CHAPTER XI. Near a fortnight had elapsed without producing any appearance of hostility from the Marquis. When one night, long after the hour of repose, Julia was awakened by the bell of the monastery. She knew it was not the hour of customary for prayer, and she listened to the sounds which rolled through the deep silence of the fabric with strong surprise and terror. Presently she heard the doors of several cells creak on their hinges and the sound of quick footsteps in the passages, and through the crevices of her door she distinguished passing lights. The whispering noise of steps increased, and every person of the monastery seemed to have awakened. Her terror heightened. It occurred to her that the Marquis had surrounded the Abbey with his people, in the design of forcing her from her retreat, and she arose in haste with an intention of going to the chamber of Madame de Menon when she heard a gentle tap at the door. Her enquiry of who was there was answered in the voice of Madame, and her fears were quickly dissipated, for she learned the bell was a summons to attend a dying nun, who was going to the high altar there to receive extreme unction. She quitted the chamber with Madame, in her way to the church the gleam of tapers on the walls, and the glimpse, which her eye often caught of the friars in their long black habits, descending silently through the narrow winding passages with the solemn toll of the bell, conspired to kindle imagination and to impress her heart with sacred awe. But the church exhibited a scene of solemnity such as she had never before witnessed. Its gloomy aisles were imperfectly seen by the rays of tapers from the high altar, which shed a solitary gleam over the remote parts of the fabric, and produced large masses of light and shade, striking and sublime in their effect. While she gazed she heard a distant chanting rise through the aisles, the sounds swelled in low murmurs on the ear, and drew nearer and nearer till a sudden blaze of light issued from one of the portals, and the procession entered. The organ instantly sounded a high and solemn peel, and the voices rising altogether swelled the sacred strain. In front appeared the Padre abate, with slow and measured steps, bearing the holy cross. Immediately followed a litter on which lay the dying person covered with the white veil, born along and surrounded by nuns veiled in white, each carrying in her hand a lighted taper. Last came the friars two and two, clothed in black and each bearing a light. When they reached the high altar the beer was rested, and in a few moments the anthem ceased. The abate now approached to perform the unction. The veil of the dying nun was lifted, and Julia discovered her beloved Cornelia. Her countenance was already impressed with the image of death, but her eyes brightened with a faint gleam of recollection when they fixed upon Julia, who felt a cold thrill run through her frame, and leaned for support on Madame. Julia now, for the first time, distinguished the unhappy lover of Cornelia, on whose features was depicted the anguish of his heart, and who hung pale and silent over the beer. The ceremony being finished the anthem struck up, the beer was lifted, when Cornelia faintly moved her hand, and it was again rested upon the steps of the altar. In a few minutes the music ceased, when lifting her heavy eyes to her lover, with an expression of ineffable tenderness and grief, she attempted to speak. But the sounds died on her closing lips. A faint smile passed over her countenance, and was succeeded by a fine devotional glow.  Her soul departed in a short deep sigh. Her lover, sinking back, endeavored to conceal his emotions, but the deep sobs which agitated his breast betrayed his anguish, and the tears of every spectator bedued the sacred spot where beauty, sense, and innocence expired. The organ now swelled in mournful harmony, and the voices of the assembly chanted in choral strain, a low and solemn requiem to the spirit of the departed. Some hurried Julia, who was almost as lifeless as her departed friend, from the church. A death so sudden heightened the grief which separation would otherwise have occasioned. It was the nature of Cornelia's disorder to wear a changeful but flattering aspect. Though she had long been declining, her decay was so gradual and imperceptible as to lull the apprehensions of her friends into security. It was otherwise with herself, she was conscious of the change, but forbore to afflict them with the knowledge of the truth. The hour of her dissolution was sudden, even to herself, but it was composed and even happy. In the death of Cornelia, Julia seemed to mourn again that of Apolitus. Her decease appeared to dissolve the last tie which connected her with his memory. In one of the friars of the convent, Madam was surprised to find the father who had confessed the dying Vincent. His appearance revived the remembrance of the scene she had witnessed at the castle of Mazzini, and the last words of Vincent, combined with the circumstances which had since occurred, renewed all her curiosity and astonishment. But his appearance excited more sensations than those of wonder. She dreaded lest he should be corrupted by the marquee to whom he was known, and must be induced to use his interest with the abate for the restoration of Julia. From the walls of the monastery Julia now never ventured to stray. In the gloom of evening she sometimes stole into the cloisters and often lingered at the grave of Cornelia, where she wept for Apolitus as well as for her friend. One evening, during Vespers, the bell of the convent was suddenly rang out. The abate, whose countenance expressed it, once astonishment and displeasure, suspended the service and quitted the altar. The whole congregation repaired to the hall, where they learned that a friar retiring to the convent had seen a troop of armed men advancing through the wood, and not doubting they were the people of the marquee and were approaching with hostile intention, had thought it necessary to give the alarm. The abate ascended a turret, and thence discovered through the trees a glittering of arms, and in the succeeding moment a band of men issued from a dark part of the wood into a long avenue which immediately fronted the spot where he stood. The clattering of hoofs was now distinctly heard, and Julia, sinking with terror, distinguished the marquee heading the troops, which, soon after separating in two divisions, surrounded the monastery. The gates were immediately secured, and the abate, descending from the turret, assembled the friars in the hall, where his voice was soon heard above every other part of the tumult. The terror of Julia made her utterly forgetful of the Padre's promise, and she wished to fly for concealment to the deep caverns belonging to the monastery which wound under the woods. Madame, whose penetration furnished her with a just knowledge of the abate's character, added her security on his pride. She therefore dissuaded Julia from attempting to tamper with the honesty of a servant who had the keys of the vault, and advised her to rely entirely on the effect of the abate's resentment towards the marquee. While Madame endeavored to soothe her to composure, a message from the abate required her immediate attendance. She obeyed, and he bade her follow him to a room which was directly over the gates of the monastery. And thence she saw her father, accompanied by the Duke de Lovo, and as her spirits died away at the sight the marquee called furiously to the abate to deliver her instantly into his hands, threatening, if she was detained, to force the gates of the monastery. At this threat the countenance of the abate grew dark, and leading Julia forcibly to the window from whence she had shrunk back. Impious menacer, he said. Eternal vengeance be upon thee. From this moment we expel thee from all the rites and communities of our church. Arrogant and daring as you are, your threats I defy. Look here, said he, pointing to Julia, and learn that you are in my power, for if you dare to violate these sacred walls I will proclaim aloud in the face of day a secret which shall make your heart's blood run cold.  Now triumph and exult in impious menace. The marquee started involuntarily at this speech, and his features underwent a sudden change, but he endeavored to recover himself and to conceal his confusion. He hesitated for a few moments, uncertain how to act, to desist from violence was to confess himself conscious of the threatened secret, yet he dreaded to inflame the resentment of the abate whose menaces his own heart too surely seconded. At length. All that you have uttered, said he, I despise as the dastardly subterfuge of monkish cunning. Your new insults add to the desire of recovering my daughter that of punishing you. I would proceed to instant violence, but that would now be an imperfect revenge. I shall therefore withdraw my forces and appeal to a higher power. Thus shall you be compelled at once to restore my daughter and retract your scandalous impeachment of my honor. Saying this he turned his horse from the gates and his people following him quickly withdrew, leaving the abate exulting in conquest and Julia lost in astonishment and doubtful joy. When she recounted to madam the particulars of the conference she dwelt with emphasis on the threats of the abate. But madam, though her amazement was heightened at every word, very well understood how the secret, whatever it was, had been obtained. The confessor of Vincent she had already observed in the monastery, and there was no doubt that he had disclosed whatever could be collected from the dying words of Vincent. She knew also that the secret would never be published unless as a punishment for immediate violence, it being one of the first principles of monastic duty to observe a religious secrecy upon all matters entrusted to them in confession. When the first tumult of Julia's emotions subsided, the joy which the sudden departure of the marquee occasioned yielded to apprehension. He had threatened to appeal to a higher power who could compel the abate to surrender her. Thus Menace excited a just terror, and there remained no means of avoiding the tyranny of the marquee but by quitting the monastery. She therefore requested an audience of the abate, and having represented the danger of her present situation, she entreated his permission to depart in quest of a safer retreat. The abate who well knew the marquee was holy in his power, smiled at the repetition of his menaces and denied her request, under pretense of his having now become responsible for her to the church. He bade her be comforted and promised her his protection, but his assurances were given in so distant and haughty a manner that Julia leapt him with fears rather increased than subdued. In crossing the hall she observed a man hastily enter it from an opposite door. He was not in the habit of the order, but was muffled up in a cloak and seemed to wish concealment. As she passed he raised his head, and Julia discovered her father. He darted at her a look of vengeance, but before she had time even to think as if suddenly recollecting herself he covered his face and rushed by her. Her trembling frame could scarcely support her to the apartment of Madame where she sunk speechless upon a chair and the terror of her look alone spoke the agony of her mind. When she was somewhat recovered she related what she had seen and her conversation with the abate, but Madame was lost in equal perplexity with herself when she attempted to account for the Marquis's appearance. Why, after his late daring menace, should he come secretly to visit the abate by whose connivance alone he could have gained admission to the monastery? And what could have influenced the abate to such a conduct? These circumstances, though equally inexplicable, united to confirm a fear of treachery and surrender. To escape from the abate was now impracticable, for the gates were constantly guarded, and even was it possible to pass them certain detection awaited Julia without from the Marquis's people who were stationed in the woods. Thus encompassed with danger she could only await in the monastery the issue of her destiny. While she was lamenting with Madame her unhappy fate, she was summoned once more to attend the abate. At this moment her spirits entirely forsook her. The crisis of her fate seemed arrived, for she did not doubt that the abate intended to surrender her to the Marquis with whom she supposed he had negotiated the terms of accommodation. It was some time before she could recover composure sufficient to obey the summons, and when she did every step that bore her towards the abate's room increased her dread. She paused a moment at the door ere she had courage to open it. The idea of her father's immediate resentment arose to her mind, and she was upon the point of retreating to her chamber when a sudden step within near the door destroyed her agitation and she entered the closet. The Marquis was not there, and her spirits revived. The flush of triumph was diffused over the features of the abate, though a shade of unappeased resentment yet remained visible. Daughter, said he, the intelligence we have to communicate may rejoice you. Your safety now depends solely on yourself.  He paused and she was suspended in wondering expectation of the coming sentence. I hear solemnly assure you of my protection, but it is upon one condition only, that you renounce the world and dedicate your days to God. Julia listened with a mixture of grief and astonishment. Without this concession on your part I possess not the power, had I even the inclination to protect you. If you assume the veil you are safe within the pale of the church from temporal violence. If you neglect or refuse to do this the Marquis may apply to a power from whom I have no appeal and I shall be compelled at last to resign you. But to ensure your safety should the veil be your choice we will procure a dispensation from the usual forms of novitiation and a few days shall confirm your vows. He ceased to speak, but Julia agitated with the most cruel distress knew not what to reply. We grant you three days to decide upon this matter, continued he, at the expiration of which the veil or the Duke de Lovo awaits you. Julia quitted the closet in mute despair and repaired to Madam, who could now scarcely offer her the humble benefit of consolation. Meanwhile, the abate exalted in successful vengeance and the Marquis smarted beneath the stings of disappointment. The menace of the former was too seriously alarming to suffer the Marquis to prosecute violent measures, and he had therefore resolved by opposing avarice to pride to soothe the power which he could not subdue. But he was unwilling to entrust the abate with the proof of his compliance and his fears by offering a bribe in a letter and preferred the more humiliating but safer method of a private interview. His magnificent offers created temporary hesitation in the mind of the abate, who, secure of his advantage, showed at first no disposition to be reconciled and suffered the Marquis to depart in anxious uncertainty. After maturely deliberating upon the proposals, the pride of the abate surmounted his avarice, and he determined to prevail upon Julia effectually to destroy the hopes of the Marquis by consecrating her life to religion. Julia passed the night and the next day in a state of mental torture exceeding all description. The gates of the monastery beset with guards and the woods surrounded by the Marquis's people made escape impossible. From a marriage with the Duke, whose late conduct had confirmed the odious idea which his character had formally impressed, her heart recoiled in horror, and to be immured for life within the walls of a convent was a fate little less dreadful. Yet such was the effect of that sacred love she bore the memory of Hippolytus, and such her aversion to the Duke that she soon resolved to adopt the veil. On the following evening she informed the abate of her determination. His heart swelled with secret joy and even the natural severity of his manner relaxed at the intelligence. He assured her of his approbation and protection with a degree of kindness which he had never before manifested, and told her the ceremony should be performed on the second day from the present. Her emotions scarcely suffered her to hear his last words. Now that her fate was fixed beyond recall, she almost repented of her choice. Her fancy attached to it a horror not its own, and that evil which, when offered to her decision, she had accepted with little hesitation, she now paused upon in dubious regret, so apt we are to imagine that the calamity most certain is almost the most intolerable. When the Marquis read the answer of the abate, all the baleful passions of his nature were roused and inflamed to a degree which bordered upon distraction. In the first impulse of his rage he would have forced the gates of the monastery and defied the utmost malice of his enemy. But a moment's reflection revived his fear of the threatened secret, and he saw that he was still in the power of the Superior. The abate procured the necessary dispensation, and preparations were immediately began for the approaching ceremony. Maria watched the departure of those moments which led to her fate with the calm fortitude of despair. She had no means of escaping from the coming evil without exposing herself to a worse. She surveyed it therefore with a steady eye and no longer shrunk from its approach. On the morning preceding the day of her consecration she was informed that a stranger inquired for her at the great. Her mind had been so long accustomed to the vicissitudes of apprehension that fear was the emotion which now occurred. She suspected, yet scarcely knew why, that the Marquis was below and hesitated whether to descend. A little reflection determined her, and she went to the parlor where, to her equal joy and surprise, she beheld Ferdinand. During the absence of the Marquis from his castle, Ferdinand, who had been informed of the discovery of Julia, affected his escape from imprisonment and had hastened to the monastery in the design of rescuing her. He had passed the woods in disguise, with much difficulty eluding the observation of the Marquis's people who were yet dispersed round the abbey. To the monastery, as he came alone, he had been admitted without difficulty. When he learned the conditions of the abate's protection and that the following day was appointed for the consecration of Julia, he was shocked and paused in deliberation. A period so short as was this interval afforded little opportunity for contrivance and less for hesitation. The night of the present day was the only time that remained for the attempt and execution of a plan of escape, which, if it then failed of success, Julia would not only be condemned for life to the walls of a monastery, but would be subjected to whatever punishment the severity of the abate, exasperated by the detection, should think fit to inflict. The danger was desperate, but the occasion was desperate also. The nobly disinterested conduct of her brother struck Julia with gratitude and admiration, but despair of success made her now hesitate whether she should accept his offer. She considered that his generosity would most probably involve him in destruction with herself, and she paused in deep deliberation when Ferdinand informed her of a circumstance which, till now he had purposely concealed, and which at once dissolved every doubt and every fear. Hippolytus, said Ferdinand, yet lives. Lives, repeated Julia faintly, lives. Oh, tell me where, how? Her breath refused to aid her, and she sunk in her chair, overcome with the strong and various sensations that pressed upon her heart. Ferdinand, whom the great withheld from assisting her, observed her situation with extreme distress. When she recovered he informed her that a servant of Hippolytus sent no doubt by his lord to inquire concerning Julia had been lately seen by one of the Marquis's people in the neighborhood of the castle. From him it was known that the Count de Vareza was living, but that his life had been disparate of, and he was still confined by dangerous wounds in an obscure town on the coast of Italy. The man had steadily refused to mention the place of his lord's abode, learning that the Marquis was then at the abbey of St. Augustine. Wither he pursued his daughter. The man disappeared from Mazzini and had not, since, been heard of. It was enough for Julia to know that Hippolytus lived, her fears of detection and her scruples concerning Ferdinand instantly vanished. She thought only of escape, and the means which had lately appeared so formidable, so difficult in contrivance and so dangerous in execution. Now seemed easy, certain and almost accomplished. They consulted on the plan to be adopted and agreed that, in attempting to bribe a servant of the monastery to their interest, they should incur a danger too imminent, yet it appeared scarcely practicable to succeed in their scheme without risking this. After much consideration they determined to entrust their secret to no person but to madam. Ferdinand was to contrive to conceal himself till the dead of night in the church, between which and the monastery were several doors of communication. When the inhabitants of the abbey were sunk in repose, Julia might without difficulty pass to the church, where Ferdinand awaiting her they might perhaps escape either through an outer door of the fabric or through a window, for which latter attempt Ferdinand was to provide ropes. A couple of horses were to be stationed among the rocks beyond the woods to convey the fugitives to a seaport once they could easily pass over to Italy. Having arranged this plan it separated in the anxious hope of meeting on the ensuing night. Madam warmly sympathized with Julia in her present expectations, and was now somewhat relieved with the pressure of that self-reproach, with which the consideration of having withdrawn her young friend from a secure asylum had long tormented her. In learning that Hippolytus lived, Julia experienced a sudden renovation of life and spirits. From the languid stupefaction which Despair had occasioned she revived as from a dream, and her sensations resembled those of a person suddenly awakened from a frightful vision whose thoughts are yet obscured in the fear and uncertainty which the passing images have impressed on his fancy. She emerged from Despair, Joy illumined her countenance, yet she doubted the reality of the scene which now opened to her view. The hours rolled heavily along till the evening when expectation gave way to fear, for she was once more summoned by the abate. He sent for her to administer the usual necessary exhortation on the approaching solemnity, and having detained her a considerable time in tedious and severe discourse dismissed her with a formal benediction. CHAPTER XII. The evening now sunk in darkness, and the hour was fast approaching, which would decide the faint of Julia. Trembling anxiety subdued every other sensation, and as the minutes passed her fears increased. At length she heard the gates of the monastery fastened for the night. The bell rang, the signal for repose, and the passing footsteps of the nuns told her they were hastening to obey it. After some time all was silent. Julia did not yet dare to venture forth. She employed the present interval in interesting and affectionate conversation with Madame de Menon, to whom notwithstanding her situation her heart baited a sorrowful adieu. The clock struck twelve when she arose to depart, having embraced her faithful friend with tears of mingled grief and anxiety. She took a lamp in her hand, and with cautious, fearful steps descended through the long winding passages to a private door which opened into the church of the monastery. The church was gloomy and desolate, and the feeble rays of the lamp she bore gave only light enough to discover its chilling grandeur. As she passed silently along the aisles she cast a look of anxious examination around, but Ferdinand was nowhere to be seen. She paused in timid hesitation, fearful to penetrate the gloomy obscurity which lay before her, yet dreading to return. As she stood examining the place, vainly looking for Ferdinand, yet fearing to call, lest her voice should betray her, a hollow groan arose from a part of the church very near her. It chilled her heart, and she remained fixed to the spot. She turned her eyes a little to the left, and saw light appear through the chinks of a cell-pulture at some distance. The groan was repeated, a low murmuring succeeded, and while she yet gazed, an old man issued from the vault with a lighted taper in his hand. Terror now subdued her, and she uttered an involuntary shriek. In this exceeding moment a noise was heard in a remote part of the fabric, and Ferdinand, rushing forth from his concealment, ran to her assistance. The old man, who appeared to be a friar, and who had been doing penance at the monument of a saint, now approached. His countenance expressed a degree of surprise and terror almost equal to that of Julia's, who knew him to be the Confessor of Vincent. Ferdinand seized the father, and laying his hand upon his sword, and him with death if he did not instantly swear to conceal forever his knowledge of what he then saw, and also assist them to escape from the abbey. Ungracious boy, replied the father, in a calm voice, desist from this language, nor add to the follies of youth the crime of murdering, or terrifying, a defenseless old man. Your violence would urge me to become your enemy, did not previous inclination tempt me to be your friend. I pity the distresses of the Lady Julia, to whom I am no stranger, and will cheerfully give her all the assistance in my power. At these words Julia revived, and Ferdinand, reproved by the generosity of the father, and conscious of his own inferiority, shrank back. I have no words to thank you, said he, or to entreat your pardon for the impetuosity of my conduct. Your knowledge of my situation must plead my excuse. It does, replied the father, but we have no time to lose. Follow me. They followed him through the church to the cloisters, at the extremity of which was a small door, which the friar unlocked. It opened upon the woods. This path, said he, leads through an intricate part of the woods to the rocks that rise on the right of the abbey. In their recesses you may secrete yourself till you are prepared for a longer journey. Distinguish your light, it may betray you to the Marquise people, who are dispersed about this spot. Farewell, my children, and God's blessing be upon ye. Julia's tears declared her gratitude. She had no time for words. They stepped into the path and the father closed the door. They were now liberated from the monastery, but danger awaited them without, which it required all their caution to avoid. Ferdinand knew the path which the friar had pointed out, to be the same that led to the rocks where his horses were stationed, and he pursued it with quick and silent steps. Julia, whose fears conspired with the gloom of night to magnify and transform every object around her, imagined at each step that she took she perceived the figures of men and fancied every whisper of the breeze the sound of pursuit. They proceeded swiftly till Julia, breathless and exhausted, could go no farther. They had not rested many minutes when they heard a rustling among the bushes at some distance, and soon after distinguished a low sound of voices. Ferdinand and Julia instantly renewed their flight and thought they still heard voices advance upon the wind. This thought was soon confirmed, for the sounds now gained fast upon them, and they distinguished words which served only to heighten their apprehensions when they reached the extremity of the woods. The moon, which was now up, suddenly emerging from a dark cloud, discovered to them several men in pursuit, and also showed to the pursuers the course of the fugitives. They endeavored to gain the rocks where the horses were concealed, and which now appeared in view. These they reached when the pursuers had almost overtaken them, but their horses were gone. Their only remaining chance of escape was to fly into the deep recesses of the rock. They therefore entered a winding cave from whence branched several subterraneous avenues at the extremity of one of which they stopped. The voices of men now vibrated in tremendous echoes through the various and secret caverns of the place, and the sound of footsteps seemed fast approaching. Julia trembled with terror, and Ferdinand drew his sword determined to protect her to the last. The confused valley of voices now sounded up that part of the cave where Ferdinand and Julia lay concealed. In a few moments the steps of the pursuers suddenly took a different direction and the sounds sunk gradually away and were heard no more. Ferdinand listened attentively for a considerable time, but the stillness of the place remained undisturbed. It was now evident that the men had quitted the rock and he ventured forth to the mouth of the cave. He surveyed the wilds around as far as his eye could penetrate and distinguished no human being, but in the pauses of the wind he still thought he heard a sound of distant voices. As he listened in anxious a silence his eye caught the appearance of a shadow which moved upon the ground near where he stood. He started back within the cave, but in a few minutes again ventured forth. The shadow remained stationary, but having watched it for some time Ferdinand saw it glide along until it disappeared behind a point of rock. He had no doubt that the cave was watched and that it was one of his late pursuers whose shade he had seen. He returned therefore to Julia and remained near an hour hidden the deepest recess of the rock. When no sound having interrupted the profound silence of the place he had length once more ventured to the mouth of the cave. Again he threw a fearful look around, but discerned no human form. The soft moonbeam slept upon the dewy landscape and the solemn stillness of midnight wrapped the world. Fear heightened to the fugitives the sublimity of the hour. Ferdinand now led Julia forth and they passed silently along the shelving foot of the rocks. They continued their way without further interruption and among the cliffs at some distance from the cave discovered to their inexpressible joy their horses, who having broken their fastenings had straight thither and had now laid themselves down to rest. Ferdinand and Julia immediately mounted and descending to the plains took the road that led to a small seaport at some leagues distant once they could embark for Italy. They traveled for some hours through gloomy forests of beach and chestnut and their way was only faintly illuminated by the moon which shed a trembling luster through the dark foliage and which was seen but at intervals as the passing clouds yielded to the power of her rays. They reached at length the skirts of the forest. The gray dawn now appeared and the chill morning air bit shrewdly. It was with inexpressible joy that Julia observed the kindling atmosphere and soon after the rays of the rising sun touching the tops of the mountains whose sides were yet involved in dark vapours. Her fears dissipated with the darkness. The sun now appeared amid clouds of inconceivable splendour and unveiled a scene which in other circumstances Julia would have contemplated with rapture. From the side of the hill down which they were winding a veil appeared from whence arose wild and lofty mountains whose steeps were clothed with hanging woods except where here and there a precipice projected its bold and rugged front. Here a few half withered trees hung from the crevices of the rock and gave a picturesque wilderness to the object. There clusters of half-seen cottages rising from among tufted groves embellished the green margin of a stream which meandered in the bottom and bore its waves to the blue and distant main. The freshness of the morning breathed over the scene and vivified each colour of the landscape. The bright dew drops hung trembling from the branches of the trees which at intervals overshadowed the road and the sprightly music of the birds saluted the rising day. Notwithstanding her anxiety the scene diffused a soft complacency over the mind of Julia. About noon they reached the port where Ferdinand was fortunate enough to obtain a small vessel, but the wind was unfavourable and it was past midnight before it was possible for them to embark. When the dawn appeared Julia returned to the deck and viewed with a sigh of unaccountable regret the receding coast of Sicily. But she observed with high admiration the light gradually spreading through the atmosphere darting a feeble ray over the surface of the waters which rolled in solemn soundings upon the distant shores. Fiery beams now marked the clouds and the east glowed with increasing radiance till the sun rose at once above the waves and illuminating them with a flood of splendor diffused gaiety and gladness around. The bold concave of the heavens, uniting with a vast expanse of the ocean, formed a kud oil striking and sublime magnificence of the scenery inspired Julia with delight and her heart dilating with high enthusiasm she forgot the sorrows which had oppressed her. The breeze wafted the ship gently along for some hours when it gradually sunk into a calm. The glassy surface of the waters was not curled by the lightest air and the vessel floated heavily on the bosom of the deep. Sicily was yet in view and the present delay agitated Julia with wild apprehension. Towards the close of day a light breeze sprang up but it blew from Italy and a train of dark vapours emerged from the verge of the horizon which gradually accumulating the heavens became entirely overcast. The evening shut in suddenly the rising wind, the heavy clouds that loaded the atmosphere, and the thunder which murmured a far-off terrified Julia and threatened a violent storm. The tempest came on and the captain vainly sounded for anchorage. It was deep sea and the vessel drove furiously before the wind. The darkness was interrupted only at intervals by the broad expanse of vivid lightings which quivered upon the waters and disclosing the horrible gaspings of the waves served to render the succeeding darkness more awful. The thunder which burst in tremendous crashes above, the loud roar of the waves below, the noise of the sailors and the sudden cracks and groanings of the vessel conspired to heighten the tremendous sublimity of the scene. Far on the rocky shores the surges sound, the lashing whirlwinds cleave the vast profound. While high in air amid the rising storm, driving the blast sits danger's blackening form. Julia lay fainting with terror and sickness in the cabin and Ferdinand, though almost hopeless himself, was endeavoring to support her when a loud and dreadful crash was heard from above. It seemed as if the whole vessel was parted. The voices of the sailors now rose together and all was confusion and uproar. Ferdinand ran up to the deck and learned that part of the main mast, borne away by the wind, had fallen upon the deck, whence it had rolled overboard. It was now past midnight and the storm continued with unabated fury. For four hours the vessel had been driven before the blast and the captain now declared it was impossible she could weather the tempest much longer, ordered the longboat to be in readiness. Its orders were scarcely executed when the ship bulged upon a reef of rocks and the impetuous waves rushed into the vessel. A general groan ensued. Ferdinand flew to save his sister, whom he carried to the boat, which was nearly filled by the captain and most of the crew. The sea ran so high that it appeared impracticable to reach the shore, but the boat had not moved many yards when the ship went to pieces. The captain now perceived, by the flashes of lightning, a high rocky coast at about the distance of half a mile. The men struggled hard at the oars, but almost as often as they gained the summit of a wave it dashed them back again and made their labor of little avail. After much difficulty and fatigue they reached the coast, where a new danger presented itself. They beheld a wild rocky shore whose cliffs appeared inaccessible, and which seemed to afford little possibility of landing. A landing, however, was at last affected, and the sailors, after much search, discovered a kind of pathway cut in the rock which they ascended in safety. The dawn now faintly glimmered, and they surveyed the coast, but could discover no human habitation. They imagined they were on the shores of Sicily, but possessed no means of confirming this conjecture. Terror, sickness, and fatigue had subdued the strength and spirits of Julia, and she was obliged to rest upon the rocks. The storm now suddenly subsided, and the total calm which succeeded to the wild tumult of the winds and waves produced a striking and sublime effect. The air was hushed in a death-like stillness, but the waves were yet violently agitated, and by the increasing light parts of the wreck were seen floating wide upon the face of the deep. Some sailors who had missed the boat were also discovered clinging to pieces of the vessel and making towards the shore. On observing this their shipmates immediately descended to the boat, and putting off to sea rescued them from their perilous situation. When Julia was somewhat reanimated, they proceeded up the country in search of a dwelling. They had travelled near half a league when the savage features of the country began to soften, and gradually changed the picturesque beauty of Sicilian scenery. They now discovered at some distance a villa seated on gentle eminence crowned with woods. It was the first human habitation they had seen since they embarked for Italy, and Julia, who was almost sinking with fatigue, beheld it with delight. The captain and his men hastened towards it to make known their distress, while Ferdinand and Julia slowly followed. They observed the men enter the villa, one of whom quickly returned to acquaint them with the hospitable reception his comrades had received. Julia, with difficulty, reached the edifice, at the door of which she was met by a young cavalier, whose pleasing and intelligent countenance immediately interested her in his favour. He welcomed the strangers with a benevolent politeness that dissolved at once every comfortable feeling which their situation had excited, and produced an instantaneous easy confidence. Through a light and elegant hall rising into a dome supported by pillars of white marble and adorned with busts he led them to a magnificent festival which opened upon a lawn. Having seated them at a table spread with refreshments he left them, and they surveyed with surprise the beauty of the adjacent scene. The lawn, which was on each side bounded by hanging woods, descended in gentle declivity to a fine lake whose smooth surface reflected the surrounding shades. Beyond appeared the distant country arising on the left into bold romantic mountains, and on the right exhibiting a soft and glowing landscape whose tranquil beauty formed a striking contrast to the wild sublimity of the opposite craggy heights. The blue and distant ocean terminated the view. In a short time the cavalier returned, conducting two ladies of a very engaging appearance, whom he presented as his wife and sister. They welcomed Julia with graceful kindness, but fatigue soon obliged her to retire to rest, and a consequent indisposition increased so rapidly as to render it impracticable for her to quit her present abode on that day. The captain and his men proceeded on their way, leaving Ferdinand and Julia at the villa, where she experienced every kind and tender affection. The day which was to have devoted Julia to a cloister was ushered in at the abbey with the usual ceremonies. The church was ornamented in all the inhabitants of the monastery prepared to attend. The Padre abate now exalted in the success of his scheme and anticipated in imagination the rage and vexation of the Marquis when he should discover that his daughter was lost to him forever. The hour of celebration arrived, and he entered the church with a proud firm's step, and with a countenance which depicted his inward triumph. He was proceeding to the high altar when he was told that Julia was nowhere to be found. Astonishment for a while suspended other emotions. He yet believed it impossible that she could have affected an escape, and ordered every part of the abbey to be searched, not forgetting the secret caverns belonging to the monastery which wound beneath the woods. When the search was over and he became convinced she was fled, the deep workings of his disappointed passions fermented into rage which exceeded all bounds. He denounced the most terrible judgments upon Julia, and calling for Madame de Menon charged her with having insulted her holy religion in being accessory to the flight of Julia. Madame endured these reproaches with calm dignity, and preserved a steady silence, but she secretly determined to leave the monastery and seek in another the repose which she could never hope to find in this. The report of Julia's disappearance spread rapidly beyond the walls, and soon reached the ears of the Marquis, who rejoiced in the circumstance believing that she must now inevitably fall into his hands. After his people in obedience to his orders had carefully searched the surrounding woods and rocks, he withdrew them from the abbey, and having dispersed them various ways in search of Julia, he returned to the castle of Mazini. Here new vexation awaited him, for he now first learned that Ferdinand had escaped from confinement. The mystery of Julia's flight was now dissolved, for it was evident by whose means she had affected it, and the Marquis issued orders to his people to secure Ferdinand wherever he should be found. CHAPTER XIII. Hippolytus, who had languished under a long and dangerous illness occasioned by his wounds, but heightened and prolonged by the distress of his mind, was detained in a small town in the coast of Calabria, and was yet ignorant of the death of Cornelia. He scarcely doubted that Julia was now devoted to the Duke, and this thought was at times poison to his heart. After his arrival in Calabria, immediately on the discovery of his senses he dispatched a servant back to the castle of Mazini to gain a secret intelligence of what had passed after his departure. The eagerness with which we endeavour to escape from misery taught him to encourage a remote and romantic hope that Julia yet lived for him. Yet even this hope at length languished into despair as the time elapsed which should have brought the servant back from Sicily. Days and weeks passed away in the utmost anxiety to Hippolytus, for still his emissary did not appear, and at last concluding that he had been either seized by robbers or discovered and detained by the Marquis, the count sent off a second emissary to the castle of Mazini. By him he learned the news of Julia's flight and his heart dilated with joy, but it was suddenly checked when he heard the Marquis had discovered her retreat in the Abbey of St. Augustine. The wounds which still detained him in confinement now became intolerable. Julia might yet be lost to him forever, but even his present state of fear and uncertainty was bliss compared to with the anguish of despair which his mind had long endured. As soon as he had sufficiently recovered he quitted Italy for Sicily in the design of visiting the monastery of St. Augustine, where it was possible Julia might yet remain. That he might pass with the secrecy necessary to his plan and escape the attacks of the Marquis, he left his servants in Calabria and embarked alone. It was morning when he landed at a small port of Sicily and proceeded towards the Abbey of St. Augustine. As he traveled his imagination revolved the scenes of his early love, the distress of Julia and the sufferings of Ferdinand, and his heart melted at the retrospect. He considered the possibilities of Julia having found protection from her father in the pity of the Padre Abate, and even ventured to indulge himself in a flattering found anticipation of the moment when Julia should again be restored to his sight. He arrived at the monastery and his grief may easily be imagined when he was informed of the death of his beloved sister and of the flight of Julia. He quitted St. Augustine's immediately without even knowing that Madame de Menon was there, and set out for a town at some league's distance where he designed to pass the night. Absorbed in the melancholy reflections which the late intelligence excited, he gave the reins to his horse and journeyed on unmindful of his way. The evening was far advanced when he discovered that he had taken a wrong direction and that he was bewildered in a wild and solitary scene. He had wandered too far from the road to hope to regain it, and he had beside no recollection of the objects left behind him. A course of errors only lay before him. The view of his right hand exhibited high in savage mountains covered with heath and black fur, and the wild desolation of their aspect, together with the dangerous appearance of the path that wound up their sides, and which was the only apparent track they afforded, determined Apolitus not to attempt their ascent. On his left lay a forest, to which the path he was then in lead. Its appearance was gloomy but he preferred it to the mountains, and since he was uncertain of its extent there was a possibility that he might pass it and reach a village before the night was set in. At the worst the forest would afford him a shelter from the winds, and however he might be bewildered in its labyrinths he could ascend a tree and rest in security till the return of light should afford him an opportunity of extricating himself. Among the mountains there was no possibility of meeting with other shelter than what the habitation of man afforded, and such a shelter there was little probability of finding. All dangers also threatened him there from which he would be secure on level ground. Having determined which way to pursue he pushed his horse into a gallop and entered the forest as the last rays of the sun trembled on the mountains. The thick foliage of the trees threw a gloom around, which was every moment deepened by the shades of evening. The path was uninterrupted and the count continued to follow it till all distinction was confounded in the veil of night. All darkness now made it impossible for him to pursue his way. He dismounted in fastening his horse to a tree, climbed among the branches, proposing to remain there till morning. He had not been long in this situation when a confused sound of voices from a distance roused his attention. The sound returned at intervals for some time but without seeming to approach. He descended from the tree that he might, the better judge of the direction once it came. But before he reached the ground the noise had ceased and it was profoundly silent. He continued to listen but the silence remaining undisturbed he began to think he had been deceived by the singing of the wind among the leaves, and was preparing to re-ascend when he perceived a faint light glimmer through the foliage from afar. The sight revived a hope that he was near some place of human habitation. He therefore unfastened his horse and led him towards the spot whence the ray issued. The moon was now risen and threw a checkered gleam over his path sufficient to direct him. Before he had proceeded far the light disappeared. He continued, however, his way as nearly as he could guess, towards the place whence it had issued, and after much toil found himself in a spot where the trees formed a circle round a kind of rude lawn. The moonlight discovered to him an edifice which appeared to have been formerly a monastery but which now exhibited a pile of ruins whose grandeur heightened by decay touched the beholder with reverential awe. Hippolytus paused to gaze upon the scene. The sacred stillness of night increased its effect and a secret dread he knew not wherefore stole upon his heart. The silence and the character of the place made him doubt whether this was the spot he had been seeking and as he stood hesitating whether to proceed or to return he observed a figure standing under an archway of their ruin. It carried a light in its hand and passing silently along it disappeared in a remote part of the building. The courage of Hippolytus for a moment deserted him. An invincible curiosity, however, subdued his terror and he determined to pursue, if possible, the way the figure had taken. He passed over loose stones through a sort of court till he came to the archway, here he stopped for fear returned upon him. Resuming his courage, however, he went on, still endeavoring to follow the way the figure had passed, and suddenly found himself in an enclosed part of the ruin whose appearance was more wild and desolate than any he had yet seen. Seized with unconquerable apprehension he was retiring when the low voice of a distressed person struck his ear. His heart sunk at the sound, his limbs trembled, and he was utterly unable to move. The sound which appeared to be the last groan of a dying person was repeated. Hippolytus made a strong effort and sprang forward when a light burst upon him from a shattered casement of the building, and at the same instant he heard the voices of men. He advanced softly to the window and beheld in a small room, which was less decayed than the rest of the edifice, a group of men who, from the savageness of their looks and from their dress, appeared to be bandit-y. They surrounded a man who lay on the ground wounded and bathed in blood and who, it was very evident, had uttered the groans heard by the Count. The obscurity of the place prevented Hippolytus from distinguishing the features of the dying man. From the blood which covered him and from the surrounding circumstances he appeared to be murdered, and the Count had no doubt that the men he beheld were the murderers. The horror of the scene entirely overcame him. He stood rooted to the spot and saw the assassin's rifle the pockets of the dying person, who, in a voice scarcely articulate, but which despair seemed to aid, supplicated for mercy. The Ruffians answered him only with excruciations and continued their plunder. His groans and his sufferings served only to aggravate their cruelty. They were proceeding to take from him a miniature picture, which was fastened round his neck and had been hitherto concealed in his bosom, when by a sudden effort he half raised himself from the ground and attempted to save it from their hands. The effort availed him nothing. A blow from one of the villains lay the unfortunate man on the floor without motion. The horrid barbarity of the act seized the mind of Hippolytus so entirely that, forgetful of his own situation, he groaned aloud and started with an instantaneous design of avenging the deed. The noise he made alarmed the bandit, who, looking once it came, discovered the count through the casement. They instantly quitted their prize and rushed towards the door of the room. He was now returned to a sense of his danger and endeavored to escape to the exterior part of the ruin, but terror bewildered his senses and he mistook his way. Instead of regaining the archway he perplexed himself with fruitless wanderings and at length found himself only more deeply involved in the secret recesses of the pile. The steps of his pursuers gained fast upon him and he continued to perplex himself with vain efforts at escape. Till at length, quite exhausted, he sunk on the ground and endeavored to resign himself to his fate. He listened with a kind of stern despair and was surprised to find all silent. Unlooking round he perceived by a ray of moonlight which streamed through a part of the ruin from above that he was in a sort of vault, which, from the small means he had of judging, he thought was extensive. In this situation he remained for a considerable time, ruminating on the means of escape, yet scarcely believing escape was possible. If he continued in the vault he might continue there only to be butchered, but by attempting to rescue himself from the place he was now in he must rush into the hands of the Banditi. Judging it therefore the safer way of the two to remain where he was he endeavored to await his fate with fortitude. And suddenly the loud voices of the murderers burst upon his ear and he heard steps advancing quickly towards the spot where he lay. Despair instantly renewed his vigor. He started from the ground and, throwing round him a look of eager desperation, his eye caught the glimpse of a small door, upon which the moonbeam now fell. He made towards it and passed it just as the light of a torch gleamed upon the walls of the vault. He groped his way along a winding passage and at length came to a flight of steps. Notwithstanding the darkness he reached the bottom in safety. He now for the first time stopped to listen. The sounds of pursuit were ceased and all was silent. Continuing to wander on in effectual endeavors to escape his hands at length touched cold iron and he quickly perceived it belonged to a door. The door however was fastened and resisted all his efforts to open it. He was giving up the attempt in despair when a loud scream from within followed by a dead and heavy noise roused all his attention. Silence ensued. He listened for a considerable time at the door, his imagination filled with images of horror and expecting to hear the sound repeated. He then sought for a decayed part of the door through which he might discover what was beyond, but he could find none and after waiting some time without hearing any farther noise he was quitting the spot when in passing his arm over the door it struck against something hard. On examination he perceived to his extreme surprise that the key was in the lock. For a moment he hesitated what to do, but curiosity overcame other considerations and with a trembling hand he turned the key. The door opened into a large and desolate apartment dimly lighted by a lamp that stood on a table which was almost the only furniture of the place. The count had advanced several steps before he perceived an object which fixed all his attention. This was the figure of a young woman lying on the floor, apparently dead. Her face was concealed in her robe and the long auburn tresses which fell in beautiful luxuriance over her bosom served to veil a part of the glowing beauty which the disorder of her dress would have revealed. Pity, surprise and admiration struggled in the breast of Hippolytus and while he stood surveying the object which excited these different emotions he heard a step advancing towards the room. He flew to the door by which he had entered and was fortunate enough to reach it before the entrance of the persons whose steps he heard. Having turned the key he stopped at the door to listen to their proceedings. He distinguished the voices of two men and knew them to be those of the assassins. Presently he heard a piercing shriek and at the same instant the voices of the Ruffians grew loud and violent. One of them exclaimed that the lady was dying and accused the other of having frightened her to death, swearing with horrid implications that she was his and he would defend her to the last drop of his blood. The dispute grew higher and neither of the Ruffians would give up his claim to the unfortunate object of their altercation. The clashing of swords was soon after heard, together with the violent noise the screams were repeated and the oaths and excrications of the disputants redoubled. They seemed to move towards the door behind which Hippolytus was concealed. Suddenly the door was shook with great force, a deep groan followed and was instantly succeeded by a noise like that of a person whose whole weight falls at once to the ground. For a moment all was silent. Hippolytus had no doubt that one of the Ruffians had destroyed the other and was soon confirmed in the belief, for the survivor triumphed with brutal exultation over his fallen antagonist. The Ruffian hastily quitted the room and Hippolytus soon after heard the distant voices of several persons in loud dispute. The sounds seemed to come from a chamber over the place where he stood. He also heard a trampling of feet from above and could even distinguish at intervals the words of the disputants. From these he gathered enough to learn that the affray which had just happened and the lady who had been the occasion of it were the objects of discourse. The voices frequently rose together and confounded all distinction. At length the tumult began to subside and Hippolytus could distinguish what was said. The Ruffians agreed to give up the lady in question to him who had fought for her and leaving him to his prize they all went out in quest of farther prey. The situation of the unfortunate lady excited a mixture of pity and indignation and Hippolytus which for some time entirely occupied him. He revolved the means of extricating her from so deplorable a situation, and in these thoughts almost forgot his own danger. He now heard her sighs and while his heart melted to the sounds the farther door of the apartment was thrown open and the wretch to whom she had been allotted rushed in. Her screams now redoubled, but they were of no avail with the Ruffian who had seized her in his arms, when the Count who was unarmed insensible to every pulse but that of a generous pity burst into the room, but became fixed like a statue when he beheld his Julia struggling in the grasp of the Ruffian. On discovering Hippolytus she made a sudden spring and liberated herself when running to him she sunk lifeless in his arms. Hippolytus and Fury sparkled in the eyes of the Ruffian and he turned with a savage desperation upon the Count, who relinquishing Julia snatched up the sword of the dead Ruffian which lay upon the floor and defended himself. The combat was furious, but Hippolytus laid his antagonist senseless at his feet. He flew to Julia, who now revived, but who for some time could speak only by her tears. The transitions of various and rapid sensations which her heart experienced and the strangely mingled emotions of joy and terror that agitated Hippolytus can only be understood by experience. He raised her from the floor and endeavored to soothe her to composure when she called wildly upon Ferdinand. At his name the Count started and he instantly remembered the dying Cavalier whose countenance the glooms had concealed from his view. His heart thrilled with secret agony, yet he resolved to withhold his terrible conjectures from Julia, of whom he learned that Ferdinand, with herself, had been taken by Banditi in the way from the villa which had offered them so hospitable a reception after the shipwreck. They were on the road to a port whence they designed, again, to embark for Italy when this misfortune overtook them. Julia added that Ferdinand had been immediately separated from her and that for some hours she had been confined in the apartment where Hippolytus found her. The Count with difficulty concealed his terrible apprehensions for Ferdinand and vainly strove to soften Julia's distress, but there was no time to be lost. They had yet to find a way out of the edifice, and before they could accomplish this the Banditi might return. It was also possible that some of the party were left to watch this there abode during the absence of the rest, and this was another circumstance of reasonable alarm. After some little consideration Hippolytus judged it most prudent to seek an outlet through the passage by which he entered. He therefore took the lamp and led Julia to the door. They entered the avenue and locking the door after them sought the flight of steps down which the Count had before passed. But having pursued the windings of the avenue considerable time without finding them he became certain he had mistaken the way. They however found another flight which they descended and entered upon a passage so very narrow and low as not to admit of a person walking upright. This passage was closed by a door which on examination was found to be chiefly of iron. Hippolytus was startled at the sight, but on applying his strength found it gradually yield when the imprisoned air rushed out and had nearly exhausted the light. They now entered upon a dark abyss and the door which moved upon a spring suddenly closed behind them. Unlooking round they beheld a large vault, and it is not easy to imagine their horror on discovering they were in a receptable for the murdered bodies of the unfortunate people who had fallen into the hands of the Banditi. The Count could scarcely support the fainting spirits of Julia. He ran to the door which he endeavored to open, but the lock was so constructed that it could be moved only on the other side, and all his efforts were useless. He was constrained therefore to seek for another door, but could find none. Their situation was the most deplorable that can be imagined, for they were now enclosed in a vault strewn with the dead bodies of the murdered and must there become the victims of famine or of the sword. The earth was in several places thrown up and marked boundaries of new-made graves. The bodies which remained unburied were probably left either from hurry or negligence, and exhibited a spectacle too shocking for humanity. The sufferings of Hippolytus were increased by those of Julia, who was sinking with horror, and who he endeavored to support to a part of the vault which fell into a recess where stood a bench. They had not been long in this situation when they heard a noise which approached gradually, and which did not appear to come from the avenue they had passed. The noise increased and they could distinguish voices. Others believed the murderers were returned, that they had traced his retreat and were coming towards the vault by some way unknown to him. He prepared for the worst, and drawing his sword resolved to defend Julia to the last. Their apprehension, however, was soon dissipated by a trampling of horses, which sound had occasioned his alarm, and which now seemed to come from a courtyard above, extremely near the vault. He distinctly heard the voices of the Bandidi, together with the moans and supplications of some person, whom it was evident they were about to plunder. The sound appeared so very near that Hippolytus was both shocked and surprised, and looked round the vault he perceived a small graded window placed very high in the wall which he concluded overlooked the place where the robbers were assembled. He recollected that his light might betray him, and horrible as was the alternative he was compelled to extinguish it. He now attempted to climb to the grate, through which he might obtain a view of what was passing without. This at length he affected, for the ruggedness of the wall afforded him a footing. He beheld in a ruinous court which was partially illuminated by the glare of torches, a group of Bandidi surrounding two persons who were bound on horseback and who were supplicating for mercy. One of the robbers exclaiming with an oath that this was a golden knight, bade his comrades dispatch, adding he would go to find Paolo and the lady. The effect which the latter part of this sentence had upon the prisoners in the vault may be more easily imagined than described. They were now in total darkness in this mansion of the murdered, without means of escape, and in more metary expectation of sharing a fate similar to that of the rich at objects around them. Julia overcome with distress and terror sunk on the ground, and a Hippolytus descending from the grate became insensible of his own danger in his apprehension for her. In a short time all without was confusion and uproar. The Ruffian who had left the court returned with the alarm that the lady was fled and that Paolo was murdered. The robbers quitting their booty to go in search of the fugitive and to discover the murderer dreadful vocifications resounded through every recess of the pile. The tumult had continued a considerable time which the prisoners had passed in a state of horrible suspense when they heard the uproar advancing towards the vault and soon after a number of voices shouted down the avenue. The sound of steps quickened. Hippolytus again drew his sword and placed himself opposite the entrance where he had not stood long when a violent push was made against the door. It flew open and a party of men rushed into the vault. Hippolytus kept his position protesting he would destroy the first who approached. At the sound of his voice they stopped, but presently advancing commanded him in the king's name to surrender. He now discovered that his agitation had prevented him from observing sooner that the men before him were not Banditi but the officers of justice. They had received information of this haunt of villainy from the son of a Sicilian nobleman who had fallen into the hands of the Banditi and had afterwards escaped from their power. The officers came attended by a guard and were every way prepared to prosecute a strenuous search through these horrible recesses. Hippolytus inquired for Ferdinand and they all quitted the vault in search of him. In the court to which they now ascended the greater part of the Banditi were secured by a number of the guard. The count accused the robbers of having secreted his friend whom he described and demanded to have liberated. With one voice they denied the fact and were resolute in persisting that they knew nothing of the person described. This denial confirmed Hippolytus in his former terrible surmise that the dying Cavalier whom he had seen was no other than Ferdinand. And he became furious. He bade the officers prosecute their search, who, leaving a guard over the Banditi they had secured, followed him to the room where the late dreadful scene had been acted. The room was dark and empty, but the traces of blood were visible on the floor, and Julia, though ignorant of the particular apprehension of Hippolytus, almost swooned at the site. And quitting the room they wandered for some time among the ruins without discovering anything extraordinary. Till in passing under the archway by which Hippolytus had first entered the building their footsteps returned a deep sound which convinced them that the ground beneath was hollow. On close examination they perceived by the light of their torch a trapped door, which with some difficulty they lifted and discovered beneath a narrow flight of steps. They all descended into a low winding passage where they had not been long when they heard a trampling of horses above and a loud and sudden uproar. The officers apprehending that the Banditi had overcome the guard rushed back to the trapped door which they had scarcely lifted when they heard a clashing of swords and a confusion of unknown voices. Looking onward they beheld through the arch in an inner sword of court a large party of Banditi who were just arrived, rescuing their comrades and contending furiously with a guard. On observing this several of the officers sprang forward to the assistance of their friends and the rest subdued by cowardice hurried down the steps letting the trapped door fall after them with a thundering noise. They gave notice to Hippolytus of what was passing above who hurried Julia along the passage in search of some outlet or place of concealment. They could find neither and had not long pursued the windings of the way when they heard the trapped door lifted and the steps of persons descending. Despair gave strength to Julia and winged her flight. But they were now stopped by a door which closed the passage and the sound of distant voices murmured along the walls. The door was fastened by strong iron bolts which Hippolytus vainly endeavored to draw. The voices drew near. After much labor and difficulty the bolts yielded the door unclosed and light dawned upon them through the mouth of a cave into which they now entered. Unquitting the cave they found themselves in the forest and in a short time reached the borders. They now ventured to stop and looking back perceived no person in pursuit. CHAPTER XIV When Julia had rested they followed the track before them and in a short time arrived at a village where they obtained security and refreshment. But Julia, whose mind was occupied with dreadful anxiety for Ferdinand, became indifferent to all round her. Even the presence of Hippolytus, which, but lately, would have raised her from misery to joy, failed to soothe her distress. The steady and noble attachment of her brother had sunk it deep in her heart and reflection only aggravated her affliction. Yet the bandit had steadily persisted in affirming that he was not concealed in their recesses, and this circumstance which threw a deeper shade over the fears of Hippolytus imparted a glimmering of hope to the mind of Julia. A more immediate interest at length forced her mind from this sorrowful subject. It was necessary to determine upon some line of conduct for she was now in an unknown spot and ignorant of any place of refuge. The Count who trembled at the dangers which environed her and at the probabilities he saw of her being torn from him forever, suffered a consideration of them to overcome the dangerous delicacy which at this mournful period required his silence. He entreated her to destroy the possibility of separation by consenting to become his immediately. He urged that a priest could be easily procured from a neighboring convent who would confirm the bonds which had so long united their hearts and who would thus at once arrest the destiny that so long had threatened his hopes. This proposal, though similar to the one she had before accepted, and though the certain means of rescuing her from the fate she dreaded, she now turned from in sorrow and dejection. She loved Hippolytus with a steady and tender affection which was still heightened by the gratitude she claimed as her deliverer, but she considered it a profanation of the memory of that brother who had suffered so much for her sake to mingle joy with the grief which her uncertainty concerning him occasioned. She softened her refusal with a tender grace that quickly dissipated the jealous doubt arising in the mind of Hippolytus, and increased his fond admiration of her character. She desired to retire for a time to some obscure convent there to await the issue of the event which at present involved her in perplexity and sorrow. Hippolytus struggled with his feelings and forbore to press farther the suit on which his happiness and almost his existence now depended. He inquired at the village for a neighboring convent and was told that there was none within twelve leagues, but that near the town of Polini about that distance were two. He procured horses and, leaving the officers to return to Palermo for a stronger guard, he, accompanied by Julia, entered on the road to Polini. Julia was silent and thoughtful. Hippolytus gradually sunk into the same mood, and he often cast a cautious look around as they traveled for some hours along the feet of the mountains. They stopped to dine under the shade of some beach-trees. For fearful of discovery Hippolytus had provided against the necessity of entering many inns. Having finished their repast, they pursued their journey, but Hippolytus now began to doubt whether he was in the right direction. Being destitute, however, of the means of certainty upon this point, he followed the road before him, which now wound up the side of a steep hill, whence they descended into a rich valley, where the shepherd's pipe sounded sweetly from afar among the hills. The evening sun shed a mild and mellow luster over the landscape, and softened each feature with a vermal glow that would have inspired a mind less occupied than Julia's with sensations of congenial tranquility. The evening now closed in, and as they were doubtful of the road and found it would be impossible to reach Pellini that night, they took the way to a village which they perceived at the extremity of the valley. They had proceeded about half a mile when they heard a sudden shout of voices echoed from among the hills behind them, and looking back perceived faintly through the dusk a party of men on horseback making towards them. As they drew nearer the words they spoke were distinguishable, and Julia heard her own name sounded. But at this circumstance she had now no doubt that she was discred by a party of her father's people, and she fled with Hippolytus along the valley. The pursuers, however, were almost come up with them, when they reached the mouth of a cavern into which she ran for concealment. Hippolytus drew his sword and awaiting his enemies stood to defend the entrance. In a few moments Julia heard the clashing of swords, her heart trembled for Hippolytus, and she was upon the point of returning to resign herself at once to the power of her enemies, and thus avert the danger that threatened him when she distinguished the loud voice of the duke. She shrunk involuntarily at the sound, and pursuing the windings of the cavern fled into its inmost recesses. Here she had not been long when the voices sounded through the cave and drew near. It was now evident that Hippolytus was conquered and that her enemies were in search of her. She threw round a look of unutterable anguish and perceived very near by a sudden gleam of torchlight a low and deep recess in the rock. The light which belonged to her pursuers grew stronger and she entered the rock on her knees, for the overhanging crags would not suffer her to pass otherwise, and having gone a few yards perceived that it was terminated by a door. The door yielded to her touch and she suddenly found herself in a highly vaulted cavern, which received a feeble light from the moon beams that streamed through an opening in the rock above. She closed the door and paused to listen. The voices grew louder and more distinct, and at last approached so near that she distinguished what was said. Above the rest she heard the voice of the duke. It is impossible she can have quitted the cavern, said he, and I will not leave it till I have found her. Speak to the left of that rock while I examine beyond this point. These words were sufficient for Julia. She fled from the door across the cavern before her, and having ran in a considerable way without coming to a termination stopped to breathe. All was now still, and as she looked round, the gloomy obscurity of the place struck upon her fancy all its horrors. She imperfectly surveyed the vastness of the cavern in wild amazement, and feared that she had precipitated herself again into the power of Bandidi, for whom along this place appeared a fit receptacle. Having listened a long time without hearing a return of voices, she thought to find the door by which she had entered, but the gloom and vast extent of the cavern made the endeavor hopeless, and the attempt unsuccessful. Having wandered a considerable time through the void, she gave up the effort, endeavored to resign herself to her fate, to compose her distracted thoughts. The remembrance of her former wonderful escape inspired her with confidence in the mercy of God, but Hippolytus and Ferdinand were now both lost to her—lost, perhaps, forever, and the uncertainty of their fate gave force to fancy and poignancy to sorrow. Towards morning grief yielded to nature in Julia sunk to repose. She was awakened by the sun, whose rays darting obliquely through the opening in the rock, through a partial light across the cavern. Her senses were yet to be wildered by sleep, and she started in her fright on beholding her situation. As recollection gradually stole upon her mind, her sorrows returned, and she sickened at the fatal retrospect. She arose and renewed her search for an outlet. The light, imperfect as it was, now assisted her, and she found a door, which she perceived was not the one by which she had entered. It was firmly fastened. She discovered, however, the bolts and the lock that held it and at length unclose the door. It opened upon a dark passage which she entered. She groped along the winding walls for some time, when she perceived the way was obstructed. She now discovered that another door interrupted her progress and sought for the bolts which might fasten it. These she found, and strengthened by desperation, forced them back. The door opened and she beheld in a small room which received its feeble light from a window above the pale and emaciated figure of a woman seated with half-closed eyes in a kind of elbow chair. On perceiving Julia she started from her seat and her countenance expressed a wild surprise. Her features, which were worn by sorrow, still retained the traces of beauty, and in her air was a mild dignity that excited in Julia an involuntary veneration. She seemed as if about to speak, when fixing her eyes earnestly and steadily upon Julia she stood for a moment in eager gaze and suddenly exclaiming, �My daughter!� fainted away. The astonishment of Julia would scarcely suffer her to assist the lady who lay senseless on the floor. A multitude of strange imperfect ideas rushed upon her mind and she was lost in perplexity, but as she examined the features of the stranger which were now rekindling into life she thought she discovered the resemblance of Emilia. The lady, breathing a deep sigh, unclosed her eyes.  She pressed Julia to her heart and a few moments of exquisite unutterable emotion followed. When the lady became more composed, �Thank Heaven!� said she, �My prayer is granted. I am permitted to embrace one of my children before I die. Tell me what brought you hither. Has the Marquis at last relented and allowed me once more to behold you, or has his death resolved my wretched bondage? Truth now glimmered upon the mind of Julia, but so faintly that instead of enlightening it served only to increase her perplexity. Is the Marquis Mazzini living?� continued the lady. These words were not to be doubted. Julia herself at the feet of her mother and embracing her knees in an energy of joy answered only in sobs. The Marquess eagerly inquired after her children. �Emilia is living� answered Julia, �but my dear brother! Tell me� cried the Marquess with quickness. An explanation ensued. When she was informed concerning Ferdinand she sighed deeply and raising her eyes to heaven endeavored to assume a look of pious resignation. But the struggle of maternal feelings was visible in her countenance and almost overcame her powers of resistance. Julia gave a short account of the preceding adventures and of her entrance into the cavern and found to her inexpressible surprise that she was now in a subterranean abode belonging to the southern buildings of the castle of Mazzini. The Marquess was beginning her narrative when a door was heard to unlock above and the sound of a footsteps followed. �Fly� cried the Marquess, �secret yourself if possible for the Marquess is coming.� Julia's heart sank at these words. She paused not a moment but retired through the door by which she had entered. This she had scarcely done when another door of the cell was unlocked and she heard the voice of her father. Its sounds thrilled her with a universal tremor. The dread of discovery so strongly operated upon her mind that she stood in momentary expectation of seeing the door of the passage unclosed by the Marquess, and she was deprived of all power of seeking refuge in the cavern. At length the Marquess, who came with food, quitted the cell and unlocked the door when Julia stole forth from her hiding-place. The Marquess again embraced and wept over her daughter, the narrative of her sufferings upon which she now entered entirely dissipated the mystery which had so long enveloped the southern buildings of the castle. �Oh, why?� said the Marquess, �is it my task to discover to my daughter the vices of her father?� In relating my sufferings I reveal his crimes. It is now about fifteen years, as near as I can guess, from the small means I have of judging since I entered this horrible abode. My sorrows alas begin not here, that commenced at an earlier period, but it is sufficient to observe that the passion whence originated all my misfortunes was discovered by me long before I experienced its most baleful effects. Seven years had elapsed since my marriage, when the charms of Maria del Vilorno, a young lady singularly beautiful, inspired the Marquess with a passion as violent as it was irregular. I observed with deep and silent anguish the cruel indifference of my Lord towards me and the rapid progress of his passion for another. I severely examined my past conduct which I am thankful to say presented a retrospect of only blameless actions, and I endeavored by meek submission and tender assiduities to recall that affection which was alas gone forever. My meek submission was considered as a mark of a servile and insensible mind, and my tender assiduities to which his heart no longer responded created only disgust and exalted the proud spirit it was meant to conciliate. The secret grief which this change occasioned consumed my spirits and preyed upon my constitution, till at length a severe illness threatened my life. I beheld the approach of death with a steady eye, and even welcomed it as the passport to tranquility, but it was destined that I should linger through new scenes of misery. One day which it appears was the paroxysm of my disorder I sunk into a state of total torpedoity, in which I lay for several hours. It is impossible to describe my feelings when on recovering I found myself in this hideous abode. For some time I doubted my senses, and afterwards believed that I had quitted this world for another. But it was not long suffered to continue in my error the appearance of the Marquis bringing me to a perfect sense of my situation. I now understood that I had been conveyed by his direction to this recess of horror, where it was his will I should remain. My prayers, my supplications were ineffectual, the hardness of his heart repelled my sorrows back upon myself, and as no entreaties could prevail upon him to inform me where I was, or of his reason for placing me here, I remained for many years ignorant of my vicinity to the castle and of the motive of my confinement. From that fatal day until very lately I saw the Marquis no more, but was attended by a person who had been for some years depended upon his bounty, and whom necessity united to an insensible heart had doubtless induced to accept this office. He generally brought me a week's provision at stated intervals, and I remarked that his visits were always in the night. According to my expectation or my wish, nature did that for me which medicine had refused, and I recovered as if to punish with disappointment and anxiety my cruel tyrant. I afterwards learned that in obedience to the Marquis's order I had been carried to this spot by Vincent during the night, and that I had been buried in effigy at a neighboring church with all the pomp and funeral honor due to my rank. At the name of Vincent Julia started, the doubtful words he had uttered on his deathbed were now explained. The cloud of mystery which had so long involved the southern buildings broke at once away, and each particular circumstance that had excited her former terror arose to her view entirely unveiled by the words of the Marchenesse. The long and total desertion of this part of the fabric, the light that had appeared through the casement, the figure she had seen issue from the tower, the midnight noises she had heard, were circumstances evidently dependent on the imprisonment of the Marchenesse, the latter of which incidents were produced either by Vincent or the Marquis in their attendance upon her. When she considered the long and dreadful sufferings of her mother and that she had for many years lived so near her ignorant of her misery and even of her existence she was lost in astonishment and pity. My days continued the Marchenesse, passed in a dead uniformity more dreadful than the most acute vicissitudes of misfortune, and which would certainly have subdued my reason had not those firm principles of religious faith which I imbibed in early youth enabled me to withstand the still but forceful nature of my calamity. The insensible heart of Vincent at length began to soften to my misfortunes. He brought me several articles of comfort of which I had hitherto bendestitute and answered some questions I put to him concerning my family. To release me from my present situation, however, his inclination might befriend me, was not to be expected, since his life would have paid the forfeiture of what would be termed his duty. I now first discovered my vicinity to the castle. I learned also that the Marquis had married Maria del Valorno, with whom he had resided at Naples, but that my daughters were left at Mazzini. This last intelligence awakened in my heart the throbs of warm maternal tenderness, and on my knees I supplicated to see him. So earnestly I entreated, and so solemnly I promised to return quietly to my prison, that at length prudence yielded to pity and Vincent consented to my request. On the following day he came to the cell, and informed me my children were going into the woods, and that I might see them from a window near which they would pass. My nerves thrilled at these words, and I could scarcely support myself to the spot I so eagerly sought. He led me through long and intricate passages, as I guessed by the frequent turnings for my eyes were bound, till I reached a hall of the south buildings. I followed to a room above, where the full light of day once more burst upon my sight, and almost overpowered me. Vincent placed me by a window which looked towards the woods. Oh! what moments of painful impatience were those in which I awaited your arrival! At length you appeared. I saw you. I saw my children, and was neither permitted to class them to my heart or to speak to them. You were leaning on the arm of your sister, and your countenances spoke the sprightly happy innocence of youth. Alas! you knew not the wretched fate of your mother, who then gazed upon you. Although you were at too great a distance from my weak voice to reach you, with the utmost difficulty I avoided throwing open the window and endeavouring to discover myself. The remembrance of my solemn promise, and that the life of Vincent would be sacrificed by the act alone, restrained me. I struggled for some time with emotions too powerful for my nature and fainted away. On recovering I called wildly for my children and went to the window, but you were gone. Not all the entreaties of Vincent could for some time remove me from that station, where I waited in the fond expectation of seeing you again, but you appeared no more. At last I returned to my cell in an ecstasy of grief which I trembled even to remember. This interview so eagerly sought, and so reluctantly granted, proved a source of new misery, instead of calming, it agitated my mind with a restless wild despair which bore away my strongest powers of resistance. I raved incessantly of my children and incessantly solicited to see them again. Vincent, however, had found but too much cause to repent of his first indulgence to grant me a second. About this time a circumstance occurred which promised me a speedy release from calamity. About a week elapsed and Vincent did not appear. My little stock of provision was exhausted and I had been two days without food when I again heard the doors that led to my prison creek on their hinges. An unknown step approached, and in a few minutes the Marquis entered my cell. My blood was chilled at the sight and I closed my eyes as I hoped for the last time. The sound of his voice recalled me. His countenance was dark and sullen, and I perceived that he trembled. He informed me that Vincent was no more, and that henceforward his office he should take upon himself. I forbade to reproach where reproach would only have produced new sufferings, and withheld supplication where it would have exasperated conscience and inflamed revenge. My knowledge of the Marquis' second marriage I concealed. He usually attended me when night best concealed his visits, though these were irregular in their return. Lately from what motive I cannot guess he has ceased his nocturnal visits and comes only in the day. Once when midnight increased the darkness of my prison and seemed to render silence even more awful, touched by the sacred horrors of the hour, I poured forth my distress in loud lamentation. Oh! never can I forget what I felt when I heard a distant voice answered to my moan. A wild surprise which was strangely mingled with hope sievest me, and in my first emotion I should have answered the call had not a recollection crossed me which destroyed at once every half-raised sensation of joy. I remembered the dreadful vengeance which the Marquis had sworn to execute upon me, if I ever by any means endeavored to make known the place of my concealment. And though life had long been a burden to me, I dared not to incur the certainty of being murdered. I also well knew that no person whom I to discover my situation could affect my enlargement, for I had no relations to deliver me by force, and the Marquis, you know, has not only power to imprison but also the right of life and death in his own domains. I therefore forebored to answer the call, though I could not entirely repress my lamentation. I long perplexed myself with endeavouring to account for this strange circumstance, and am to this moment ignorant of its cause. Julia, remembering that Ferdinand had been confined to a dungeon of the castle, it instantly occurred to her that his prison and that of the Marcinès were not far distant, and she scrupled not to believe that it was his voice which her mother had heard. She was right in this belief, and it was indeed the Marcinès whose groans had formally caused Ferdinand so much alarm, both in the marble hall of the south building and in his dungeon. When Julia communicated her opinion and the Marcinès believed that she had heard the voice of her son, her emotion was extreme, and it was some time before she could resume her narration. A short time since, continued the Marcinès, the Marquis brought me a fortnight's provision and told me that I should probably see him no more till the expiration of that term. His absence at this period you have explained in your account of the transactions at the Abbey of St. Augustine. How can I ever sufficiently acknowledge the obligations I owe to my dear and invaluable friend, Madame de Menon, oh, that it might be permitted me to testify my gratitude? Julia attended to the narrative of her mother in silent astonishment, and gave all the sympathy which Sorrow could demand. Surely, cried she, the providence on whom you have so firmly relied, and whose inflections you have supported with a fortitude so noble, has conducted me through a labyrinth of misfortunes to this spot, for the purpose of delivering you. Oh, let us hasten to fly this horrid abode! Let us seek to escape through the cavern by which I entered. She paused in earnest expectation, awaiting a reply. "'Wither, can I fly?' said the marchiness, deeply sighing. This question, spoken with the emphasis of despair, affected Julia to tears, and she was for a while silent. The Marquis, resumed Julia, would not know where to seek you, or if he found you beyond his own domains, would fear to claim you. A convent may afford for the present a safe asylum, and whatever shall happen, surely no fate, you may hereafter encounter, can be more dreadful than the one you now experience. The marchiness assented to the truth this, yet her broken spirits, the effect of long sorrow and confinement, made her hesitate how to act, and there was a kind of placid despair in her look, which too faithfully depicted her feelings. It was obvious to Julia that the cavern she had passed, wound beneath the range of mountains on whose opposite side stood the castle of Mazzini. The hills, thus rising, formed a screen which must entirely conceal their emergence from the mouth of the cave, and their flight from those in the castle. She represented these circumstances to her mother, and urged them so forcibly that the lethargy of despair yielded to hope, and the marchiness committed herself to the conduct of her daughter. Oh, let me lead you to light and life, cried Julia with warm enthusiasm. Surely heaven can bless me with no greater good than by making me the deliverer of my mother. They both knelt down, and the marchiness, with that affecting eloquence which true piety inspires, and with that confidence which had supported her through so many miseries, committed herself to the protection of God, and implored his favour on their attempt. They arose, but as they conversed farther on their plan, Julia recollected that she was destitute of money, the banditie having robbed her of all. The sudden shock produced by this remembrance almost subdued her spirits, never till this moment had she understood the value of money. But she commanded her feelings and resolved to conceal the circumstance from the marchiness, preferring the chance of any evil that might encounter from without to the certain misery of this terrible imprisonment. And taken what provision the Marquis had brought, they quitted the cell and entered upon the dark passage, along which they passed with cautious steps. Julia came first to the door of the cavern. But who can paint her distress when she found it was fastened? All her efforts to open it were ineffectual. The door which had closed after her was held by a spring lock and could be opened on this side only with a key. When she understood this circumstance the marchiness with a placid resignation, which seemed to exalt her above humanity, addressed herself again to heaven and turned back to her cell. Here Julia indulged without reserve and without scruple the excess of her grief. The marchiness wept over her. Not for myself, said she, do I grieve, I have too long been inert to misfortune to sink under its pressure. This disappointment is intrinsically perhaps little, for I had no certain refuge from calamity, and had it even been otherwise a few years only of suffering would have spared me. It is for you, Julia, who so much lament my fate, and who, in being thus delivered to the power of your father, are sacrificed to the Duke de Lovo that my heart swells. Julia could make no reply, but by pressing to her lips the hand which was held forth to her she saw all the wretchedness of her situation, and her fearful uncertainty concerning Hippolytes and Ferdinand formed no interior part of her affliction. Resumed the marchiness, you prefer imprisonment with your mother to a marriage with the Duke, you may still secret yourself in the passage we have just quitted, and partake of the provision which has brought me. Oh, talk not, madam, of a marriage with the Duke, said Julia, surely any fate is preferable to that. But when I consider that in remaining here I am condemned only to the sufferings which my mother has so long endured, that this confinement will enable me to soften, by tender sympathy, the asparity of her misfortunes. I ought to submit to my present situation with complacency, even did a marriage with the Duke appear less hateful to me. Excellent girl, exclaimed the marchiness, clasping Julia to her bosom, the sufferings you lament are almost repaid by this proof of your goodness and affection, alas, that I should have been so long deprived of such a daughter. Julia now endeavored to imitate the fortitude of her mother, and tenderly concealed her anxiety for Ferdinand and Hippolytes, the idea of whom incessantly haunted her imagination. When the marquee brought food to the cell, she retired to the avenue leading to the cavern and escaped discovery. CHAPTER XIV