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are dismissed, as I dare say you will be, I charge you to carry this paper to—’ But indeed ma’amselle, I quite forgot the name—. However, she said he would reward me for my trouble, and bid me be very cautious how I did it, for fear the baron should harm me. I promised to obey her, and should have done so; but the very moment my poor lady was dead, the baron himself turned me out of the room, bidding me go home to my family, for that now my lady had no occasion for me. What became of her corpse, I never could learn, but I suppose she was privately buried in the castle. Indeed ma’amselle, I have often thought of the paper, and my promise, but I durst not mention it as you may suppose; but when you mentioned the room, and talked to me about my lady, I thought heaven had sent you here, for me to deliver the paper into your hands."

Caroline felt more at the conclusion of Alithee’s speech than she had supposed; but as the morning was now far advanced, she warned Alithee that her absence below stairs would be noticed, and they, therefore, returned to their own chamber.

Left alone, Caroline, for some time, sat ruminating on this sad story, and the extraordinary means by which she had acquired the knowledge of it. She debated with herself how she should act, and to whom she could communicate the circumstance. The interest she felt for the imprisoned baron, who possibly might yet be alive, prompted her to lose no time in coming to a decision; and Claudio appeared the only person to whom she

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could at present confide the story. She was in possession of the turret from whence no doubt the passage to the cavern remained still open. The description of it was so particular, that it was scarcely possible for him to miss the way. She had read in his character a sort of energy and decision, that left her no fear of his engaging readily in the enterprise. Besides, there was some motive something which he wished to discover which produced an eager desire to remain longer in the castle. It is true, he had displeased her; but ought she not to forget a trivial offence, which, after all, deserved not her resentment, when the release of a fellow creature from the most barbarous captivity, now rested wholly on herself? Her benevolent spirit recoiled from the delay of a moment, and with a palpitating heart, she resolved instantly to go in pursuit of Claudio.

CHAPTER XIV.

CAROLINE entered the room where the family usually partook of their morning repast, in the hope that she could find Claudio there alone; but she was deceived in her expectations. The baroness was already there, and engaged in conversation with the stranger. Although she reproached herself for her tardiness, it was not late; and before the entrance of breakfast, by addressing Claudio with her accustomed ease and sweetness, she had given him ample room for assuring himself that he had not mortally offended. The entrance of the baron seemed rather a surprise to the whole party; but the baroness having announced his name, Claudio gracefully made his acknowledgements for the succour he had received in his castle; and Caroline complimented him on his recovery.

His answer to both was formal, and his deportment cold and forbidding; and as she plainly perceived that he intended to impress on the mind of his guest, that his stay was unwelcome, and that his entrance had been thought an intrusion, she could with difficulty conceal the indignation which arose in her mind against him. As for Claudio, he appeared very little affected by his behaviour. In him were joined determined courage, engaging manners, wit, vivacity, and a knowledge of the world, seldom attained by young men of his age. Determined as he was to remain in the castle, until some mysteries were developed, in which he thought his fate was concerned, unless he was expelled by force, he assumed a negligent air, and appeared totally unconscious of the coldness of the baron, whose irritable temper was much ruffled by seeing his measures thus disconcerted. He left not the room immediately after breakfast, as was his usual custom, but remained a considerable time, believing his reserve would induce

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Claudio to think of departing. But Claudio wore out his hopes, as well as his patience; for he gave no hint whatever of his intention to quit the castle that day, but seemed resolved to devote himself to the amusement of the ladies, who were by this time seated at their work. The baron could no longer conceal his vexation. He rose to quit the room, but returning, and re-seating himself, he said haughtily,

"Signor, I see you are entirely recovered from the indisposition which procured you access to my castle; and as the rights of hospitality conferred upon you now appear no longer necessary, I hope you will pardon me when I inform you, that my own health and engagements will not allow me to ask your further stay."

A deep blush tinged the cheek of the baroness, at this ungentlemanly speech of her lord; and Caroline, as she raised her eyes to him, fixed them with a look which evinced the surprise and pain his rudeness gave her. Claudio surveyed them all, and penetrating into the emotions they felt, he replied in an unmoved accent,

"I am sorry, baron, to be considered as an intruder, but where I owe thanks, I also owe compliance, and you may be assured that I shall recommence my journey this morning."

The baron, satisfied with this promise, bowed slightly, and soon after left the room.

The baroness broke the pause, and began an apology for her husband, as well as a declaration of the regret she experienced in losing him so soon; but her embarrassment impeded her utterance, and convinced Claudio, more than her words could have done, of the benevolence and delicacy of her feelings.

He was profuse in his declarations of the gratitude he owed her; but Caroline, who, not the least concerned, had been the most silent, interrupted him, and said,

"Signor, are you really sufficiently recovered to travel? I who have witnessed how much you suffered from your accident, fear that you cannot be well enough. If so, my aunt will, I am sure, represent to the baron the necessity there is for your stay, of which, doubtless, he is not aware."

How did the heart of Claudio bless and adore the amiable Caroline, for this kind consideration. It also conveyed to him the hope, that it included in it her resolution to assent to that petition which she had before rejected with displeasure. He thanked her in the most animated language, and with looks that could not be mistaken; but he avowed, that however reluctant he was to depart, he felt that it would be too great a degradation of his own character, to remain a forbidden guest of the baron.

The baroness was struck with the remark of Caroline, and determined to put the scheme in execution; but she said nothing of her intention, as she resolved to take the request entirely upon herself, and not hurt the proper sense of propriety which Claudio had felt.

Believing that she could prevail upon the baron to send him an invita-

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tion to remain for that day at least in the castle; she feigned an excuse for quitting them, and hastily went in pursuit of her lord.

Caroline, whose presence of mind seldom forsook her on trying occasions, lost not a moment before she addressed Claudio.

"I rejoice, signor," said she, "in this fortunate opportunity of speaking to you alone before you depart. When we last met, you offended my pride, and my delicacy, by requesting me to assist you in remaining at the castle; but some important events have occurred to me since, which compel me to believe, that I have a sacred duty to perform, which cannot be done without your assistance."

"You know not the heart of the man you address, or the fervour of its devotion to you, if you do not believe that he would lose his life in your service," replied Claudio.

Caroline bowed, and replied, "I am going, signor, to give you a proof of the high opinion I entertain of the goodness of your heart, and the confidence I have in your honour. You hinted to me, that some mystery which related to yourself, was only to be explained in this castle, and you would smile at my superstition, were I to tell you the extraordinary warnings I have had to promote your views. These, however, may have arisen from the force of imagination, and the strength of colouring, which fancy ever gives to dreams. But a better, because an incontrovertible testimony that some mysterious transactions are passing within the castle, is now in my possession, and I cannot repel the wish which inclines me to place it in yours."

"Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Claudio, "what is it you tell me? My heart owned, the first moment I beheld you, for the angel on whom hung my every hope of bliss! And you can, doubtless, by some means or other, discover to me the fate of my unhappy brother; and, perhaps, reveal that mystery which hangs over my own."

"My power, I fear, extends not so far," replied Caroline, sorry to perceive, by his anxious looks, that she had excited expectations which it would be painful to him to renounce. "The secret in my possession, relates only to an unfortunate prisoner confined within these walls, to whom there is no chance that you can be any way related."

"Oh! name him, ma’amselle," cried Claudio. "Is it Vileroy—my brother?"

"Was Vileroy your brother, then?" asked Caroline, whilst her cheeks grew pale at the recollection of his miserable death.

"Yes the dearest, best of brothers. But he is known to you, and I, therefore, need not speak of his merits. Ah! I beseech you, tell me where I can again find, and press this dear and long lost friend to my bosom?"

"Indeed, I knew him not," said Caroline, "but chance has thrown into my hands much of his history." She paused, for she was going to add and of his misfortunes; but her feeling heart shrunk from the painful

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task of relating abruptly his fatal end. Resuming, therefore, as great a degree of composure as she could, she added, "this history is, however, long, and contained in a manuscript which I must show you. Let us instantly settle, for fear of interruption, where, and when we can meet for this purpose."

"If the baroness’s entreaties prevail," said Claudio, "I shall remain here until to-morrow; and, if not, I will only in appearance depart from hence; for the forest shall conceal me in the day, and when the inhabitants of the castle are retired to rest, I hope you will fulfil your charitable design by meeting me on the terrace."

"How can you pass the moat, and get to the terrace without discovery?" asked Caroline.

"I have a faithful attendant who will assist me, and I fear no difficulty," replied Claudio.

"I too, have a faithful domestic, in whom I can confide," said Caroline, "and a light shall be placed in the casement of my apartment, to guide you to that part of the terrace which my window overlooks. But we will hope that the baroness will be able to execute her benevolent intention, for I plainly perceive the motive which led her from us, and then all this will be rendered superfluous, as we can walk without suspicion in the garden."

Claudio was profuse in his acknowledgements, and his fine countenance became animated with joy, from the newly raised hope of learning something of his brother. At this moment, the door was gently opened by the baroness, whose dejected features not only betrayed that her request had been refused, but also that she had been ill-treated for having made it. She sat down, and hesitatingly began to speak, when the door again opened, but with a very rude push, and Roland informed the stranger that his horse and servant were in waiting.

He arose, and as Roland waited to conduct him, took a constrained and hasty leave of the ladies, who on their part, were obliged to be equally circumspect; but the look he gave Caroline at parting, expressively sought her not to disappoint him.

When they were alone, the baroness burst into an agony of tears, and hid her face in the bosom of Caroline, who strove to soothe her, whilst suffering herself from the most dreadful forebodings.

The baroness, in those intervals when her sobbing heart permitted her to speak, owned that the severity of her lord, and the mystery in which he seemed involved, preyed upon her spirits, and must soon destroy her life, as it had done her peace.

In a moment like this, Caroline felt almost impelled to confide to her all the transactions which had come to her knowledge. But prudence and compassion checked the design; for how could she afflict still more, a heart so deeply lacerated, by repeating the horrible crimes of which her husband had been guilty? or, how make her acquainted with the discoveries about to take place, since that would be to make her of the party against him?

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She determined, therefore, to be silent on the subject, cherishing the hope that some change must be produced by them, in the situation of her unhappy aunt.

They had passed about an hour together, and by mutual exertion, regained some degree of composure, when the baron entered, and they soon afterwards sat down to dinner.

"Well, cousin," said the baron, "what think you of the young Italian man who has just left us?"

"I think of him," replied Caroline, "in the same manner I do of all other men that is, very little."

"Yet that blush contradicts your assertion," said he.

"Come, come, my lord," said the baroness, "do not embarrass my young relation. She will, I dare aver, act always with propriety, and never bestow her affections but on a worthy object."

"I hope so," said the baron, "yet I thought I perceived glances of a peculiar nature pass between her and that stranger, whom I pronounce to be a forward, and very impertinent fellow."

Caroline’s countenance glowed. "Sir," exclaimed she, "I thought when you gave me admission into your castle, and took me under your protection, that I was secure from undeserved unkindness or censure."

"Madame," returned he, "if you are not satisfied with the treatment you meet with, you have your own remedy. You are no prisoner, and may leave this castle whenever you please."

"Nay, my dear niece," said the baroness, "be not thus distressed," for Caroline was now weeping. "My lord, you cannot be serious."

"Excuse me, my dear aunt, for my heart is filled with sorrow. But I will leave the castle, as soon as I can find another retreat. I have for some time feared, that the baron considered me an unwelcome guest."

"Whenever you please," said he, rising.

The horn at the drawbridge was at this moment sounded, and Roland hastened to enquire the cause. He quickly returned, and whispered his master. "Indeed!" exclaimed the baron, and hurried from the room.

The baron [sic] and Caroline were mingling their tears when he returned, accompanied by a gentleman. "Give me leave," said he, "to make known to you my most esteemed friend, Count Durlack."

Caroline cast her eyes on the count, and instantly fainted.

The baron and the count ran to her assistance, the former imputing the illness to the conversation which had just taken place; but the count judged better, when he beheld her features. "Astonishing!" exclaimed he, "Caroline Mecklenburg!"

The baroness at these words, perceived at once the cause of the indisposition of her niece, and scarcely could repress the indignation she felt, at the sight of the author of her woes.

The moment Caroline was restored to her senses, she arose to depart, and the baroness accompanied her to her chamber.

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"What," cried she, bursting into tears, "will fate do with me? The Count Durlack, of all people, I wished to shun; yet he has found me out even here. What shall I do?"

"You are wrong, my dear Caroline," said the baroness, "to distress yourself with causeless terrors. The sight of the count must certainly be hateful to you; but you need fear no violence from him here, where he has no one to command. He can only be a casual visitor, and his stay will probably be very short. Rest assured, however, that he can do you no injury here."

Thus the baroness passed the greatest part of the day, in comforting her niece, who refused to leave her room, being determined not to meet the count again if possible. To pass away the time, the baroness sat with her. Caroline entreated that she might finish the remainder of her sad story.

"Little of it, however," said she, "remains now to be told; but that little, I know, will be interesting to you, as it relates to the death of my ever-to-be-regretted mother, and the explanation of some dark incidents which occurred in the former part of it explanations, which arose from the confessions of Madame Zylstraw, my governess, on her death-bed, to which she was soon reduced, after she was dismissed by us.

"What little of my father’s property remained after the melancholy catastrophe which I have related, became confiscated, and we were immediately driven from the mansion in which we had spent so many happy years; and so complete was our ruin, that it was with difficulty we could preserve a few private jewels, which belonged to ourselves, and from which alone we had to expect the subsistence of our future lives. Abandoned by the world separated from our relatives with a constitution impaired by sorrow and a reputation tainted by calumny with an orphan daughter, for whose support her whole stock of wealth would scarcely suffice for a couple of years, and fears of violence from a powerful enemy. Such was the dreadful situation of my unhappy mother! But an immediate asylum was necessary, and a convent appeared the most proper and secure. For we thought that the count dared not molest us, if under the guardianship of the church; and he neither did so, or forgot us, as we heard nothing further of him. In this retreat we had not been long settled, when I perceived that the health of my mother had received an irrecoverable shock. The gaiety of her spirits were gone. That vivacity, which gladdened the hearts of all around her, was succeeded by a deep melancholy, which preyed upon her. Her complexion faded. The lustre of her eyes became dimmed, and every symptom appeared of an awful change approaching. She seemed in general perfectly resigned; yet, sometimes I surprised her in tears. If I endeavoured to comfort her, ‘my child,’ would she say, ‘it is thy forlorn, thy destitute condition, that I lament. Alas! what will become of thee unacquainted with the world, and ignorant of its snares, when I am gone? how wilt thou, once the child of prosperity, bear up

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against the billows of affliction? how wilt thou wrestle with the griping hand of poverty? how wilt thou avoid the arts of the subtle, and the violence of the strong?’ Lamenting over me one day, she added, ‘there is only one way which I can perceive, to extricate thee from such a labyrinth of woes. Yet would I consult the situation of my daughter’s heart. You are young yet you may have seen the man you love. If it is so, tell me.’

"I assured her I never had. ‘What then,’ said she, ‘do you think of a monastic life? of dedicating yourself to your Creator? and passing your days in the tranquil retirement of a convent, where you will be shielded from all the evils you have otherwise cause to dread?’

"I trembled at the proposal, and the more, as I had often contemplated, and pitied the solitary nuns, who, severed from all society, but that of each other, seemed to me the victims of misery and despair! But I replied not. My mother perceived my disinclination to a convential seclusion, and finding I remained silent, added, ‘the lady abbess, or father confessor, are more proper persons than myself to expatiate on the advantages of a religious life; but I have observed to you, that I had once the opportunity which you now have, and many times have I since repented that I did not embrace it.’

"My mother had thought more seriously of this than I at first apprehended. She renewed the conversation again, and used so many arguments, that I at length consented to enter upon my noviciate; and this I did with the less reluctance, as I considered, that if I did not, at the expiration of the term, choose to take the vows, I should be under no obligation to do so. One day, a person came to the convent, and enquiring for my mother, informed her that a woman in the neighbourhood was so extremely ill, as to be given over by her physician, desired to see her; she, fearing it might be some scheme of the count’s, to get her into his power, at first refused to go; but she sent a person to watch the messenger home, and to enquire privately, if there was really any one there in such desperate circumstances. The answer was, that it was actually so, and she then determined to comply; I attended her, and we were admitted to the sick person’s apartment. It was mean to a degree, and an obscure window, scarcely afforded light enough for us to distinguish the emaciated form, and altered countenance of Madame Zylstraw. She seemed at first scarcely sensible of our being present, until my mother spoke. She then raised her hand, and in a feeble voice said, ‘You are then come, madame, I was told you had refused, and it grieved me much, for I cannot die in peace, unless I have your forgiveness for the wrongs I have done you. Yet how dare I expect it? I have injured you too deeply to be pardoned.’

" ‘Do not agitate yourself thus,’ said my mother, ‘I know of no crime you have committed against me, which deserves this contrition. I am a weak mortal as well as yourself. Think, rather, of making your peace with that infinite power, before whose tribunal you will shortly appear.’

" ‘Alas! you know not what I have done, ‘ replied the penitent, and