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Frederique drunk in the words as he would the sweet air from Heaven. They were these:—

Frederique was distinctly aware that the sound was now further distant than before.

The voice ceased.

"I must have passed," thought Frederique, "some opening from this cavern that leads to the chamber of this divinity."

He turned, and carefully examining the wall with his hands, as he proceeded, he endeavoured to discover some means of approaching nearer to the spot from whence the sounds evidently proceeded.

After some time spent in fruitless search, Frederique, to his great joy, discovered a narrow passage leading from the large cavern in which he was. He felt with his arms, and extended his sword, and he ascertained that the passage was very narrow and straight. Without a moment’s hesi-

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tation, he entered it, and as rapidly as he could proceeded forwards as it guided him.

Suddenly he saw, at some distance in advance, a dull glare of light. He quickened his steps, his heart beating with expectation.

When he arrived at the spot which was thus dimly enlightened, he paused for a moment, and looked warily around him.

The light seemed to proceed from one side of the wall through which it seemed to pass. Frederique laid his hand upon it and found that it was a massive curtain, or piece of drapery, through which the faint beams forced their way.

His heart beat tumultuously with hope. A bright flush passed across his face, and he laid a trembling hand upon the curtain.

In another instant he had drawn the frail barrier on one side.

The glare of light from numerous candles for a moment or two dazzled his eyes, and he could see nothing distinctly.

A scream from some one who was in the apartment aroused all his attention. Once glance sufficed to assure him that he was in the presence the fair being who, in her wondrous beauty had stolen upon his slumbers in the forest.

With much grace he dropped upon one knee, and laying his sword at his feet, he said—

"Fear nothing, thou most beautiful of the beautiful. Command me anything but to cease to gaze on thee, and he who kneels at thy feet will thy feet will do thy bidding with more devotion than the humblest slave."

The girl had been sitting by a small table, on which lay a lute and some wild flowers. On Frederique’s entrance she had sprung to her feet, and snatched from beside her a small bow of exquisite workmanship, into which with the rapidity of lightning she had fixed an arrow.

Frederique’s words and attitude, however, seemed to dispel her first fears, and she suffered the arrow to fall to the ground.

"Oh, bid me anything," continued Frederique, "but to be gone."

"You—you are lost!" cried the girl, clasping her hand, and looking at Frederique with an eye rather of pity than alarm.

"I am lost," said Frederique—"lost to the whole world in the contemplation of this wondrous beauty."

"Go—go!" she cried; "hasten away from this place."

"If," answered Frederique, "a life of difficulty and trouble had brought me at its close but here, I could bless my destiny, and die gazing at Heaven in thy eyes."

"Go—go—go!" she cried.

"Tell the hermit to forsake his beads," said Frederique, "the miser his riches—the soldier his glory; tell the flowers that are warmed to life and beauty by the sun to look not at its gorgeous beams, but, oh! tell me not to turn from thee, thou fairest of God’s works."

"Oh, madness! madness!" cried the girl.

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"Nay, not madness; ‘tis life—joy—bliss beyond compare."

"Your life!" she cried.

"I never lived, till now," said Frederique.

"You will be sacrificed—lost—lost!"

"Nay, then, I will look on thee, and cheat Death of his terrors."

"Oh, stranger," she cried, in a voice of touching despair, "I—I know you not, but I would not have you die."

"For thee, then, gentle being, kind as beautiful, for thee, then, let me live," said the romantic Frederique, rising.

"Oh, Heaven!" she cried, "this is some wild infatuation."

"It is," said Frederique; "an infatuation which will end but with my being."

"You are in great danger."

"I see thee—I hear thee speak."

"There are those near, who, although unwillingly, would be compelled to take thy life. Oh, depart at once."

"I hear sweet music," said Frederique—" ‘tis thy voice; I live in sunshine—‘tis the reflection of thy beauty."

"Stranger," she said, "I implore you to go. You involve me in your own fate."

"Ha!" cried Frederique, "is that so?"

"It is! it is!" she cried. "Go from here and forget me and this place. Oh, blot it from your memory for ever!"

"I cannot," said Frederique, with a sigh. "Forget thee! No! no!"

"Go! go! Why stay an instant?"

"Because when I go I leave behind me my heart, my sight, my very soul with thee."

"Hark!" she cried.

Frederique listened, and he heard close at hand a confused noise of revelry and mirth.

"There, there," she said. "Those you now hear are good men, but they must take your life."

"This is most mysterious," said Frederique.

"Oh, ponder not on it," she cried, "but go. While yet you may, go."

"How hard it is to obey thee, lady."

"Do you love your life?"

"Not as I love thee," said Frederique.

A crimson glow came across the face and neck of the fair girl. She clasped her hands in despair, and then said in a low tone, turning her face from him as she spoke,

"Then—then as you love me, go, go!"

Loud sounds of laughter now broke upon Frederique’s ear, and a rough voice cried from some inner chamber,

"A song!—a song!—a song from our brave captain!"

"Hurrah!" said several voices. "A song!—a song!"

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The beautiful girl sank upon a seat and hid her face with her hands, while a clear manly voice sang the following son:—

"From whence came those sounds?" said Frederique.

"Oh, ask not—ask not!" said the girl; "go, go—"

"Lady," said Frederique, "farewell! I will not further distress you by remaining; but tell me one thing."

"What is that? Say, quickly."

"Is this place in any way connected with the vaults of Zindorf Castle?"

"The vaults of Zindorf Castle? Why do you ask?"

"I am a soldier, fairest of beings; it is my duty to prevent the escape of the Baron of Zindorf Castle."

"Ha! say you so?"

"He has," continued Frederique, "been accused of grievous crimes, and my errand in the forest was to discover the entrance from the vaults to the forest."

"Stranger," said the girl, in a musing tone, "go, go now."

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"Oh, say that we may meet again!" exclaimed Frederique.

"You hunt in the forest?"

"No, lady, I am here by order of Sir Gaston de Beauvais. My errand is warfare to the Baron Zindorf and the Count Durlack."

The girl appeared to be in deep thought for some moments, and then she said,—

"This place does lead to the vaults of Zindorf."

"Then I am compelled by my duty, as a soldier, lady, to report its discovery."

"Promise me—"

"Promise you what?" cried Frederique. "Is there anything that could be asked by such as thee that I could refuse?"

"Promise," she continued, "that before you make mention of this place, you will again, at the hour of noon, visit the mossy bank on which you t this morning, when—"

"When I was blessed by seeing thee."

"You will promise?"

"Lady, with the dear hope of seeing thee, I would travel many, many leagues. Doubt not, pure being, I will be there."

"Now, go, go at once," she said.

"Till to-morrow at noon," said Frederique, "farewell! Oh, what an age will be till then."

"Farewell, soldier," she said; "I—I would know what to call you."

"I am a kinsman of Sir Gaston de Beauvais," said he, and they call me Frederique."

"Frederique!" repeated the girl, in a low tone.

"And thy name, fair one?" he said.

"Constance," she replied.

"That name," said Frederique, "is henceforth hallowed by love."

"Go—oh go," she cried. "Farewell."

"Till to-morrow," said Frederique; and, picking up his sword, he passed from the room.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

THE Baron Zindorf, with all his crimes and unrelenting cruelties, was, nevertheless, much shocked at the death of the baroness.

He left the chapel with his mind distracted by apprehensions and fears of the most terrible description. The failure of the mock marriage—the death of his wife—and, worse than all to his mind, the escape of those whom he most wished to keep in ignorance of the secrets of Zindorf Castle, into the vaults which hid most of those secrets from observation, filled him with dismay.

In the midst of this, however, he was fully alive to the necessity of im-

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mediately pursuing the fugitives who had thus escaped him and the count for a time.

The recovery of Caroline, and the capture and death of Claudio, presented themselves to his imagination as events that must occur for the sake of his own preservation.

He summoned Roland, and, bidding him arm himself well, he desired that Francisco should be sought for instantly.

The baron and his two assistants were soon ready, and they, together with himself and the Count Durlack, he judged, would be an amply sufficient force to descend into the vaults and capture Claudio and his one attendant—for a little reflection quite convinced the baron that Claudio could have no other assistance.

The Baron Zindorf himself loaded a harquebus, and determined that, should there be any show of effective resistance, he would, by its discharge, at once rid himself of all trouble on account of the young soldier Claudio, to whom he had behaved so inhospitably, and who, he had flattered himself, was far removed ham Zindorf Castle.

Having made these preparations, he again repaired to the chapel, where Count Durlack kept his solitary guard.

"Are you ready?" cried the count, impatiently.

"We are," answered the baron. "Here is a sword. Nothing, I presume, has occurred to disturb your watch?"

"Nothing that I saw," replied the count; "but shortly after you had left the chapel, a form seemed to flit past me in the dim light, and disappear behind the altar, close to the trap-door."

"You saw it not?" said the baron.

"No," answered Durlack, "it passed like a flash of light and was gone in an instant."

"Then you know not what it resembled?"

"I do not. But let us descend, baron. You say there is no available outlet from the vaults, and we are sure of our prisoners?"

"They cannot escape," said the baron; "we shall most surely capture them."

"Who is that Claudio?" asked Durlack.

The baron glanced timidly around him, and, inclining forward to the count, he whispered—

"Would you not almost think, count, that it was he again restored to life?"

"Who?—Vileroy?"

"The same. Saw you ever such a resemblance? The form—face—voice—everything is Vileroy’s."

"I marked it," said Durlack. "Heed it not, baron—’tis an accidental resemblance—a mere freak of dame nature, to cast two men in the same mould."

"I shuddered when I first saw him," continued the baron; "I thought

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he was gone, but now, most strangely, he appears to mar our plans even in the hour of their success."

"He dies!" cried the count.

"I—I cannot touch him," said the baron. "It freezes my blood to look on him."

"Leave him to me, then," answered Durlack. "Montoni’s dungeon will hold another tenant."

"Can you enter there?" asked the baron, trembling.

"Why not?" said Durlack; "by this time, what remains of the once proud and haughty Montoni?"

"But little—but little," said the baron, in a low mournful tone.

"There then," cried the count, "let this gallant languish. His presence above ground would henceforward be a perpetual annoyance."

"He already knows more than is good for his safety concerning Zindorf Castle," muttered the baron.

"Let us descend, then, at once," cried Durlack. "This business should be soon settled."

"Light—torches," said the baron.

Roland and Francisco lit their torches by the dim lights that still burned on the altar.

"The day is breaking," said the count; "but I am aware that perpetual darkness reigns where we are going."

"This has been a strange night," said the baron, casting a glance towards the tomb on which lay in the profound sleep of death, the body of the baroness.

"This is no time to think or mourn," cried Durlack. "Come, baron, we have that to do which will not brook further delay."

"I am ready, " said the baron, with a deep sigh.

They proceeded to the back of the altar, where the open trap-door admitted a dim light to fall upon the narrow staircase which led to the vaults.

Count Durlack saw that the baron hesitated for a moment upon the brink of the opening.

"Follow me," cried the count. "I will do the honours of the vaults of Zindorf Castle, since you, baron, seem to shrink from the office."

The count sprung through the opening, immediately followed by Roland.

With a perceptible shudder the baron then descended, and Francisco with his torch, followed him closely.

In the meantime, Claudio had raised the fainting Euphoric, and carrying him to the door of the dungeon where there was a current of air, he hoped by that means, being the only one in his power, to restore him to consciousness.

In a few minutes he showed signs of returning animation, and he bent his dark lustrous eyes upon the face of Claudio, with an expression of gratitude.

"I am better now," he said, faintly. "This will not happen again."

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"Let me still support you," said Claudio. "You look ill, Euphoric."

"No—no,—it has passed away. No more weakness;—no more tears."

"Your hand is like marble," said Claudio.

"So is my heart!" replied the boy. "So is my heart!"

"My own situation," said Claudio, "is at present of that nature that I can offer you no aid. I am little better than a prisoner in these dreary dungeons."

"I thank you," said Euphoric. "You will be sought for here. Should your enemies prevail—and I pray you let them, rather than receive injury—do not by word or look appear to know me."

"But why should I submit while I have life?" said Claudio.

"Submit to imprisonment in these vaults," replied Euphoric. "That is the intention with regard to you. I will free you as soon as with safety to yourself can be done."

"I have a sword," said Claudio.

"True," cried the page, "and you may know how to wield it well; but the baron, the count, and the two ruffians, Roland and Francisco, are four."

"There may be wisdom in your advice, Euphoric," said Claudio. "Do you know where yon door leads to?"

"I do not," answered Euphoric.

"It leads," continued Claudio, "to a turret chamber close to the apartment of this lady."

"Ah!" cried the page, "you have been concealed there. I see it all. The panel leads to the turret."

"It does," cried Claudio ; "that door opens by a spring on the outside; it has been carefully covered with earth and clay, to make it look like a level wall. If we now close it, no suspicion, probably, may arise, that it has been at all opened; or, even should the baron conclude, that by that route I came to the chapel, he can but once more conceal the door on the outside against casual observation. You, however, Euphoric, knowing of its existence, can easily find it."

"Make, then," said Euphoric, "some show of resistance, and allow yourself to be confined here. You shall not languish long in imprisonment."

"But how can I leave you, Caroline," cried Claudio, "to the mercy these men?"

"Better leave her," said the page, "for a few hours, than for ever."

"My reason," said Claudio, "is convinced, but how hard a task it is to make the heart beat responsive to the dictates of the head."

"Hark!" cried Euphoric, "I hear a noise."

"They come! they come!" exclaimed Caroline, clinging closer to Claudio’s arm.

"Fear nothing, lady," said the page. "A crisis is approaching in the affairs of your oppressors; you shall yet be saved."