ACT I.

ACT II.

OH! That I may not be deceived!

No, mother, no! The guard on the tower knew my father's armour perfectly, and the white crest upon his helmet; and father Benja­min was trotting behind him on the mule.

I congratulate you, noble lady.

Reverend Abbot, I thank you. Run, children! climb upon the hill, and tell me when they approach.

Huzza! my father's coming! My father's coming!

What transport these children feel!

Oh! Mine is not more sedate. Willingly would I run with them, over every stone, were it but becoming in a wife. And why should it not? Custom and fashion [Page 20] are fell tyrants, and they impose their bondage even upon love and tenderness. Children! can you distinguish nothing?

The sun daz­zles me.

Ottomar's so lit­tle, mother.

It would seem as if the knight had been paying a friendly visit.

He has, I cannot doubt it, done his duty: and that he has done it in so short a time, de­serves your thanks as the author of the expedition, and mine as the expectant wife. Wilibald, can you see nothing?

Dust, dear mother, a great deal of dust, and amongst it something glitters like arms.

If they raise as much dust on their return, as at their departure, 'tis a happy sign that no one can have lost his life in the excursion.

I know not, reverend abbot, what infer­ence I am to draw from your remarks. Do you mean to attack the honor of Sir Theobold: Or why do you in­sult my ear with such discourse?

Not so, noble lady—

Not so, reverend abbot. I am not disposed for any interruption to my joy. Wilibald, can you still dis­cover nothing?

Huzza, dear mother! It is my father! It is my father, I know his grey horse: and great Bevys is riding behind him, and father Benjamin upon the mule like a bear upon a beam.

I see them all too, mother.

I thank thee, O God, that thou hast listened to my fervent prayer, and thrown my dark presages to the winds.

Presages, noble lady! Have you ever felt their influence?

Presages, or thick blood, or nervous terror—call it what you will. With fearful heart I always have sur­veyed the steed which was to bear my husband to the heat of battle. But never have I felt what yesterday oppress­ed me. Methought a world was laid upon me!—Me­thought a gulf divided me from my beloved Theobold!— [Page 21] Heaven be praised! 'Twas but ideal. My imagination catches such quick alarm.

Be not so quick in your conclusions. Presages are the warnings of the Almighty. 'Tis true; your hus­band now returns in health. For this we render thanks to God and to St. Norbert. Yet is there nothing but life, for which you tremble? I know full well, fair lady, that strict fidelity lies nearer to the heart of one who loves like you. How if—(which heaven forefend, but our tempt­er is ever on the watch)—how if Satan, in an enticing moon-light night, should have availed himself of some fair heathen, to ensnare the pious knight. I have seen these fiery dames. Lust is their idol: Modesty can find no sanctu­ary with them; and Sir Theobold, as they say, inherited warm blood from old Sir Hugo.

Reverend abbot, if you would not mis­take the jest, I should freely tell you, that you bear poi­son on your tongue—but hark! I hear the sound of hor­ses' hoofs already echo through the valley. Come, chil­dren! Quick—to meet your father.

Damnation! She is armed on every side.

My husband! So soon returned!

Not too soon, I hope.

Banterer! I could almost answer— yes—

And I could almost burst.

Never have I made so good an expedition! Hea­ven bless you, reverend abbot!—I bring thee, Adelaide, a present more valuable far than all thy jewels.

Yourself.

Would'st thou make me vain? I have long been thine. No. I restore to thee a stolen treasure, which has [Page 22] cost thee many a tear. May he and and I forever share thy love! Look round—does thy heart guess nothing?

My father!

My dear daughter!

Oh! This is more than all my warmest hopes.— Almighty Providence! I have no words to thank thee.— Grant me tears! Oh! Grant me tears—And is it re­ally you, whom I thus fold in my arms? Alas, I feared that you had long since sunk beneath the weight of age and grief. I cannot look at you enough. You are just the same, except that your hair is somewhat greyer— Oh! God! I have no words. My thanks are swimming in these tears—Dear farher, I am married—These are my children. Come hither Wilibald and Ottamar—This is your grand-father. Embrace his knees, and beg his blessing.

— Rise! Rise! If the blessings of an old man—who loves you as his children—has any influence with the Almigh­ty—I bless you— God shield you from every misfortune —or give you strength to bear it!

How can misfortune enter in your thoughts at such a happy hour? All my wishes are fulfilled.

Dear grandfather, kiss me.

And me too, dear grandfather.

Sweet boys!

Poor good children!

Why poor, honest Bertram? What is wanting to their happiness? Reverend abbot, such a scene as this might draw down angels from the throne of God.

Fie, sir knight! To compare such earthly joys to the blissful contemplation of the Highest.

Pardon a layman, to whom the enthusiasm of re­ligion has not yet lent wings, to soar into the third heaven.

Enthusiasm, do you call it? You heap levity on levity. But I pardon you, for the sake of that good work which you have done. Your return was very sudden— [Page 23] Doubtless you have rooted out the heathen tribes, over­turned their altars, abolished their idols, and brought their gold and silver chalices for the service of the church.

I have done all that I could: I have done more than I ought. My oath, as a knight, bound me, with fire and sword to exterminate the heathen idols and erect the ho­ly cross among them. Father Benjamin can testify I have fulfilled my oath.

'Tis well. But as the angel of the Lord as­suredly was with your arms, why did you not proceed to all the neighboring tribes, spreading destruction through­out the heathen territories?

Because—hear it once for all, reverend abbot, —because my sword shall never fall again on those, who never injured me. If they be sheep, which wander in the desert, let the right path be pointed out to them, but let them not be led to slaughter. I, at least, have no de­sire to be the butcher.

Knight—

Abbot—

Do you pretend to dictate to the church?

Oh, no! reverend abbot, I know my duties, and fulfil them—But will you not participate our joy? Look round and read in every eye, the wish to spend in pure tranquillity a day, which heaven has so singularly marked.

What can be the matter, my dear father, you seem uneasy?

I am not well.

Quick! Come in. You want rest. To-day, so many different sensations have crowded on each other—

True! True!

Come then. Lean on me, that I may bring you to a quiet chamber.

Not in this castle, my dear Adelaide. I am not used to live within huge walls and towers. Let me return my old hut.

Your hut is in ruins, uninhabited, and exposed to every blast. Allow me the pleasure of attending on you.

I must be left alone—or I shall die at your feet. I will have no other dwelling than my former hut.

Your will is to your children a command. I will this instant dispatch my people to repair your hut, and pro­vide it with every convenience. Meanwhile, use the best chamber in my castle, and let a cheerful meal complete the pleasure of this day▪ Reverend abbot, is it your plea­sure to follow us?

When I have fulfilled the duties of my office.

Till then, farewell.

— Well, father?

What does my worthy su­perior command?

Yes, pretend that you have executed all my plans, and justified my confidence in you.

My conscience acquits me.

Indeed! Then I wish you joy of an easy con­science. You know not, I presume, how much I wish­ed for time, how much I wished to plunge Sir Theobald from danger into danger, if possible to cause his death— at least his absence for many weeks. You know not these were my only reasons for promoting the excursion? —Speak!—

How can I be ignorant that such were your intentions? Yet have I done every thing to prolong the expedition. I have not been content with empty words. I seized a sword, I plunged into the throng, and ofen was besmeared with hostile blood.

Yes, forsooth,! You have done so much, that nothing now remains for me to do, and I perhaps may wait in vain whole years for such an opportunity. Will you not retire to rest after your numerous fatigues—You will scarcely recognise your cell—'tis so long since you forsook it.

I have done my duty. We must pray to God to bend their hearts, and grant his aid to all these good in­tentions.

Ha! There it is! There is Wulfingen!—Hail, castle of my fathers! Hail, ye moss grown towers! In blooming manhood I forsook you. In drooping age I now again behold you. I left these gates, accompanied by a hundred valiant warriors: the swords of the Sara­cens have slain them, and I return alone.

All is as I left it. No stone is broken: no tree is fallen. I could almost fancy that the swallows' nests against the wall were still the same.—There, in the shade of yonder towering oak, I, for the last time, pres­sed to my heart my weeping wife, and blessed the child that hung upon my knee. There, beneath the roof of yonder straw-thatched cottage, I for the last time held the infant in my arms, the offspring of my crime, the source of my never-ceasing anguish. Alas! what a crowd of sensations, which have slept for three-and-twenty years, wake in this solemn moment! Great God of Heaven! I thank thee, that thy angel, thro' so many perils, has thus brought me to the habitation of my fathers, were it but to lay my sapless bones with their's.—How my heart beats! Even more than at the storm of Ptolemais. Each tree, each stone could I ask, is my wife, and is my son alive?— The windows of the castle are forsaken: the bridge is down: No reaper in the field. Here peace must reign, or the plague must have exhausted its fury.—Thou guar­dian angel of my latter days! whisper to me whether joy awaits me in this castle: or, shall I turn again to Pales­tine, and seek some heap of earth, where the poor pilgrim may repose in peace for ever?

Come, Brother! I'll show you the nest, that I found yesterday.

Is it high? Must one climb?

No. It's only in a low bush.

Then I don't want to see it.

Why not.

Where there is neither trouble nor danger, there can be no pleasure.

Two sweet boys! my heart throbs.

Look brother, at that man with a long beard. Let us go.

No. We'll speak to him.

I'm afraid.

Then go, and look for your nest.

Who are you, old man?

A pilgrim from Palestine.

From Palestine! Do you bring any news of my grandfather?

Your grandfather! Who is your grandfather?

The valiant Sir Hugo of Wulfin­gen. Have you ever heard of him?

I believe I have.

You believe you have! You have not heard of him, or you would not have forgotten it.

Oh! God! What a boy is this! And this is my blood!—Com­pose thyself, old man. Thy hour is not yet come.

What is he muttering to himself?

I believe he is thinking of some lie.

Allow me to ask a question, my dear boy. Who is the knight, that dwells in yonder castle?

Sir Theobald of Wulfingen, my father.

And my fa­ther too.

God of Heaven! I thank thee.—One question more. You spoke of your grandfather, who went to Palestine.

Have you then still—a grand­mother?

No. She has long been dead.

Has long been dead!

Margaretta!

Dear children, I am faint and weary. Dare I beg a crust of bread, and a cup of wine▪

Directly!

And if your father would allow me a night's lodg­ing in the castle—

I'll ask my mother. My father's just returned from battle, and asleep. I daren't wake him. Ottomar, stay here till I come back.

I won't stay alone with that long-bearded man.

Oh God! Have then the sufferings of three-and-twenty years at last appeased thee? Is it then true, that I shall yet find happiness? Hast thou, too, forgiven me, oh! Margaretta, my acknowledged wife? Didst thou not quit this world, with a curse upon my head? Yes, I am unworthy of the bliss, which now awaits me. Let me but have happy tidings of my Adelaide, and angels may envy my old age.—What boys! Scarce could I re­frain from folding them in my arms. Of what race may their mother be? Early has she sown the seed of love and honour in their hearts. God reward her for it!—Right glad I am, that no one here can recognize me. The hearts of my son and daughter-in-law will lie open to me. I shall try their kindness and their hospitality. I shall see if Theobald still remembers his old father, if he wishes his return, if he will shed a tear for his death. What a scene, if all should happen as I wish!—Let me only be upon my guard, lest a father's heart too soon be­tray itself.

There he is, mother! There he is!

Heaven reward you, noble lady! And you too, good children!

You are welcome, old man. If my boys have understood you right, you are come direct from Pales­tine.

Noble lady, it is true. I have passed through Greece, Bulgaria and Hungary. For five long months, I have contended against hunger, thirst, and all the hard­ships of this life. Oft has Heaven been my roof, and the [Page 28] cold earth my bed. Oft have I sought, whole days in vain▪ a spring where I might quench my thirst—a hut, where I might beg a piece of bread.

How, at your age, could you attempt so long a journey?

My earnest wish to see my native country once again, to die where I was born, to have my eyes closed by the hands of my children.—

Have you children, too? Oh! How will they rejoice!

So says a father's heart.

Each day of absence, when friends meet again, is a fresh drop in the cup of joy. Be thankful to Hea­ven, old man, for such bliss as yours is dealt with a spar­ing hand. My husband, also, had a father, who, more than twenty years ago, followed our emperor to the holy land. There probably he perished. Have you, in your travels, never heard the name of Sir Hugo of Wulfingen?

Sure have I, noble lady. Still more, I bear a mes­sage from him to his son.

Indeed!—Speak! Does he live?

He lives.

And your message—?

I can confide to none but Sir Theobald.

Enter then with me.

Pardon me, noble lady. I have made a vow ne­ver to enter house or castle till the sun has set.

Run, then, children! Wake your father, and tell him instantly to come here.

May I be a wit­ness of your conversation?

I request it.

At length, our fervent prayer is heard. Oh! that we still may hope to sweeten his declining days!

Pardon my curiosity, fair lady. It arises not from forwardness. Dare I ask from what race Sir Theo­bald chose his worthy wife?

Dare I answer you, from women-kind?

I do not understand you.

I mean, that if domestic virtues flourish but in one generation, I can have no pretentions to them.— My ancestors possessed no castles: Their names were [Page 29] never known in heraldry. But if fidelity, piety and vir­tue, have any claim upon a knight's affections, I will not change my heart for that of any noble lady.

Then you are not of noble ori­gin?—

No, old man—yet not on that account ignoble— I am but the daughter of a boor. My father has no other title than—an honest man.

Now old fool! Again stumbling over childish prejudice! After being twenty years in search of wisdom, on the first, the happiest occasion, reverting to thy nurse's whims!

My declaration seems to have surprised you.— Perhaps you are acquainted with Sir Hugo's sentiments upon this subject. Will he think me unworthy to be called his daughter?

Fear it not, noble lady. As far as I can answer for him, he is incapable of such injustice. At first it may have some effect, and bring a frown upon his forehead;— for you know not how difficult it is to shake off the preju­dices of our childhood—Proud, and assured of having trod them under foot, still at every turn they rise again. Yet sure I am, Sir Hugo's forehead will be clouded for one moment only. And when he sees and hears, that you, by stedfast love deserve your husband's heart, that you fulfil with diligent attention, the duties of a mother, he will not deny his blessing on the union.

Your consolation crowns my happiness. Yes, the purest tenderness alone, once joined our hearts, and for eight years it never has been interrupted.

Then may heaven pour out its choicest blessings on you!

This I may freely beg in Hugo's name.

Oh! all ye hosts of heaven! conduct him to our arms, quick as our wishes. How hap­py will I make his latter days! With what care and ten­derness will I watch over him! How will my prattlers hang upon his knees, play the dull hours away, and read his smallest wishes in his eyes!

Oh, God! Dash from my lips this tempting cup of joy, lest in my intoxication, I forget my gratitude to thee!

There comes my husband.

stedfast, old man!

Where is the pilgrim, who has named my father? Welcome with this hand: thou art the messenger of God.

Sir knight, I greet you. The Lord be with you, and with your house.

Thou hast known my father: Speak: My heart yearns to hear thy message.

For more than twenty years, Hugo of Wulfingen has been my friend. I have fought at his side in Parthia, Media, Mesipotamia, and Persia. Oft, with fraternal love, we bound each other's wounds, inflicted by the sa­bres of our enemies. Oft, with fraternal love, we shared the last dry crust, the last poor draught: until the wayward chance of war divided us. For when the em­peror Frederick died, he went towards Askelon with En­glish Richard, surnamed Coeur de Lion. There was the battle between Saladin and us. Fierce and bloody was the contest. Many a valiant knight was left upon the field. Among the rest your father was supposed to have fallen▪ and I spent many tedious years in vain enquiries after him. At length, weary with toil, I, eight months since resolved on my return to this my native land, when unexpectedly, I found old Hugo among the sultan's pri­soners in Babylon.

A prisoner!

Thus it is Sir knight. He pines away in grievous thraldom. How was his visage altered! Scarce could I recollect the features of my friend. His cheeks were sallow—his eyes sunk—his beard long and knotted. With tears he threw his arms and chains around my neck, la­menting that he saw no end to his miserable days. He showed me his bed: It was a stone—a potsherd filled with water was his drink—a little rice was all his meagre diet.

Oh, my unhappy father!

"Alas, said he, dear Robert, thou seest the base condition in which I languish, the chains that gall my [Page 31] hands and feet. But how my body is exhausted by the noontide heat, and labor, to which I am not enured; how the blood gushes from my back upon my keeper's whip: how the cold dews, and the unwholesome damps of night within this prison, rob me of sleep, of health and peace— this, friend, thou dost not see."

Hold, I beseech thee, hold! Each word is a dag­ger to my heart.

"Thou, continued [...]e, thou happy man, art now returning to thy native country. May the Almighty be thy guide! But should'st thou pass my castle, commend me to my wife, if she be still alive, and my son Theobald. Paint to them all that my age is forced to suffer. Awake in their bosoms the feelings of a wife and son, that they may quickly gather all that heaven has bestowed upon them, and hasten to relieve from cruel bondage, a husband and a father. Meanwhile, farewell, I shall count the days of thy pilgrimage, and on this stone will I pray, the long, long nights, that angels may direct thee on thy way."

Thanks, worthy old man, thanks for thus faithful­ly fulfilling his directions, Quick! What is his ransom?

Ten thousand gold bi­zantines.

'Tis much: 'tis very much. But God will lend his assistance. We must sell our castles, my dear wife, we must convert every thing into money, and do the ut­must we are able.

With all my heart, dear Theobald! This moment I will bring my jewels, golden clasps and bracelets.

And you shall have my dollar too.

Have I nothing to give?

My heart will break.

I thank thee, my good wife. I thank you, children. This moment binds my heart to you forever.

And mine too.

We will retire to a cottage, and till the earth. Bread we shall never want, and instead of luxuries, let us feast on the delightful expectation, that we shall liber­ate my poor old father. I hasten to the abbot. He has long coveted my demesnes. When he knows my wants, he will pay but niggardly. It matters not, if he will only give us what we want directly.

I can hold no longer.

Enter, old man, and refresh yourself with what my castle contains. My wife will let you want for no­thing. See! here comes Bertram—let him be a partaker of our joyous hopes.

True, 'tis Bertram. Oh that I durst but call to him: Where is my daughter?

You have left old Bertram quite alone.

Come hither. Grieve and rejoice with us. This pilgrim brings accounts of Sir Hugo, my father. He is a slave in Babylon. But this day I'll sell my castle and demesnes, cast all at the Sultan's feet, and conduct my fa­ther back in triumph.

How is this? —Sure I am not deceived—Those features—

Thou art not deceived—I am he.

— Sir Hugo!—my master.

ACT III.

Here we are secure. Here we shall not be over­heard by monks or women. Come nearer! Answer me Read the question in my eyes.

You wish for informa­tion of your daughter?

Tedious babbler. How can this climate make these men so cold? Speak! Speak! Be not so sparing of thy words.

Ah!

A sigh! I understood thee. She is dead—Ano­ther soul is gone, to denounce vengeance against me, at the throne of God.

Would to God she were dead!

What say'st thou? Is she dishonoured?

Sir knight, prepare yourself for a recital—To you the world is not unknown—You are well aware what chance—fate—Oh God! my tongue denies its office —Your hair will bristle towards heaven, your blood congeal with horror in your veins.

To whom dost thou say this▪ I have lived full six­ty years. For five-and-thirty I have been a knight.— Since I forsook the cradle, I have been the sport of for­tune, have learnt to distinguish truth from error—If she be not dishonoured, speak! I am prepared for all.

For fifteen years your daughter was educated as my own. She increased in stature, beauty, worth. She enchanted every youth, attended on my age, and mana­ged on my wife's decease, my little household. Never did any one suspect her to be other than the real daughter of old Bertram. My wife died, and carried the secret with her to the grave. I alone was able to solve the mystery of her descent. I knew your sentiments, Sir knight; I resolved never to withdraw the veil which covered what was past; and as she now had reached a proper age, I [Page 34] cast my eyes around, in search of some good lad, who would promote her happiness.

Right, old man! such was my wish.

The inscrutable designs of Providence have will­ed it otherwise—Once, on a festival in honour of our guardian saint, the villagers proceeded early to the abbey leaving behind them only the old men. To my daughter too, I granted permission to accompany her friends, as I myself was unable to attend her. The neighboring Vandals had waited for this moment, when all our strength was absent. They fell upon our village, where not more than fifty persons were left, plundered our dwellings, drove away our cattle, and took the old men prisoners who had staid behind—among the rest myself. Eight years past away. I was a slave among the heathens—my daughter dead to me, and I to her. But this morning— (Oh! why have I survived it?)—but this fatal morning I was released from bondage by your son. I came, and found your daughter—in the arms of her bro­ther.

Well, proceed.

Proceed—Pardon me, sir knight— anguish has robbed you of your senses, or you have not understood me.

Nor one, nor the other. I still am waiting for the dreadful story which will cause my hair to bristle to­wards heaven.

Blessed Virgin! is not this dreadful enough?— Your son the husband of your daughter—your grandsons sprung from incest—your family subjected to the churches ban!—

Is Adelaide faithless? Is my son a robber? Are my grandsons villains?

Oh no, no! There lies all the misery. They love each other with such strong affection, and yet must part forever. They have children too, who resemble angels, [Page 35] and these little innocents they must resign to scorn and infamy.

Must!—And who shall force them?

Heavens! Can you ask, sir knight? Are you a christian, and would suffer this abomination?

Why not? Old man, thy scruples I can pardon. Papal superstition has instilled them, ignorance of the world has nursed them, and custom given them gigantic strength—But let us view a little closer the shadow which so much startles thee. What mischief can ensue from this connexion? Two hearts, attached by a double tie, what increase can their love, their happiness admit? A mother by a brother, are not the children still more precious?—Are not the parents still more envi­able?

All true, sir knight. But—

Hold: The picture is not half complete. I have but painted them within the castle: let us now look with­out—Can a good father and a tender husband be a bad neighbour?—Can he covet his neighbour's property, who, with this wife, and these children, thinks himself far richer than a prince?

Just and true, sir knight. But the sin—

Sin! Whom does it affect? Not me. Perhaps thee. Be easy, old man. This phantom too, I dare be sworn, I can dissolve. Yet, there are higher duties, thou wilt say, than I have mentioned.—Duties towards God—

Alas! There it rests—

Hold again!—Will he pray less fervently? and mark! his prayer is not the urgent and insatiable covet­ing of riches and of honours. 'Tis gratitude which streams from a contented heart. Will he fight less bravely for his country and the church, than the vagabond whose cou­rage is not fired by any thought on wife and child? Will he, with less piety receive the holy sacrament, when he beholds the companion of his life devoutly kneeling by his side? Will the pangs of conscience, in his last hour, assail him, because true to the impulse of nature, he has given to his native land two useful citizens, to the world two honest men, to heaven two angels?—No! no! no!— With joyful assurance will he appear, accompanied with [Page 36] his wife and children, before the throne of the Almighty▪ receive his sentence without trembling, and join his voice to the halelujah's of the blessed—

But God's absolute commandment that we should not—

I know what thou would'st say. God's first commandment was the happiness of us his creatures.— This commandment is as old as the creation. It extends to every nation, every religion. What Moses, through the mouth of God, established for the welfare of a single state, what, perhaps, may really promote the welfare of every state, must, at least, be subject to exceptions, and never was a case more worthy of exception—Here, then, old man, give me thy hand with confidence, and let this secret be concealed forever. Still let Adelaide be Bertram's daughter.—Rejoice with me, at the happi­ness of our children—Rejoice, and be silent.

As God may have mercy on me in my dying hour, I cannot, sir knight, I cannot. That inward con­sciousness of an avenging God rises in opposition to your arguments. You have addressed my senses—they are weak—address my heart, and I will listen to you.

Thy heart!—Shall I paint the misery which thou bring'st upon us all? Shall I describe the horrible dis­tressess of my children, and my grand-children—the de­spair of thy old master?—Shall I—(unwillingly I do it) shall I remind thee of the many kindnesses which I pour­ed first on thy old parents, and since on thee?

Oh, no, dear sir! To you I am obliged for all. 'Tis written in my heart. But pay more reverence to God than man— Sacrifice the temporal rather that risk the eternal. Oh! could you feel the pangs of hell, which rage within me, you would have compassion on me. Oh! that I could erase the tale of horror from my recollection! At least, let me shake the burden from my heart at the confession chair. Our reverend abbot—

Peace! Listen to me for the last time. If the misery of my children, the distresses of their boys, the despair of thy benefactor, can have no effect upon thee—hear this solemn oath, which, on the word and honour of a knight, I pledge in the ear of the [Page 37] Almighty. If, with a single look, a syllable, or sign, thou darest to hint at this our secret, with my own hand I'll plunge my sword into thy heart.

Do with your servant as may be your will.— My last breath shall bless you. But my troubled con­science orders me, in terms more dreadful than your oath, to ensure the salvation of my soul. As yet your children may do penance for their sin, and through temporal mise­ry ascend to spiritual bliss. But tell me—what can I an­swer▪ when your son appears before the dread tribunal of the Judge, and thus accuses me: "This man was privy to it. He concealed the impious secret. He robbed me of the only means by which my soul could have been rescued from damnation."

Hear me, Bertram. Wilt thou be easy, if my son, when told of all, should think as I do?

Then—perhaps—I might—

Go, then, and send him hither.

How?—would you—

I will myself disclose the secret to him? but at first without a witness. Be thou at hand, and wait till called.

Oh, all ye saints!— Have pity on a poor old man, bending beneath the weight of conscience!

Such are the cursed fruits of superstition! But what must I expect in this approaching hour? Theobald must be tried, ere I venture the discovery. Should he be so weak as to prefer the dogmas of a monk to the everlast­ing law of nature—should his head and heart too be sway­ed by bigotry, let my tongue be silent, and let Bertram die. 'Tis better that one, already on the brink of the grave, should be a victim to his blindness, than that my whole race should fall a sacrifice to prejudice, and sink forever.

You have sent for me, my father.

My son, come nearer. We are alone. I have much to ask of thee, and much to say to thee. I left thee a boy, occupied in climbing among the wood, and strip­ping the hazel of its nuts. Thou art now become a man [Page 38] and thy amusement is to break a lance in combat. Hast thou acquired fame at any tournament?

Twice, my father. At Worms and Regensburg. Both times in presence of our Emperor.

'Tis well. Hast thou ever been engaged in hon­ourable quarrels, and settled them as well becomes a knight?

Thrice for my friends, and for myself but once.

Why that once, and against whom?

Against Conrad of Rudolsheim. His servants had been guilty of disorders in a neighboring village, had seized a woman, and destroyed a house, and he refused reparation.

When did'st thou make peace with him?

When he was conquered.

'Tis well. Hast thou never lost thy shield?

Never, my father.

'Tis well. Hast thou any wounds?

Five.

All on thy breast?

All, my father.

In the abbey of Ermersdorf hangs a hostile banner. I pla­ced it there.

'Tis well. Who instructed thee in arms?

My uncle.

Who conferred knighthood on thee?

Luke Henry, the Lion, of Brunswick.

'Tis well. Thus far, 'tis all right well. Embrace me.

And now, my father—

Hold! Our account it not yet settled. How long is it since thy mother died?

Nine years. She expired in my arms, and was buried with the bones of our fathers.

Margaretta!

Did she die calmly?

Calmly, and full of hope. She died as she had lived. She blessed yourself and me.

— Oh! my father!—Will you open all my wounds afresh?

'Tis well, Who gave thee instructions in reli­gion?

Father Bernard, a monk of the Premonstrantes.

This is not well. Which of thy duties is to thee most sacred?

My father, I have not considered this. To me they are all sacred.

Right, my son, but not all of equal weight. Du­ty towards God is the first duty—next honour—then love —and then the church—Or, makest thou no distinction between God and church?

The church is in the place of God.

But is not always the mouth of God—Hear me, my son. Receive and ponder my discourse. After sixty years of cool experience, a father now addresses his only, his beloved son, whose happiness will ever be his warmest wish. To-day or to-morrow, I may be gone. With a lie upon my tongue I durst not look into eternity —Hear me, ye spirits of my ancestors! You I summon as wit­nesses of truth. Strike me with icy dumbness, and spit sharp venom on me, if this last branch receive destruc­tive doctrines from me

And thou, eternal being, whom I worship, take from me the bitterness of this hour, and let it overtake me on my death-bed!— Praise be unto thee that I have found him an intrepid knight: But let me find him likewise resolutely sted­fast—with a heart equal to his courage. Let me find him iron towards prejudice—wax towards love and ho­nour.

Your discourse, dear father—

My son, more than three hundred years are passed away, since Hans of Wulfingen built this castle. He was the first of all our race, whose own valour girded on his loins the sword of knighthood. Our emperor, Conrad the first, dubbed him in the year nine hundred and twelve, upon the very field, where he had shed his blood, in fight­ing for his native country against Hungary. He married Wulshild of Sickingen, and from love towards her, he called this castle Wulfingen. He was slain in a quarrel for an image of Saint Paul, which his attendants had se­cretly suffered to be stolen. This, his son,

Egbert of Wulfingen, was accused of having murdered one Count Baldwin. The sacred tribu­nal before which he was tried, obliged him to attest his in­nocence [Page 40] by the sword, He was slain, but his last breath affirmed the accusation to be false and villainous.

his son, Maximilian of Wulfin­gen asserted, at some jovial banquet, that the image of the Virgin Mary, which worked miracles at Emmerick, was a pious fraud. He was in consequence, secretly assassi­nated by the instigation of the monks—

His son Henry of Wulfingen, not profit­ing by the example of his father, dared to utter some un­meaning words against the pope's authority, was subject­ed to the ban, and forsaken by his friends, died broken-hearted.

His son Albert of Wulfingen, fearful and weak from the example of his fa­thers, and the education of a monk, gave half his fortune to the cloisters, endowed the church with many of his best demesnes, died with a relique in his hand, and was almost cannonized—

His son Her­man of Wulfingen, went on an excursion to convert the heathens to our christian faith. His heart betrayed him. He became attached to a fair heathen, and was compelled to leave her, because she continued faithful to the idola­try of her forefathers. He married Maria of Simmern, who bore one son, but ill supplied to him the place of the good heathen. He arrived at a discontented old age, and died.

My grandfather, Otto, of Wulfingen, from some long smothered resent­ment, was assaulted by three villains of the house of Lein­engen, as he was returning, somewhat weary, from the chace. They slew him, and took refuge in a Benedictine cloister, where, for a sum of money, they were pardoned in the name of God, and not a mortal dared to bring an accusation.

My father, Francis, of Wulfingen, wishing to revenge his father's death, and enraged in a just cause, struck a lay brother of the Benedictines, was subjected to the ban, excommunica­ted, and died in misery. Well can I recollect the grief of my poor mother! But of that no more. I myself, my son, I myself have completed this number of unhappy be­ings, whom superstition has plunged into destruction.— I am not ashamed to tell thee, that for one moment, I have been a villain—and what man is without such mo­ments? One only wicked deed has been to me the source [Page 41] of endless agony. Thy mother was a good woman, though beauty was not her inheritance. She loved me while I was but her friend. It was not in my power to press her with ardour to my bosom. For her I seldom felt desire, and often avoided her embraces. Whether she were ever conscious of what passed within me, I am ignorant. She herself, (God reward her for it) she herself never uttered one harsh word to me, never received me with a frown, and forced from me, my whole respect. Bint this was all— My love—

I must disclose it as a warning to my son—my love was oft bestowed on prostitutes, and every woman but my wife, inflamed my passions.— Once, on a parching summer's day, I met a lovely crea­ture in the field. Her name was Rosamond. She was an orphan. She had nothing left in this wide world, ex­cept her honour—and of that I robb'd her—Thou start'st, thou shuddrest—Right, my son. Let this moment never be eras'd from thy remembrance—Heaven is my witness I had ever been an upright man—except in this one in­stance. Dost thou see the tear that starts into my eye? Of these I have shed millions, yet each still scalds my soul as if it were the first. The poor creature bore a girl in secret and expired. I entrusted the unhappy fruit of my transgression to an honest boor, whose wife had lately been delivered of a dead child. He swore eternal secresy, and reared the forsaken being as his own daugh­ter—My peace of mind was gone. In motion, or on my pillow, the palid image of my Rosamond was floating in my sight. In motion or on my pillow, her dying groans assailed my ear. To regain tranquility I vowed an expe­dition to the holy land against the Saracens, forsook my wife, my child, and country, to follow our emperor Fre­derick, the Red-beard, and in the name of God, to mur­der men, who never had offended me. Oft as I plunged my sword into the vitals of a Saracen, I fancied that his blood would cleanse me from my sin. In vain! I writh­ed myself, in anguish, on the holy tomb. In vain! I im­posed severe penance on myself, and went through many a weary pilgrimage. In vain! nor scourge nor absolu­tion, could avail to cure the viperous sting of conscience —At length I was dangerously wounded in a skirmish, [Page 42] and taken prisoner by the sultan of Babylon. There, for twenty years, I languished in the fetters of the infidels, till at last, with other knights, I was ransomed by the em­peror of the Greeks. Weary of a delusive world, full of anxious wishes to behold my family and home, I took a pilgrim's staff, and am this day returned—I find my wife no more, and my daughter

—in the arms of her brother.

Thunder of heaven!

Oh! my wife! my children!

'Tis well—Speak, my soul—What wilt thou do?

Take my life, or let me have my Adelaide.

Impossible! Thou know'st the prohibition of the Almighty.

Then, let the Almighty punish me. Why did he suffer me to feel affection for her? I cannot lose her?

Dost thou not tremble at the rigor of our church?

I laugh at its rigor and its ban, He that robs me of my wife, can plunge me into no deeper misery.

Thou must renounce her. I command it.

I cannot, my father.

My curse be upon thee!

I cannot, my father,

The curse of thy mother be upon thee from her grave.

And if every stone should curse me, every gust of wind should breathe damnation on me, it matters not I cannot—She is my all—And my children.

'Tis well, 'tis right well. Embrace me, my son.

How, my father!

Heaven be praised! Thou hast fulfilled my every hope. Be at ease. I wished to prove thy sentiments.— Adelaide is thy sister, but therefore is not less thy wife. Were such a marriage in such circumstances sinful be­fore God, he would have planted natural abhorrence in the hearts of both. What is wholesome to society at large, is not always a law for a solitary instance. Be of good courage, then, my son, trust in God, love thy wife, endea­vor to make thy children honest, and deserve the blessing, [Page 43] which, in this hour, from the fulness of my heart, I be­stow upon thee.

Heavens! My father! my dear good father! You awake me to new life. You restore to me my senses— Alas! They were almost gone forever.

Yet must Adelaide suspect nothing of all this. A woman's nerves would be too weak for such a shock. In a woman's soul superstition is too deeply rooted. She would forever think herself the vilest sinner▪ and by pi­ous penitence embitter her own days, as well as thine and mine. Let her be as heretofore, the daughter of old Ber­tram, and, except ourselves and him, let no one ever dive into the secret. Where is he, that he may enter into this our bond, and chain his oath to ours. Come nearer, Ber­tram.

Old man, congratulate me. I may now rejoice in satety at my children's happiness.

Though thou art not the father of my Adelaide, I never shall forget, that to thy instruc­tions I am obliged for my good, my faithful wife—

Then you know all?

He knows all. Thy doubts are removed. May the sin fall upon me, upon him and his children!

Disperse those hypochondriacal whims, remember the passed, but in order that we may rejoice in our pre­sent happiness, forget all, only not the love we have for thee.

My good, noble sire—Yes, I will be tranquil—if I can. Ye are a pair of pious, honest knights—Ye will not trick me out of my eternal happiness.

May God deprive me of mine—though firm in my faith—We walk not on the paths of darkness.

Come! lay your hand upon this sword, and re­peat the oath of eternal secresy.

I swear by God, and all the saints! that this tongue never shall reveal the secret of Adelaide's birth. If I [Page 44] break this promise, may the eternal punishment annexed to perjury, fall upon me! may absolution never restore my peace of mind! may the torments of conscience fol­low me, whithersoever despair may drive me! may it follow me to my death-bed, and torment me in my last moments! May I pray in vain, and when I pray for death, may it be to no purpose. May no sacrament, no priestly benedictions have power to discharge me from this oath! May the grave to which they once will carry me, also be the grave of my secresy, I swear it—so help me God. Amen.

It is done. Embrace me both. The feeling of rest, which these three-and-twenty years was strange to me, returns this day to my bosom: the serene view of a happy old age brightens again this day. I feel so happy, every thing around me appears in a more pleasing light. Come, my son! come to the arms of my double daughter!

Woe's me! What have I done! What shivering per­vades my views!—What anxiety of hell lays hold on me! my oath was blasphemy!—Old sinner—the grave already opens before thee—a dreadful crime bows thy neck!—I am the concealer of incest—thunder clouds are hanging over me—lightening dazzles my eyes—what mountain can conceal me from the sight of the all-seeing judge!

weak old man! thy brains are distracted—Cool thy blood, thou seest ghosts. Throw a glance upon yonder pious couple, on yonder children of innocence, but one glance of humani­ty, it needs no more—What fiend, if he had served in hell for thousands of ages, what fiend would venture to draw upon him the curse of those babes!—But am I not threatened by the damnation of the church! Will they not vomit me out of its bosom? Give me up a prey to the torments of conscience in my last hour? Conscience? have I only a conscience? Are not Hugo and his noble son partners in the deception? Does their example con­tribute nothing to my ease?—Ah! tripple chains of love fetter those innocent hearts, the lustre of wordly things dazzles their eyes, eternity vanishes before their view— [Page 45] Eight years have elapsed, and God has suffered this crime to pass unpunished, no lightening has struck this castle— no hail devastated Wulfingen's fields, the husband, the bro­ther, the wife, the sister—the offspring of incest—all are alive, wake every morning to new happiness—praise their maker with sincerity of mind, yet nothing has hap­pened to them. God marked the brother as a murderer, why not the incestuous man?—Audacious being! dost thou venture to question God's forbearance? to dive into his secret counsels—Miserable wretch! art thou perhaps chosen to put a stop to those horrors? and yet darest to be silent?—look forward to your last hours, when thou wilt pray for consolation, when the priest re­quires thy confession, and before thou canst utter one word, an evil spirit strangles thee! When thou art panting for the holy sacrament, and receive it but to eternal punish­ment! When thou continuest in thy sins, and the devils carry thee before the Almighty's throne!—A­way compassion!—Away, fear of man!—I must save my soul! I must save my soul! rocks are laying upon me! abysses open below me!

holy virgin pray for me!

God's blessing upon thee pious Bertram.

God has sent you hither.

What ails thee! thy looks are wild, as if op­pressed by heavy sins.

Ah! I am tormented by the tempter.

Then throw thyself into the bosom of the holy church, and thou wilt find repose. What is it that tor­ments thee?

Venerable man! thou art pious and learned, do a work of compassion, and solve a doubt.—It is well known to thee that I was eight years among the heathens, many horrid and wicked deeds have I there witnessed, and when I sometimes threatened the sinners with God's punishment; I was laughed at, and refuted by reasoning as they called it.

Reason without faith, is a staff upon the ocean, an anchor upon the main land.

Among them resided a young couple united by sympathy and love, encircled with sweet children. Peace dwelt beneath their roof, unsullied virtue in their hearts, and yet this couple—(would you have believed it, reverend abbot?)—were brother and sister!

Oh God! How long suffering art thou, that the torrents of thy clouds, and Sodom's liquid sulphur have not yet consumed every dwelling of abomi­nation! And thou, old man, darest to ascribe virtues to such people—sinners, who wantonly transgress the most sacred commandments of our God; who, like the sons and daughters of men in the time of our father Noah, daily provoke the Lord to vengeance? Dost thou not know that these seeming virtues are the wiles of the de­ceiver?—I see—(and my heart bleeds) I see that the heathen has corrupted thee. Haste! haste! thou wan­dering chicken! Flee for refuge beneath the wings of the mother church! Chasten thy body by fasting and mor­tification! Ave Maria, ora pro nobis!

Then you think, right learned sir, that if a true believing Christian,—by chance —without knowing it—should have married his sister, such a marriage ought not to be valid.

Holy Norbert! thou offendest my ear by such a question,—Incest—scarce dares my tongue pronounce the word.

Forgive me, reverend abbot, if I wish to dive to the bottom of this matter. Now, if for many years an union, like this, had been to the surrounding country an example, if hopeful and well-educated children—

Hold! I shudder. Woe, woe be on the offspring of incestuous intercourse—Or, think'st thou then, that sin is less a sin, because the dreadful consequences are not visible to short-sighted mortals? Think'st thou that a thief is less a thief, because he revels in apparent peace upon the profits of his spoil?—who is able to fathom the long suffering of God? Who is able to unveil his wise designs, if his arm be slow in launching the avenging bolt?

Oh reverend sir! Answer me but another ques­tion. What must he do, who is privy to a sin like this?

Go, and deliver up the guilty to offended justice, [Page 47] lest, at the latter day, he be condemned together with them.

But if they be his benefactors—

Who is his first benefactor? God. Who has the first, most sacred claim upon his duty? God.

But if he be bound to keep this secret by an oath—

Woe be unto him, who has, in the delirium of his sins, been led away to such an oath! Mistake not. God is not mocked. Has not the church alone the power to bind and to absolve? To break this oath would be the first step towards repentance.

Oh reverend abbot! Hear the confession of a miserable sinner.

No, Bertram—This place is not proper for the dispensations or our holy office.

Hear me, for God's sake, reverend sir! You have wounded me in my most tender part! You have pierced my conscience! You have poured glowing fire through all my bones! For God's sake hear me! Alas! If—oh, if at this moment, the angel of death should seize me, and I should be called to render up my spirit, laden with this weight of sin, without confession and absolution— Oh! have compassion on me, reverend abbot! You are a servant of the Almighty, and one may, at any time, converse with the Almighty.

Proceed, then.

'Tis now some twenty years ago, that early in the morning, Sir Hugo walked into my hut. But a few hours before, my wife had been delivered of a dead child. "Bertram," said he as he threw back his cloak, and showed a new-born infant, "I know thee to be honest, and I place confidence in thy honesty. Behold this girl. She is the fruit of an unhollowed hour, when I forgot the faith, which I had sworn for ever to my wife. Her mo­ther is no more. The child is helpless. Take care of it. Let it be reared as thy own daughter. Here is money for the purpose"

Just Heaven! The scales fall from my eyes. This child—

Is Adelaide.

The wife of her brother.

And mother of two boys.

Wretch! And thou didst not hinder—

Reverend abbot, you forget I was a prisoner.

Is Adelaide acquainted with this dreadful story?

She believes me to be her father.

Holy Virgin! Holy Norbert! What a discovery!

Excellent this will answer.

What think you first of doing reverend sir?

I am a weak mortal, like thyself. Judge not, and ye shall not be judged. I hasten to the temple of the Lord, to watch, this night, at the steps of the altar, and chasten myself with fasting and mortification. Perhaps, God may be pleased to favour his servant with a revelation of his will.

I beg then, reverend sir, that you would grant me absolution.

Appear at the confession-chair to-morrow after matins, and I will then impose some penance on thee, that thou may'st, with a pure heart, receive the holy sacrament.

Willingly, oh how willingly would I wound my back with the sharpest scourges—would I kneel till the flesh was worn from my knees,—would I fast until my body was a skeleton,—if I thereby could rescue the un­happy pair from everlasting damnation.

Joy! Joy! The day is won. The period of silence is now at an end. I laugh at her rigid looks. I laugh at her unshaken fidelity. Shall I, like a fool, any longer stammer forth these distant hints? No. With open front will I declare my passion. Some degree of courage always will be felt, when addressing one who is not totally devoid of guilt.—Welcome, old Bertram, welcome! Hail to thy devout simplicity! It brings me nearer to the goal of my desires, than love, though armed with cunning.

ACT IV.

At last, noble lady you have understood my wink.

Your wink, reverend abbot!— You must be disposed to jest. A pious priest▪ an honest wife—and a wink! How can these agree! Secrets I have none, even at the confession-chair.

Emblem of virtue! You misunderstand me. Methought that to us both the time seemed long, and therefore my wink. The knights are sitting with full goblets, and relating tales of chivalry and war. My garb ordains sobriety in me. My ear is more accustomed to the psalter. You too are out of place, when seated at these revels. The horrid descriptions of stabbing and of hewing, of murder, and of fire, must hurt your tender heart. Can you then think me wrong if, for the sake of milder conversation, I have drawn you hither.

Did you observe how my boys, with open mouths, hung on Sir Hugo's words? Did you observe, how my spindle even sometimes fell upon my lap, when he recounted, in such admirable terms, his feats among the Saracens? I attend with rapture to such dangerous ex­ploits, when related by a humble knight, I feel a pleasure in the pain. I hold my breath, and listen to his every syllable. Nay▪ more than once, I started from my seat with a loud shriek, when my heated imagination saw the faul­chion sweep within a hand's breadth of his head.

Like a child when listening to its nurse's tales.

And as happy as that child.

Such stories serve but to inflame the fancy, and to cause bad dreams.

A bad dream is pleasant too, for the sake of waking

Fair lady, you are fond of contradiction.

I hope my husband is not of the same opinion.

Your husband! every third word must be your husband. Do you live, then, for him alone?

I should think so, reverend abbot.

And, on his account, renounce all sociable virtues?

That were wrong. Nor, does he require it. But where can I find opportunity to exercise them? since the last tournament, at Regensburg, I have not left our castle. Here no one ever visits us, except our stern old uncle, who prefers the pictures in this room, to all the conversation of a simple woman.

Then, to my visits you pay no regard?

Your visits, reverend abbot! Why, yes. Have I ever been uncivil to you? And even if I were, your office teaches you to bear with the failings of your flock.

Yet not to hold my peace, but by good advice endeavour to amend them. Your conduct to me borders on disdain,

and I have not deserved it from you.

Nor was I conscious of it. The reverence which your office must exact—

Is of little value to the heart.

Have you a heart too? I thought it was your duty to renounce it, when you received the tonsure.

My duty! Yes. Yet it will often rebel against my inclination. Ail these oaths and ceremonies are but a farce, to catch the multitude. The church is not so cruel to her children. To be an example to the world we must appear to be poor, chaste, and obedient. But to require, that, in private too, this oath should be inviolable, were to magnify the monk to an angel.

You teach a doctrine which I never heard before.

Noble lady, understand me right. I mean to say, the virtue of a mortal must be reckoned in propor­tion to his strength. I myself can solemnly swear, that since I wore this sacred garb, I never have departed from my duty.

But there are master pieces of creation, to which all vows, and all religion are in vain opposed, where the eye forgets [Page 51] itself, the mouth becomes a liar in its prayer, and the heart enters on its rights.

Reverend abbot let us return to the knights.

No, noble lady. That I must not suffer. My looks must long have been no riddle to you. Long have I been unable to conceal my trouble and confusion. Your image follows me to the mass, the confession-chair, and to the altar.

Fair lady, I love you.

What have I done, sir, that has inspired you with audacity to naake so in­famous a declaration? Have I ever been forgetful of my duty? Have I ever borne the semblance of a painted harlot? Have my eyes ever wandered round me? Has any unguarded word ever betrayed an unchaste heart?— And you dare to avow your love to me—dare, in the presence of God, surrounded by the spirits of my hus­band's ancestors, to attack that nuptial fidelity which I vowed in your hands.

Be not enraged, fair lady—

Enraged! No. I despise you, and haste into Sir Theobald's arms, that I may complain of the indignity, which has so daringly been offered to the companion of his bed.

Hold, Adelaide! as yet my eye is beaming with affection. You know how nearly a rejected passion is allied to hatred, and revenge. Beware!

Leave me sinner! Thou art a dishonour to thy habit, and cover'st villainy with the venerable mantle of religion.

With a single epithet I can annihilate thee.

Where can slander find an epithet, able to anni­hilate virtue?

Incestuous.

You have lost your senses.

Thou art thy brother's wife.

You have lost your senses.

Never were they clearer. Thou need'st but ask [Page 52] old Bertram. Thou need'st but ask thy (what shall I call him father-in-law.) At once wife and sister—at once aunt and mother. A goodly family in truth!—

Forget not, sir, that you must render full account of what you now declare.

Account! Why not? Do you suppose that there is any want of proofs? One word may suffice, You are the offspring of a happy hour, in which Sir Hugo revel­led on the charms of some poor wench. Bertram was but your foster father. The heathens carried him away, and you become your brother's wife.

This is too much. Remember that I am a wife and mother, that you are plunging a soul into despair. Retract your dreadful declaration, or produce some testimony of its truth.

Are you not satisfied with the confession of old Bertram, which he, tormented by his conscience, has en­trusted to my ear?

Heavens! It is not—cannot be.

'Tis even thus, fair lady. Yet need you feel no fear, while I remain your friend. Collect yourself. All may yet be well. Away with that rigid look! Learn to know and esteem my heart. You can no longer be Sir Theobald's wife. I must report what has happened to the holy chair at Rome, but you well know, that all de­pends upon the mode in which I report it, I will con­trive, that instead of being punished, you shall be fixed in the neighbouring nunnery at Siegmar, for your life.— This nunnery, my beauteous Adelaide, is by a subterrane­ous road, connected with my abbey. The abbess is my friend, Yeu shall want nothing, and your affectionate Cyrillus will esteem himself a happy man, in sweetening your solitary hours.

Scum of infamy! hence, thou infernal hypocrite! Revere my misery! Revere the sufferings of virtue— Thou never shalt degrade me to a deed unworthy of that title.

Exasperate me no. Remember that your fate rests in my hands.

Say in the hands of God.

Do you still resist my love? Are you determined [Page 53] to drag me by compulsion to a vengeance the most horri­ble?

Begone, villain! Obey the devil, whom thou servest.

Enough! As you are deaf to the voice of a friend, hearken to the priest of God—In the name of the crucifi­ed, I pronounce damnation on you! In the church I pro­nounce its ban upon you! Cursed be Theobald, and his incestuous wife! Cursed be their children, and their children's children! Let no true believer have compassion on their hunger and their thirst. Let fire and water be de­nied them through the holy Roman empire! Let him be defiled who dares to touch them! Let this castle, the seat of rank abomination, be demolished, and not one stone left upon another! Let the armour of the knight be bro­ken at his feet! Let him and the partner of his infamy be chained together to a pile of wood, and vomit forth their sinful souls amidst the flames, to the glory of God's commandments! Then, head-strong being, when the fire shall have reached thy hair, and when the smoke already chokes thy utterance, then call in vain for succour and relief to the despised Cyrillus. With the smile of satis­fied revenge, I'll listen to thee, and withdraw the glowing coals, to feast upon thy lengthened sufferings.

Heavens! what is the meaning of all this?—My joints totter—My head swims—I cannot yet con­ceive the horrors of my situation. I fancy all a dream— and look around for some kind soul who can relieve me from it. But in vain!—Whichever way I look— or here—or there—despair is standing with a ghastly grin. —Bertram's dubious conduct now too plainly verifies the dire assertion!—Oh! from the summit of happiness and peace, thus, in a moment, plunged into the bottom­less abiss of desolation!—Nor I alone—my hus­band—children—Heavens!—My children!— Is there then no possibility of saving them?—will not one sacrifice atone for all to God and to the church? I am ready—I'll fly into the deserts—waste my life in dreary solitude—mourn in distant cloisters—mercy on­ly, mercy on Theobald, and his guiltless children!—On me alone fall the vengeance of the Lord!—against me a­lone, who, forgetful of myself, dared to exchange the [Page 54] lowly cottage for the grandeur of the castle, be the arm of the Lord stretched out—not against him, that generous youth, who, in the fullness of affection, led a poor orphan to his bridal chamber, and now finds the grave of his re­pose in the arms of his sister!—Away! away! Adelaide, through night and darkness—Haste! Fly till thy wounded feet can no longer support thee!—Away to de­serts!—Bury thyself within some holy convent, that he may never hear thy name again—Alas! 'tis all in vain! —This hypocrite, this monk pronounced a curse up­on my children, and my children's children.—A mo­ther's wretched fate will not alone content him. He will annihilate us all!—Oh! to whom may I, without sin, confide my misery?—but soft! who comes?—Away!— away! away! into the garden! Every one who dwells within this castle is a companion in my guilt!

Oh! the unhappy creature knows already!—

My daughter! My dear daughter!

Ah! Repeat that name!—Give me life again—Declare once more I am your daughter.

Come hither, father! It was false. Was it not?—That Monk is full of poison.— Poisonous wicked lies!—Were they not, my father?

You do not answer. Perhaps you do not understand my words—He has dared to say that I am not your daugh­ter—and I love you so tenderly!

You want to speak, I understand you. 'Twas silly to torment myself for such a reason.—Your Adelaide is but a child.

With what affection do you share your daughter's grief!—Who can now doubt that you are my father?— Peace! Peace!—'twas but a phantom!—'Tis past, and I am well again.

He is praying. I ought not to disturb him. But my heart! My heart! It will burst from my bosom. Dear fa­ther! Let me only hear one syllable. With one single syllable I will be content. I own that my alarm is folly, yet—think—your child is now before you.

Good heavens! Is it then so difficult but once to call me daughter? While I was little, when at any time you held me on your knee, and I was playing with your beard, I've often heard you say: "Dear child, thou art my only joy." And now surely I cannot have offended you.— Oh, quick!—Call me your daughter!—Quick! my fa­ther! Think but, if that were true which the vile monk declared—Your poor Adelaide—and the poor litttle children—

— Yet speak!—Father! father!—Oh! speak to me!—

Call me daughter! For God's sake! call me daughter!

No! Thou art not my daugh­ter!

Oh, God! Oh, God!

The cup is empty to its last dregs. I'll follow her. Despair has hur­ried her away, and may perhaps lead her to the edge of [Page 56] some steep precipice, or to the river's brink. I'll follow her, and if my search be vain, plunge after her.

How, reverend abbot! could you vanish thus, ere you had pledged a welcome to me, in the goblet ornamented with my arms? You pious men, are not in general averse to wine.

Wine cheers the heart of man. My heart is bleed­ing, and is dead to every joy.

Bleeding! what may have happened to it?.

The abominations of the world have wounded it.

Oh! think not of them. The world will neither go worse nor better than it did a thousand years since, and will, another thousand hence. It turns round, and stum­bles over good and bad. The bad we generally ourselves throw in its way.

Sir knight, detain me not. The bell has rung for vespers.

No longer than is needful to present you with some gifts, which I collected for your abbey when in Palestine. A thorn twig from the crown of Christ, green and un­withered: a splinter of the holy cross, on which a drop of blood has fallen, that no hand is able to wash off.— And a piece of the garment, for which the soldiers cast lots. Enter, and receive these reliques from the hands of my son.

Not from his, nor from your hands, Sir knight.

[...]!—Well—as you please. What has entered your head now?

Have you patience to hear me?

Yes, if you be not too tedious. For, the wine sparkles in the cup.

Stretched at midnight, sleepless in my cell, I felt a strange oppression at my breast, and big drops stood upon my clay cold brow.

You had eat too much before you went to bed.

Scoffer! know that I speak in the name of the Almighty, Already I had prepared to leave my couch, and enter on some penance, when suddenly a more than mortal light illuminated my cell. I lighted up my eyes, [Page 57] and lo, the angel of the Lord stood before me in snow-white raiment. His forehead was covered with a cloud. in his right hand he held a sword. Then I fell down on my face, and prayed.

Well! what said the heavenly mes­senger?

He said: "Among thy flock are tainted sheep, and from the hand of the shepherd, shall I require their souls in the last day."

Was this all?

He said: "Sin has lifted up her head. The seed of destruction has taken root. The dark ages, which went before the flood, are come again."

Well! Further!

He said: "Men have transgressed the holy law of marriage. They have become the seducers of innocence, and have given their daughters to be wives unto their sons."

Now, sir knight! why thus altered? Whither is your sportive scoffing humour fled? Will you hear me more? He said: "Arise! Arm thyself with the church's ban. Report this abomination to the sacred representatives of Saint Peter, that he may snatch the incestuous wife from her brother's arms, that he may destroy all, which has been generated in the lap of sin, that he may utterly extinguish this race which is a shame unto the righteous, that he may give both the root and branches to the flames, and scatter the ashes to the four winds of Heaven.

We are lost, my son. God has given us into the hands of a blood-thirsty monk.

Heavens! How is it possible—

How! Bertram is perjured—that is evident. The appearance of the angel is a pious fraud.

Then shall this sword be plunged into the hoary traitor's—

Hold, my son! First rescue, then revenge.

Alas! How is rescue possible? He is gone, to [Page 58] bellow forth our wretched story, poisoned with all his rancour, to the fanatic priests at Rome. Nothing now remains, but to close the gates of our castle, and fight till its huge walls shall tall upon our heads.

No, My son. That were only unavailing rash­ness. The Roman church will call on every knight throughout the empire. All our neighbours, friends, relations, must direct their arms against us. What can'st thou oppose to such a force?

Resolution to die. Resolution, with this hand. to slay my wife and children, and then to bury myself beneath the ruins of our castle.

'Tis well. I rejoice to find thou art a man. Be this our last resource.

Our last and only resource. I hasten to make preparations, to provide ourselves with victuals, to re­pair our walls, collect my followers—

Be not so rash, my son.

Has fate, then, left no other means?

None bat ignominious flight.

Ignominious! Why ignominious? Is a hero less courageous, if he forsake the uncertain shelter of an oak, because the approaching lightning threatens to rend it from its base?

Enough! Let us fly. Let us turn our backs upon this castle, and, in some distant country, seek a hut large enough to hold a loving couple, small enough to escape the eyes of our pursuers.—Heavens! What a thought darts across my mind!—Mistivoi! Honest! old Mistivoi!

My father, this token of hospitality was given me by a hea­then. Little did I imagine, I so soon should use it.

No, my son. Flight brings us no nearer to our purpose—peace. Flight is impossible, at least so long as Adelaide is unprepared. What pretence could'st thou urge for her following thee? To conceal the truth from her would be impossible, and to disclose it, highly dangerous. Thou know'st my thoughts upon this sub­ject. She is a woman.

True—but a woman far above her sex; noble and exalted in her sentiments, pious without superstition, [Page 59] stedfast, and resolute in danger. And do you reckon nothing in her love for me?

All, my son. But thou know'st not how firmly prejudices, which have been instilled in childhood, are rooted in the soul of woman, and the more firmly▪ the less they are loosened by an acquaintance with the world. Hast thou not to-day confessed to me, thyself, that it was only the last bloody scene of desolation, which had proved to thee the cruelty and injustice of excursions for our church?—No. I have hit upon another plan. Thou know'st, that, to defray the ex­pences of my journey to the holy land, I mortgaged Rappach and Simmern to the abbey. Let us find the abbot, and, as the price of secrecy, make him a full donation of these two villages. The avarice of a priest will secure to us what zeal for God's honour never will tolerate.

But how, if he refuse—

'Twill then be soon enough to think of other means. Come! Let us haste, ere in the rage of blind fanaticism, he has roused against us, the whole body of the church.

Fool that I was, to think that I could bribe a monk with reliques! As if they wanted help to make as many as they pleased!—

Still am I left alone.—Every living creature shuns me.—I was-in the garden:—The birds flew from me:—Not a butterfly came near me:—Every flower I touched sunk shrivelled to the ground.—I looked towards Heaven:—The sun withdrew behind a cloud.—What is to become of me?—I am the most desolate wretch on earth.—Who will have pity enough to kill me?—

What men are these around me. with swords girt on their sides?—All stare at me—and yet the blades start not from their scabbards.

Have com­passion [Page 60] on me, thou that lookest so sternly at me!—Rid the earth of a monster!—Or, if thou think thy sword too noble to be stained with my incestuous blood, lift up that foot, and, with its iron armour, tread on my neck, as on a poisonous worm.—I ask in vain!—'Tis my doom, to linger here, a pray to all the agonies of conscience.—If I could but prey—if any one would but prey for me.—Where are my children?—

Children! Have I children?—Have I a husband?—I am not a mother.—I cannot be a mother.—What I have born has been the brood of hell. Satin's grin was ming­led with the first smile of my babes.—Guide them hither, great Avenger, that I may sprinkle these massy walls with their brains, collect their scattered limbs, consume their bones with fire, and give them to the hurricane, to sweep the dust aloft!—

Where am I?—My eyes are dim.—Methinks it must be evening.—All is so still—so still!—No bird is singing.—Not a gnat is humming.—The sun sets.—To-morrow, perhaps, he will throw his ear­liest beams upon my grave, and kiss a tear from my dear brother's cheek.—Where will they dig my grave?—Be­neath the lime-trees towards the East?—Oh no!—Among the nettles, under the wall of our church-yard.—They will fix a small black cross upon it.—"The Lord have mercy on her soul."—Yes.—Die—I will die—I, and my poor children. Without him I cannot live; with him I must not live.—God will judge us. He will cleanse their tainted souls for millions of years in pur­gatory, and, at last, receive the innocents among his angels.—The idea dawns.—To die!—No evil spirit has inspired that thought.

Holy mother of God! Behold, a sinner kneels before thee in the dust! Mer­cifully deign to look upon me, and if the dark design of death, which broods within my soul, be not the de­lusion of my own brain, or the instigation of the tempter, oh! vouchsafe some miracle to me, thy handmaid! Steel my breast, nerve my hand, and arm me with some instrument of murder, that I may discover, thou art with me!

Mother! mother! look at this dagger—My grandfather took it from the Sa­racens—See how it glitters.

I am heard!

Only look, mother! only look!

Dear mother it's sharp!

Is it so?

Dear mother, what's the matter?

Are you ill, dear mother?

Ill! very ill—weak, very weak. Blessed mother of the Crucified, complete thy miracle! Oh strengthen me▪

Come brother!

Come, and let us pray for my mother.

Whither would you go?—Back!—

Back! spawn of hell!—This aim is consecrated by the Lord—An! Ye shall not escape it. Immortal strength is given to this hand!—Tremble!—Your hour is come!

Oh brother! What does she mean?

Dear mother! my father will be coming soon— Let us go to meet him.

Father, said'st thou?—Who is thy father?— Ha! Viper!—Must thou still recal it to my mind?

—Hold! Come hither, Wilibald—Come hi­ther Ottomar—Tell me—Have you said your prayers to-day?

Oh yes, dear mother.

What was your prayer?

That God would be merciful to us.

God be merciful to you!

You're crying, dear mother.

Answer me further. Have you, since you said your prayers, done nothing wrong?

I've done nothing wrong, I'm sure, mother.

I—I took a bird's egg from one of the village boys. I am very sorry for it.

Kneel down, and beg God's forgiveness.

God will forgive me: for I'll give him all the first nest I find.

There—'Tis done!—The moment is arrived—Guide my arm! oh God!—Let me but reach the heart at once—that I may not see the struggles—that I may not hear the groans—Away! away! Quick!

Dear mother!

In vain does the stern sense of duty exact the murder of these sweet innocents. They are the fruit of infamy, an abomination both to God and man. Look! ye inexorable judges, look at this guiltless smiling face— In truth, if Satan be concealed behind this mask, no won­der he so easily seduces saints. This child has robb'd another of an egg. This is the heaviest transgression▪ and he heartily repents it.

I do indeed, dear mother.

He has prayed too, this morning. His prayer was not the gabble of a vile dissembling monk. 'Twas that pure praise, which God has prepared for himself, from the mouths of infants. No—in the eye of God, you are forgiven, you and your parents: for they knew not [Page 63] what they did. Come, children,—Help your mother to seek consolation in your father's arms.

Woe be upon me! What am I about to do? Some infernal spirit is trying to delude me—is trying to rob me of my last and only con­solation—happiness hereafter. 'Till now I have been ig­norant, and the mercy of my judge will pardon me. But the next embrace must be eternal death—In vain does the tempter whisper to me: "'Tis but fraternal love. A sister sure may clasp a brother to her heart." Begone, ye lures to sin!—I cannot command my heart. 'Tis the heart of a fond loving wife—a sister's love is foreign to it. —God has passed his heaviest denunciation upon incest. —Did not the abbot say this?—Did he not curse me and my children?—Did not the holy Virgin arm me by a miracle?—Was it not the finger of the Highest, which pointed to the sacrifice, ordained to be offered to him by my hands?—Oh temporal and eternal welfare of my chil­dren, the most sacred of a mother's cares, what will be­come of you, if, in this hour my strength forsakes me?— Come nearer, my pretty ones. Tell me what you mean to do, should you ever become men?

I'll be a brave knight, like my father.

So will I, mother.

I'll do good to the poor, protect widows and or­phans, and rescue the oppressed: for my father says, these are the duties of a knight.

I'll do all this too, mother.

Will you indeed?—Alas! no. You never can be knights—No one will engage with you—No one will draw his sword against you—Your name will he erased from heraldry—The badge will be torn from your hel­mets—Your horses will be slain—Your armour broken, and your shield trodden upon. Overwhelmed with ig­nominy, you will fly the lists, and curse the breasts which gave you suck. You will take refuge in deserts and in forests: will turn your backs on the demesnes of your fore­fathers, and be pursued into every quarter by the church's ban—The pious man will strike a cross when he espies you at a distance—The dastardly assassin will, unpunish­ed, [Page 64] plunge a dagger in your hearts, and give your Carca­ses for food to ravenous vultures—No—

No! Rather shall you perish by a mother's hand— Never shall any base poltroon be able to attack you!— Never shall your name be marked with infamy! Never shall whispering slander tell your mother's crime! Ye shall not wander in the wilderness, scratching the earth for food, suing to the clouds of heaven for drink, cursing the creator and your own existence. My soul was pure and undefiled when I conceived you. My soul is pure and undefiled in this sad hour—Oh God, their spirits came from thee. Thou gavest them to me. Take them back, and hereafter let me find thee at thy throne

Why do you tremble, chil­dren?—Why do you look at me so fearfully?—Do not tremble—You will be happy—You have prayed—You have done nothing wrong—Come hither, Wilibald, —Embrace me—Embrace your mother once again.

Dear mother—

— Farewell! beloved child, farewell!

Oh, my brother!

There! 'tis done! But another struggle!—But one convulsion more!—Now he's dead—the spirit gone—its tenement momentary—There soars the liberated soul—Its chains are broken—A more than mortal lustre folds it—And see —an angel takes charge of him—leads him with friendly guidance to the throne of God—There he stands!— Sweet babe!—Why art thou there alone?—Where is thy brother?

Dear mother, let me live?

Ha!—What sobs in the dark there?—Speak!—Answer me!

It's little Ottomar.

Thou still here! and alone!—Where is thy bro­ther?

Oh!—There he lies.

'Tis false!—Canst thou not hear his call? Art thou deaf to thy brother's voice?

I hear nothing, dear mother.

Hark!—Again—And now a third time! Look up! He is smiling on us—He beckons: He calls!— Quick! Quick! follow him.

Oh! Mother! Oh! poor little Ottomar—

Away, basilisk!

Ha! that was well aimed: that hit the vital part! He moves no more!—Not one more sigh—Tri­umph—Triumph—I have torn them from the claws of Satan—There they hover hand in hand—Their voice is hymns of praise, their raiment light—Triumph—Triumph —I laugh at the church's ban, and at its threats— The sacrifice is offered. God look down, well pleased.

Away!—Away—to chapel— Away to supplication and thanksgiving—

Hold! This is blood—Thus I dare not pass the thresholds of the temple—Thus stained with blood, I dare not sprinkle myself with consecrated water, nor strike the token of the holy cross upon my bo­som—I will wash myself—I will go down to the well, where my beloved waits.

What is this?—Gently! Gently! Hist! The children are asleep—Oh that I may not have been too loud— See!—This poor boy must have some horrid dream— His mouth seems contorted, as if he were in pain—Poor child! The gnats will not suffer him to sleep—They have stung him till he bleeds—Stop! Stop!

There, little slumber­er! [Page 66] Sleep in peace! But what have I left for this?— Shall I for this boy's sake, tear my veil?—Is it not large enough to cover both?—Why do you lie at such a dis­tance from each other, as if some storm had cast you hi­ther? ?—Let me bring this close to his brother—Gently —softly, that he may not wake—

What art thou doing, Adelaide?

Hist! Hist! I have sung the boys to sleep.

Jesus Maria!

Heavens! Too late! Wretched being! What hast thou done?

I sung a pret­ty hymn—The holy Virgin taught me—and while I sung the sweet boys dropped asleep.

Alas! She raves!—

Hist!—Speak lower, grey-beard—I'll go into the garden—I'll pluck flowers—violets, roses, pinks and lilies. I'll scatter them upon my cherubs—and when they wake, with pleasant odours round them, they will reward their mother with a kiss for all her care—Sit down here, old man—Beware, lest any breath of wind disturb [Page 67] the veil—Or any gnat come near to sting them—Hush! —In a moment I return—

Almighty God! Oh, let this sacrifice to superstitious madness, be the last, and receive these guiltless souls among thy holy host of angels!