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"The body of the baroness?"

"She must be consigned to the tomb, baron."

"The vault of Zindorf," said the baron, "is under the little oratory that joins the chapel."

"The ceremony of the interment of the baroness," said the count, thoughtfully, "may have a favourable effect upon the mind of her niece as regards our schemes."

"Then you advise that she be consigned to the tomb with pomp and ceremony?"

"I do," answered Durlack. "Let Francisco again play the priest."

"It may be done," answered the baron.

"At what hour?"

"It is the custom of the Zindorfs to bury their dead at midnight," answered the baron, with a slight shudder.

"Let it be so in this case then," said the count. "I wish by the ceremony to enfeeble the nerves of Caroline Mecklenburgh."

"The solemn hour then, count, will aid in producing such an effect."

"It will," replied the count.

"Shall it be to-night?"

"Most certainly. Can everything be prepared?"

"Easily. The castle contains all the means and appliances to render such ceremonies impressive and solemn."

"Omit nothing then, baron, that can affect the imagination."

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"It shall be done, count, as you desire."

"Enough," said Durlack. "I will now endeavour to seek some repose, for I am wearied."

"Adieu, then, for the present," said the baron.

The confederates separated. The count retired to his chamber, and the baron, summoning Roland, gave him minute directions concerning the obsequies of the deceased baroness.

Caroline Mecklenburgh retired to her chamber, with the most distracted feelings. She threw herself upon the couch, and sobbed loudly in the bitterness of her mental anguish and despair.

There was but one ray of hope that she could flatter her heart with for a single moment—Euphoric. He was her only hope and trust; should he prove false or weak, all would be black despair.

Several hours she spent a prey to the most harrowing and gloomy reflections. In vain she tried to repose her mind sufficiently to endeavour to decide upon some course of action, independent of Euphoric’s exertions, and which, at the same time, should not interfere with them. She could not think calmly. The mental struggle was in vain. The most gloomy images constantly usurped the place in her mind or rational reflection, and she could but repeat over and over again in frantic accents,

"Claudio a prisoner, and my poor aunt dead!"

There are many minds, and strong ones, too, that can support themselves well during a period of action; but when the exciting events are over—when the struggle is past—when there is nothing more to be done, but everything to be endured—then the mind, left to prey upon itself, conjures up fearful images, and peoples stillness and solitude with more terrors than ever the tumult of intense action could possibly have presented to it.

"Claudio, Claudio!" cried Caroline, " ‘tis I—I who have consigned thee to a living tomb! I induced your stay in this abode of horrors. To save me you came to the chapel. I clung selfishly to your arm, and now—now—oh, Heavens! I have destroyed you!"

She started from her couch in the wild agony of her feelings, and flew to the turret stairs.

"At least," she cried, "I may share your captivity, Claudio. By your dungeon door I can breathe my last sigh!"

With rapid steps she ascended to the turret chamber. She flew to the trap-door and attempted to raise it.

"They have fastened it," she cried, clasping her hands in despair. "Even that poor boon is denied me—the consolation of dying near him."

"My aunt too—my poor aunt. Good Heavens! has she fallen a victim to her feeling for me? Am I to be the cause of misery and destruction to all that is dear to me?"

She glanced wildly round the turret

"Claudio! Claudio!" she cried; "where art thou? I—I think my reason totters. Help! I—I know not where I am. Ha! who calls?"

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"Lady," said a low voice.

"Who—who calls?" again cried Caroline; "does my imagination mock me, or do I hear some one calling on the wretched Caroline Mecklenburgh."

She cast her eyes towards the turret door, and beheld Euphoric.

"Euphoric?" she cried.

"Yes, lady the poor Euphoric. Take comfort. Hope, lady. Claudio will yet be saved. Euphoric will be the instrument of happiness to others although his own heart is broken—broken—broken."

The page covered his face with his hands, and in a paroxysm of hysterical weeping, sunk upon his knees upon the floor, and presented the most piteous spectacle of intense grief that Caroline could imagine.

The sympathies of the kind-hearted girl were in a moment awakened for the situation of the poor boy who knelt before her in such agony. He, who in the midst of a sorrow which seemed to threaten dissolution to his frame, had spoken words of comfort to her, and told her to hope. Could she now see him unmoved in the bitterness of his despair?

"Euphoric," she cried; "be you comforted. Do not, oh, do not give way thus to sorrow. How selfish is grief. I thought not of thee, Euphoric, when complaining of the decrees of Providence."

Euphoric’s grief, which was of much too violent a character to last long with such intensity, had now subsided partially, and low sobs now alone testified the bitterness of his feelings.

"Oh, Euphoric!" said Caroline; "what can I say to bring consolation to thee?"

"Nothing, lady, nothing," he replied.

"Rise, and let us both, Euphoric, learn to bear with more patience those evils with which we are afflicted."

"The paroxysm is over, lady," answered Euphoric; "I am calm again. It is not often that I give way thus, but the events of the morning and the night had worked upon my soul, and I must have died or wept."

"I might have thought, Euphoric," said Caroline; "what you must have suffered. You bore it bravely."

"It was hard to bear," said Euphoric; "but something gave me strength, even in the presence of the bones of my slaughtered father, to talk calmly, and even smile upon his murderer."

"Talk not of it, Euphoric," said Caroline.

"Nay," he answered; "I am calm now, lady, and shall be so for many days, if that I live so long."

"You do but torture your feelings."

"No, the burst of concentrated feeling is past, lady. I can speak of it all calmly now. I could look upon the mouldering skeleton of my father with a countenance unmoved by a single pang."

"But you would feel a pang, Euphoric."

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"The heart may be breaking, lady," he replied, "while the lips smile upon the ruin."

"What purpose have you, Euphoric," said Caroline, "in this fearful struggle with your feelings?"

"A solemn purpose," he answered. "A holy duty."

"What is it?"

"Vengeance! Blood for blood!"

"Oh! Euphoric, leave vengeance to Heaven."

"I do," answered Euphoric. "Heaven will make me the instrument of its revenge against murder."

"What is your special purpose, Euphoric?"

"Justice!"

"Upon whom?"

"The murderers of my father—the Count Durlack and the Baron Zindorf."

"But you have been, Euphoric, in daily communication with the count for a long period, as I understand. "

"I have, lady—I have been his ruin. I have foil his villanies—embittered his triumphs. His life is mine at any time."

Caroline saw that it was useless to attempt to dissuade the page from his schemes of revenge against those from whom he had received so fearful an injury, and she merely said—

"I have little hope of prevailing upon you, Euphoric, to follow my advice; but the laws of his country must of necessity involve the count and the baron in destruction. You know they are threatened."

"The Count Durlack," answered the page, "is a bold villain. Escape from the castle he cannot. It will be attacked. He would then, if permitted, find a hasty death in honourable combat."

"Your vengeance would thus be satisfied," said Caroline.

The black eyes of Euphoric glared like fire upon Caroline as he repeated—

"Satisfied—satisfied?"

"The count would have fallen a victim to his crimes," persisted Caroline.

"No, no," cried the page, "I would give half my heart’s blood to save him from the chances of the fight. No—in some moment when he dreams not of danger, when his blood flows temperately through his veins—when he is dreaming of joy, success, and life, then only must he die, and he must know the hand from which the blow comes."

"We will talk no more of this, Euphoric," said Caroline.

"I have brought you refreshment," said the page, immediately resuming his ordinary tone. "In your chamber you will find all that you require."

"Are you alone, Euphoric?" said Caroline.

"I am," answered the page.

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"Then I am scarcely a prisoner, Euphoric. You have the key of the ante-room?"

"I have, lady; but whither could you fly? You cannot leave the castle. You are better here until some circumstance favourable to an escape occurs."

"True, Euphoric," said Caroline, with a sigh. "I will remain. But tell me, when and how do you intend to release Claudio?"

"To-night, when all is still, I will seek the vaults."

"A heavy weight hangs by this trap-door, Euphoric, which I fear will resist our utmost efforts to raise it."

"I will bring with me the means of overcoming that difficulty," said Euphoric. "Our great hope now is to put off any evil of magnitude until the arrival of Sir Gaston de Beauvais, who will then soon make himself master of Zindorf Castle."

"If you can gain access to the dungeon, Euphoric, Claudio might even again take possession of this turret chamber."

"That would be dangerous," answered Euphoric. "What I proposed to do was, to carry him to the south wing of the castle."

"Why there, Euphoric?"

"I am told, lady, there is there a suite of rooms that have not been visited since the last, or rather, first baroness’s death."

"I recollect, now," said Caroline, "that my poor aunt once mentioned as much to me, when I first came to Zindorf."

"There," continued the page, "both Claudio and Maurice might lie concealed until such time as they could shew themselves with safety."

"Oh, Euphoric!" exclaimed Caroline; "how can I express to you my grateful feelings? You will save me from despair."

"What can be done, lady," answered Euphoric, with a sigh, "that will I do."

"Heaven reward you, Euphoric!"

"I thank you," said Euphoric. "My life is devoted to one object. In the accomplishment of that I may be sacrificed."

"We will talk of that another time, Euphoric. You will think calmer of it."

"Should my purpose grow weak, and my nerves lose their power," said the page, "there is a sight in the dungeon of Claudio, that would rouse me from the lethargy of death."

"Let us descend to the lower chamber," said Caroline. "My despair brought me hither, Euphoric. Does the count still inhabit the chamber adjoining mine?"

"He does, but fear nothing from him until the time agreed upon has expired. He has sanguine hopes of your consent."

"Do you know, Euphoric—or can you guess," cried Caroline, when they had reached her chamber, "why the Count Durlack is so anxious for an union with me, who am a penniless orphan?"

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"I had forgotten," cried the page, "I should have told you that before, but my brain is seething with thought, and events have followed each other in such quick succession, that I remembered it not. It is your property."

"My property?"

"Aye, lady. Some estates he won of your father at play, and which he now finds he can lay no legal claim to, as they were secured to you."

"I knew not of this," said Caroline.

"That is the main object," continued Euphoric, "and were it once accomplished, your fate would most probably be that of the many who have fallen victims to the evil passions of the Count Durlack."

"What fate, Euphoric?"

"Poison!"

Caroline shuddered. "Oh!" she said, "if he would but take all and leave me life, liberty, and Claudio."

"Do not be deceived by such a proposition from the Count Durlack," said Euphoric, anxiously. "Your life is safe now, because you hold the power in your hands only, of alienating these estates from yourself. Once resign that power, and you are but a dangerous encumbrance to the baron and the count."

"Euphoric," said Caroline, "I am deeply beholden to you. You advise me with a wisdom beyond your years."

"The wretched," answered Euphoric, "grow old early."

"You would advise me, then, at all hazards, to refuse my consent to part with this property, which I knew not, till now, I am possessed of?"

"Not at all hazards," answered Euphoric. "Sign anything, if pushed to an extremity; but temporize while it is possible to do so with safety. If you do make over your estates to the Count Durlack, have one condition prescribed."

"What is that, Euphoric?"

"That they revert to you again at his death."

"Wherefore? the count may outlive me."

"No lady. He will die early. I must now leave you."

"I shall expect you at nightfall, Euphoric."

"At midnight, lady, when all is still, I will be here."

"Farewell till then, Euphoric."

"Heaven grant you repose, lady, till then," said Euphoric.

He left the room and carefully locked the door of the ante-chamber behind him, and Caroline was once more left to the solitude of her chamber and the company of her own reflections.

Euphoric had, however, imparted to her much hope and consolation, and after commending herself, and all that were dear to her, to the care of an all-seeing Providence, she threw herself on her couch to endeavour to seek that repose which she stood so much in need of.

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CHAPTER XLIV.

FREDERIQUE followed the Chevalier D’Anville with feelings of the greatest pleasure.

They had not proceeded far when the young soldier heard the murmuring of the little rivulet along the course, of which he had the day before taken his way; a way which had led him to the abode of her, who he felt must, henceforward, be associated with all that was happy and delightful in his existence.

"Your story, chevalier," said Frederique, "must be an interesting and eventful one."

"It is, indeed," answered D’Anville; "you shall hear it, Frederique, and judge for yourself whether I be not more sinned against than sinning."

"I long to hear your narration," cried Frederique; "your peculiar situation must certainly have exposed you to much adventure and vicissitude."

"It has," answered the chevalier; "had it not been for one who has ever been dearer to me than life and even honour, I should have lacked energy to struggle with the unmerited contumely and reproach which I have now, for some years, endured at the hands of a prince for whom I have fought and bled."

"And that dear one?" said Frederique.

"Is Constance. A model of gentle virtue."

"I do believe it," cried Frederique.

"She has cheered my existence," continued D’Anville; "soothed my despair, and lent a charm even to poverty and persecutions."

"Oh, rare creation," cried Frederique; "I thought her some sylvan goddess descended from her high estate, to lend a beauty beyond nature to the verdant forest."

"Heaven," said D’Anville, "reserves always for the unfortunate and innocent some dear consolation which lifts them above repining, and bows their tormentors in grovelling and hopeless despair. But see, Frederique, we are now at the entrance to the vaults of the castle of the ancient Baron Zindorf."

"I missed," said Frederique, "the path we are now treading, and cut my way through the bushes with my sword."

"All the mischief you did yesterday," replied the Chevalier D’Anville, with a smile, "Has been carefully repaired by some hours early labour this morning. Every broken twig has been removed—fresh bushes have been planted, and the original impervious mildness of the spot fully restored."

"I regret that I occasioned so much trouble," said Frederique."

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"I do not," said D'Anville; "the news you bring me more than compensates for ten times the alarm and inconvenience your arrival occasioned to myself and others, whose lives are their most ticklish possessions.’

"You have companions here?"

"Yes," answered the chevalier; "I have under my command thirty of as brave men as ever lived."

"How do they exist?"

"We have store of provision for another month."

"May I ask who are they?"

"You may, and I cannot answer you. What they were some short time since I can fully tell you."

"I long to hear."

"Soldiers disbanded," said D’Anville, "and then—"

"What?"

"Banditti!"

"Robbers, Chevalier D’Anville?"

"Even so, Frederique; they formed part of the army of the Duke of Saissons, which I dare say you know was disbanded under calamitous circumstances, and the soldiery reduced suddenly to want and misery."

"I have heard Sir Gaston lament the circumstance you speak of."

"These men," continued D’Anville, "endured the greatest privations in a weary march of three hundred miles, intending to ask service of our king. On their road they came to this forest—Worn out with hunger and fatigue, they yielded to an impulse they could not controul, and plundered the neighbouring village of every morsel of provision."

"What followed?" said Frederique.

"Why, Frederique," continued the chevalier, with a smile, "the villagers and a large force from several of the strongholds of the nobility followed, and they must have been sacrificed in the woods, had they not met with me."

"How did you save them, chevalier?"

"I conducted them to this place, and there they remained concealed till the pursuit had abated."

"How did they subsist?" asked Frederique.

"I had jewels of some value," said D’Anville; "these I sent by three of the troop, disguised as merchants to the capital, where they disposed of them; and from the neighbouring hamlets since then, we have cautiously purchased much provision, which, together with the abundant game in the forest, has kept us all in good cheer. A complaint was forwarded to court, we ascertained, concerning the plundering of the village, and as the men were all known soldiers, none could, with any regard to safety, appear until a pardon from the king could be obtained, which we had no means even of soliciting."

"Your narration," said Frederique, "is most interesting and singular.