid wonder. "Are you not going to leave me?" she demanded. "Ho, sir sentry, without! Remove this annoyance!" "You shall suffer for this!" he cried, black in the face. "Not so much as now by thy very presence. Two nights ago you came to see me at my house, professing to be a true patriot, and sought my hand. O, that I should have been so degraded as to be the object of thy notice! When I refused the honor, you swore vengeance. This captivity is your revenge! Think you I will hold words with thee! I would die first! Go, and leave me alone!" Wosley left her presence, shaking his finger at her menacingly, and swearing in his heart vengeance. "What motive could have brought him hither?" she murmured. "Did he not know that I knew that this was his work? What did he hope for? Did he know woman so little as to believe she would give her hand from fear, where she could not give it from love?" And she walked up and down her gorgeously-furnished prison-house like a chained lioness. In beauty, courage and port she looked a very Joan of Arc. The third night after this scene, a boat stole out from a little cove under the Dorchester heights, and noiselessly pulled in the direction of the British fleet, a mile off. It contained two persons, one of whom sat in the stern, while the other pulled the oars. The boat was small, and very low in the water, so that its gunwale rose scarcely two inches above it. Both of the men were clad in grayish jackets, so that they could scarcely be distinguished from the obscurity a few yards off. The boat shot onward rapidly and steadily, as if directed by a steady hand, to some definite accomplishment. In a short time it came within the sphere of the outer vessels of the fleet. "Row lightly now, Caesar," said the voice of Lawrence, who was in the stern. "Do not let a dip of your oar reach my own ear." "Nebber you fear, massa. Dis nigger know what danger he be in. He don't want to be hanged no more den white folk. Nigger neck break just as easy as white gemmens." The boat continued on its noiseless and almost invisible course until Lawrence saw the "George" looming up large and gloomily before him. Three battle-lanterns, hanging in the rigging, threw along red pencils of light across the water, and in the stern window of the cabin burned a star-light blaze, like a Pharos guiding the lover to his mistress. "That light is in the cabin where your young mistress is held prisoner, Caesar," said Lawrence. "Ah, massa Lawrence, I'm 'fraid we'll both be taken prisoners wid her, before we gets her out of dat drefful black war-ship!" "Nothing is impossible with courage and devotion," answered Lawrence, resolutely. "Row on a little farther." "Not too near, massa. Dey sure see us, and fire de big cannon." "Row on until I can just distinguish the sentry, and then we will cease rowing. If we cannot see him, he cannot see us." About fifty yards further on they stopped, and Lawrence put on a large cork-jacket, which he had made for the purpose, and hanging another smaller one about his neck, he took a coil of light rope, to which was appended a small ladder of cord, with strong hooks at one extremity. With these preparations to aid the maiden's escape from the frigate, he dropped from the bow of his boat noiselessly into the water. "Remain stationary, Caesar. Be ready to give us aid when we need it! Remember it is for your mistress's liberty and life we incur this peril to-night." "I be sure not run away, massa. I stay here if dey shoot ebbery big gun at me dey got." "They cannot see you here in the darkness if you are quiet, and don't go nearer." "Nebber you fear, massa Lawrence; dis child be sure not go nearer, dat sartain. I keep still as de tombstone!" With a word or two more of caution to his assistant, Lawrence struck out from the boat, and swam in the direction of the stern of the frigate. The ebb tide carried him towards it rapidly, and he soon found himself under the larboard poop-lantern. The tide nearly carried him under the counter, but he fortunately overcame its force, and caught by the rudder with a hook, which he carried for the purpose. The he held until he had rested, and then proceeded to scale the stern. This was a feat that would have seemed impossible; but nothing is insurmountable to love. With almost superhuman exertions, he succeeded in reaching, by means of his hook and pole, the lower step of the poopladder, which had been drawn up at night till it was fifteen feet from the water. He now climbed this ten feet further, until he was opposite the cabin window, out of which the light had shone. The real danger of his enterprise was now before him. Over his head he could hear the tramp of the sentry, and the steady pace of the lieutenant of the deck. The least noise would have betrayed him. With great caution he threw his coil of cold into the window, which was eight feet from him on a level. It caught by the hook on the third trial. He then dropped the other end of the ladder of cord he had brought with him, so that from the window to the water there hung a safe and easy descent. He now prepared to enter the cabin window, to inform the maiden what means he had provided for her escape. It was easy, by means of a page: 100[View Page 100] rope which hung from the taffrail, to swing himself across the eight feet space into the window. But would he find no sentry there? would he be sure that the window he should enter was that which led into her state cabin? But hesitation would not resolve the doubt. Action was demanded. He therefore swung himself into the window, and landed lightly upon the cabin floor. As he did so, he was startled by a loud outcry upon the deck, followed by several strokes upon a bell. His heart leaped to his throat! He naturally believed that he had been discovered, and that the next moment would find him a prisoner. But the words were distinguishable which he heard. It was the sentry's cry: "All's well!" and the eight strokes upon the bell tolled the hour of midnight. The bustle that followed he found was caused by changing the watches. He took advantage of it by withdrawing the curtains of a couch that stood on one side of the cabin. The light fell upon the calm and beautiful face of the maiden sleeping. It was pale, and traces of tears were there. There was not a moment to lose! He whispered her name. She started, and stared wildly upon him. "It is Lawrence! Awake fully, and do not hesitate to fly with me. I have the means at hand, if you have courage!" "I have courage for anything, dear Lawrence," she answered at once, fully aroused, and understanding his purpose. "But how come you here? How can we escape?" "I have a ladder leading from the window to the water. A boat is near. Will you trust your life and safety to me?" "Yes," she answered, pressing his hand. "Put this cork jacket on. I made it expressly for you, and I know it will fit you. And let me assist you to descend the ladder. Have you nerve enough to trust to it? It is safe." "Yes," she responded. "Then descend, and I will follow you. When you get to the water, wait for me." A few moments afterwards, both were safely in the water, and buoyed up by their cork floats, they were not long in gaining the boat, where Caesar waited for them. The success of the young patriot was complete. In an hour more he landed in the creek, from which he embarked, amid the blaze of rockets and the firing of cannon from the frigate, on board of which their daring escape had been at length discovered, all too late. We need not add that the lovers were married in a few months' time after Lawrence had won a captaincy by his courage in battle. At the end of the war, he had risen to be a lieutenant colonel. As for Jenkins Wosley, his property was confiscated as that of a tory, and he was subsequently taken prisoner by General Knox, and would have been shot as a spy, if our heroine had not successfully pleaded for his life. What became of him afterwards, is not certainly known. Thus end we one of the stirring romances of our revolutionary history, which is more rife with heroism than the history of Rome or Greece. THE END.