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"I have, Frederique, and could have taken possession of Zindorf Castle at any time within the last three months. But such a course would have done us no benefit, and been of incalculable injury to the brave fellows, who unanimously elected me their captain, and would at my bidding, encounter any risks whatever."

"I perfectly agree with you," said Frederique. "But now the case is materially altered. The Baron of Zindorf and the Count Durlack who is with him, are both convicted criminals, and it would be good service to place them at once in the hands of justice for their numerous enormities."

"You forget," said the chevalier, with a sigh, "that I, too, am a proscribed man."

"But you are innocent, D’Anville?"

"I am—but still I suffer as if guilty. No, Frederique, I cannot, and will not take possession of Zindorf Castle."

"Perhaps you use a sound discretion," said Frederique.

"I feel convinced I do," answered the chevalier. "Sir Gaston de Beauvais has pledged himself to the capture of these men!"

"He has—I am myself one of a party left by him to guard against any attempted escape of the culprits in his absence, to procure a sufficient force to take Zindorf Castle by assault."

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"Your party guards the postern and the various avenues of escape?"

"They do—they are tried soldiers, and will do their duty well, chevalier."

"Then the baron and the count can escape but by one way."

"By this passage from the vaults?"

"Yes! That, however, I solemnly pledge myself to prevent. No one shall leave the Castle of Zindorf, by this place, on my honour as a knight."

"I am fully satisfied," answered Frederique. "The baron and the count must surrender to Sir Gaston de Beauvais or perish in the ruins of their abode of crime."

"Enter," said the chevalier, as they now arrived at the mouth of the cavern to which Frederique had the day previously penetrated by a shorter road through the thick underwood, which had been so carefully planted to conceal from the cursory observation of any wayfarer in the forest or wandering hunter.

"I shall see her again," thought Frederique; "I shall again gaze enraptured upon the more than mortal beauty. The heavenly melody of her voice will again fill the air with music. Those twin stars, her eyes, will shed their pure lustre on my heart. Oh, Constance, Constance you were formed for the happiness or misery of Frederique!"

The Chevalier D’Anville paused when a few paces within the cavern, and blew a silver whistle thrice.

The shrill sound echoed through the long vaulted place, and as Frederique strained his eyes to pierce the darkness which reigned at the further end of the gloomy cave, he saw a light appear, at first no bigger than a star, and then it grew larger and larger, shedding faint rays around it in that dark cavern.

Now he could perceive the dim outline of a figure. His heart beat wildly in his bosom with expectation—Heaven—nearer it came. He could not be mistaken—yes—that fairy form—that ineffable grace—that poetry of action—it was Constance!

In another moment she was in the arms of her father.

"Father!" she cried, "dear, dear father! You have been long gone—I have suffered many fears on your account."

"Nay, my Constance," answered the chevalier, in a tone which betrayed how dear to his heart was she who was now hanging on his breast. "There was no cause for alarm. You know who I went to meet."

"Yes!—yes, father, the young soldier—the brave, the—"

"He is here, love," interrupted D’Anville, "to thank you for your kind compliments."

"Here!" cried Constance—"Oh, father!"

"I am here, lady," said Frederique, "and ready to pour forth my heart’s blood to do you service or your noble father."

Constance hung her head abashed.

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"Nay, my child," said the chevalier kindly, "you spoke but the truth. Frederique is a brave young soldier; he has brought us news of much moment, Constance. News which something whispers me will restore you, my dear child, to that station which you would adorn."

"Father," said Constance, "you know I am happy but for your sake, my heart, indeed, rejoices that hope has again arisen."

"And have you no word of welcome for your father’s friend, Constance?" said the chevalier, smiling.

Constance held out her hand timidly to Frederique.

He pressed it respectfully to his lips. What a moment of pure unalloyed happiness was that to the young soldier.

"We will follow you, Constance," said her father to her.

With cheeks glowing with innocent pleasure, the fair Constance tripped before her father and Frederique, the latter of whom followed her every movement with admiring eyes.

"Oh, most rare and exquisite beauty " he mentally soliloquised. "Can it be possible that in the shrinking timidity of thy loveliness, I see likewise her whose bold and resolute spirit yesterday prompted her to snatch a weapon to repel the intruder upon her father’s place of refuge? Henceforth, dear Constance, I dedicate my life to thee. Thy name shall be the watchword of my fancy; the thought of thee shall nerve my arm in the battlefield. For thy sake I will earn laurels, and a name among the bravest. Heaven is kind to me, to guide me alone to the shrine of so much grace,—so much wondrous beauty; a beauty which might witch the world with wonder; a loveliness on which mankind might gaze for ever unsatiated. Oh, Constance! Constance! love me, or kill me, there is no medium."

"Why do you sigh, Frederique?" said the Chevalier D’Anville.

"Did I sigh, my friend?" said Frederique, rather confused.

"You did, in faith, and deeply too."

"May I tell you, chevalier, and be forgiven?" said Frederique.

The Chevalier D’Anville did not answer for a moment, and then slacking his pace, he said:—

"Yes, Frederique, you may. I do esteem you noble."

"It was a foolish thought," said Frederique; "but I sighed to think, chevalier, that two days had passed since I have hunted in the forest, and I had missed seeing Constance till the third."

"Frederique," said the chevalier, "I will not affect to misunderstand you. With all the impetuosity of youth, you fancy that you love my daughter."

"Fancy?" cried Frederique, "I—"

"Nay, hear me out," interrupted D’Anville.

Frederique was silent.

"There is a time for all things," continued the chevalier gravely, and in a low tone. "You will understand me, Frederique, as frankly as I un-

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derstood you, when I say that the present is a trial for brave deeds and friendly service only."

"I do understand you, sir," answered Frederique, the warm blood rushing to his brow.

"That is enough, then," said D’Anville. "A cloud is upon my house; when that has passed away, the Chevalier D’Anville and his daughter will in the clear light know their friend better."

"Do your words imply suspicion?" said Frederique.

"As Heaven is my judge," answered D’Anville, "not a shadow."

"Rely upon my honour, and my sword, then," replied Frederique.

"I do, implicitly," cried the chevalier, extending his hand.

Frederique grasped it with fervour.

"Constance, my child," said the chevalier, "you will look upon this young soldier as a friend whom your father trusts with his life and honour."

"May Heaven," cried Frederique, "desert me in my greatest need, if I betray the sacred trust reposed in me!"

A beaming smile, which was to Frederique like a glimpse of Heaven, played over the face of Constance, as she said:—

"The thanks, sir, of one poor, in aught else are yours."

"Lead on," said D’Anville.

In a short time Frederique found himself with the persecuted Chevalier D’Anville and his fair child in the same apartment, which had witnessed his interview with Constance the day before.

Frederique could hardly believe himself awake, so suddenly had he become acquainted with the Chevalier D’Anville, of whom, however, he had frequently heard his noble kinsman, Sir Gaston de Beauvais, speak as a gallant soldier, and in his opinion, a deeply injured gentleman.

"We can make you welcome to ample refreshment," said D’Anville; "although the style in which our viands are served, is not of the most refined or courtly character, Frederique."

"You forget," answered Frederique, "that my festive board has lately been the cold earth, and my couch the green leaves of the forest."

"I could offer you a better resting place," said D’Anville, "but I know too well the duty of a soldier is his pleasure."

"You judge me rightly," said Frederique. "Besides, I am under orders from Sir Gaston de Beauvais."

"Constance," said D’Anville, "call Richter."

Constance retired, and in a few moments returned with a soldier in his buff-leather undress, who started at the sight of a stranger.

The chevalier smiled, and said:—

"Richter, do not be alarmed; this is a friend,—a friend who can, and will do us all much service. Pray let him see that we have wherewithall to be hospitable even here."

"Thanks to you, noble captain, we fare like princes. Perhaps a few

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slices from the buck Ernest killed yesterday might not be amiss with a half dozen bottles of Malvaisey wine? Then there’s a cold pasty, and some rare hams; the finest in Westphalia. And then there’s—"

"Why," cried Frederique, "here is a feast for a regiment, chevalier."

"Why we do live indifferently well," said the chevalier, smiling.

"We do, captain; but forgive me if I say you don’t," said the soldier. "A crust of brown bread, and a draught of water from the little rivulet that runs close by, is oftener your repast."

"Bring something of each you have mentioned, good Richter," said D’Anville, "and you shall see we’ll do justice to you as caterer."

Richter nodded, and disappeared.

"Yon fellow," said D’Anville, "is as brave a soldier and as good a cook as ever I encountered."

Richter soon returned, and with great quickness loaded the table with a substantial repast, not forgetting some of the choice wines of Malvaisey, which were then in great repute.

Frederique would have eaten a heartier meal had Constance not been present, but he was occupied in watching and admiring her, that he made some of the most ludicrous mistakes.

"My good Frederique," said D’Anville, "do you usually dip your venison in your wine glass, and pepper your bread?"

"Eh?" said Frederique. "Did I? I really—I—I thought the wine was the salt, and the bread the—the—"

The chevalier laughed, and even Constance could not forbear a smile at the absence of mind of the young soldier.

The repast was shortly ended, and the chevalier proposed a bumper to the health of Sir Gaston de Beauvais, which was drunk with enthusiasm by Frederique. When he took the goblet from his lips, he looked around in great disappointment.—Constance was gone.

"You expressed a desire to hear the story of my accusation?" said D’Anville.

"I—ah!—yes—certainly. I am most anxious," said Frederique. "She’s gone—quite gone—I—yes—"

The chevalier smiled and without noticing the abstraction of the young soldier, began a narration of the proceedings which had made him a fugitive and placed a price upon his head.

CHAPTER XLV.

THE shadows of evening deepened into night. A solemn stillness reigned in Zindorf castle. The wind, which had been rising all day, now swept in howling gusts around the time-worn tower and mouldering battlements. Now and then, a heavy dash of rain against the casement of her chamber would cause Caroline to start, in the expectation that some one was attempting to force a passage to her chamber.

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In vain she tried to look up and observe the aspect of the Heavens—all was blackness and obscurity without—all was doubt and anxiety within.

Each moment the wind increased in power, and Caroline could hear it from afar off coming onwards, its slow and gentle murmuring in the distance, swelling as it approached with a louder and a louder sound, until, with a roar of wild fury, it swept over the castle of Zindorf and pursued its course.

Now, in a lull of the wind, she could hear the castle clock striking, but before she could count three of its strokes, the tempest came again, and the sound was swallowed up by the roaring blast.

"Could that have been midnight?" she said, clasping her hands. "Oh, Claudio, Claudio, the hour of your deliverance is come. And yet it cannot be so late. Another weary hour—an age to those who watch as I do the progress of time—must pass ere an attempt be made to rescue thee from thy dreary abode."

Caroline walked to the ante-room door and listened attentively to catch the slightest sound that might indicate the approach of Euphoric; but no—all was still as the grave.

With a deep sigh she returned to her chamber, and sank upon a seat.

"Oh, Heavens!" she cried; "upon how slender a foundation do I build my dearest hopes—the inclinations—the health—the life of a mere boy are what I depend upon. What if he should be prevented from approaching here at all by the infamous count, his master? The slightest breath of suspicion concerning his faith would at once ensure such a result. The merest inadvertence! Oh, what anxious moments are these! Claudio, Claudio, you cannot suffer more agony in your gloomy dungeon, with the mouldering remains of the murdered Montoni to shock you, than does your Caroline here in her chamber!"

The wind continued to increase in violence, and now Caroline became convinced, or at least she strove to calm her fears by thinking that it could have been but eleven which had sounded from the castle clock.

The rain dashed against the window more frequently, and it seemed occasionally to be mingled with hail, for Caroline almost feared that the casement would be burst inwards by the violence of the dashing showers.

Caroline’s feelings would not allow her to sit still long, and she now rose and paced her chamber for some time, endeavouring to reason herself into a state of comparative calmness and resignation.

Oh! what a weary hour that seemed to Caroline Mecklenburgh which she passed in that anxious state of watching.

Slowly the minutes rolled onwards, and it seemed to her as if she must have waited many weary hours instead of one, when her heart suddenly beat wildly, and a flash of excitement pervaded her cheek as she heard a sound as of some one endeavouring to open the ante-room door.

" ‘Tis he," she repeated to herself in an agitated whisper. " ‘Tis he, ‘tis he. It must be he—’tis Euphoric."

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She distinctly heard the key in the lock.

"Claudio, Claudio," she said, "you will be free. Oh, happy moment! These welcome sounds. Come, Euphoric, come."

The door opened and Euphoric appeared.

Caroline sprang towards him.

"Oh, Euphoric!" she cried; "thank Heaven you have come. I have suffered agonies of apprehensions lest something had prevented you."

"I have come," said Euphoric, "but—"

"But what, Euphoric? Good Heavens! What has happened? You look pale. You tremble. Speak, Euphoric; oh, speak!"

"Calm yourself, lady," said the page. "You will be disappointed, but no other evil, I hope, will arise from delay."

"Delay, Euphoric? Why delay? Oh, delay not a moment. Let us at once to the turret. Come, Euphoric, come."

"Lady," answered the page, "I have but a few moments in which to tell you that Claudio cannot be just now rescued from his dungeon."

Caroline felt stunned and deprived for a time of the power of speech. She gazed at the page as if doubting whether she had heard him aright or not. At length she found strength to say—

"Oh, Euphoric! the hour has come. Not rescue him? ‘Tis midnight, surely. That was the time, Euphoric."

"It is midnight, and the Baron Zindorf will be here immediately."

"The Baron Zindorf?"

"Yes," replied Euphoric. "About ten minutes since I was summoned to the presence of the count and the baron, and told immediately to seek your chamber."

"For what purpose?"

"The baroness within the hour will be consigned to the tomb."

"My poor aunt!" cried Caroline, clasping her hands, and for the moment forgetting everything in the painful recollections conjured up by the name of her only relative, whose death had been so sudden and mysterious.

"You are required," continued Euphoric, "to attend the ceremony."

"Oh, yes," cried Caroline, "I would do so."

"Fear not, lady, for Claudio. He has provision and light. I cautioned him to be sparing of the means of subsistence, in case of any unforeseen accident delaying his release. Do not despair, lady, all will be well yet."

"The disappointment," said Caroline, "is bitter. And oh, how bitter is the cause of that disappointment."

"Hush!" cried Euphoric. "The baron."

The door of the ante-room was flung open, and the Baron Zindorf stood in the entrance, his figure cast into strong relief by a glare of light behind from several persons bearing torches.

Over his ordinary costume he wore a rich cloak of black velvet, and a plume of black feathers was in his hat.

For a moment he paused upon the threshold of the ante-chamber, as if

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he felt undecided what to do or say, and then he walked slowly into the room.

"The baroness," said the baron, "is to-night to be consigned to the last resting-place of the Zindorfs."

"I have heard as much," said Caroline.

"Your presence at the mournful ceremony," continued the baron, "need, I presume, hardly be requested."

"It is my duty," said Caroline, "although a melancholy one, to attend the mortal remains of my poor aunt to the tomb; but I might have been earlier informed when the ceremony was to take place."

"It is a custom in my family," said the baron, "to bury their dead at the solemn hour of midnight, and to summon the mourners as I have now summoned you, without previous notice."

"It is of little moment, sir," answered Caroline. "We should need no notice to do that which is our duty. You must be aware though that my dress is unfit for such a solemn occasion."

"That difficulty has been provided against," said the baron; then turning to the door, he called in a loud voice—

"Namine, approach."

"Oh, dear yes, my lord baron," said Namine, "I am approaching. Dear me, ma’amselle, how do you do? I declare—"

"Peace," cried the baron. "Cease this chattering."

"Chattering," muttered Namine. "Well, I never. To accuse me, of all folks in the castle, of chattering. What will the world come to? As Francisco truly says—

" ‘Namine,’ says he, ‘you and I—’"

"Say no more, Namine," cried Caroline. "I am glad to see you, but this is no occasion for trivial conversation."

"Trivial conversation," whispered Namine to herself. "There’s some folks as don’t call my conversation trivial."

"We wait, Caroline Mecklenburgh," said the baron, in a tone of impatience.

Namine now produced a large mantle of black silk, which she officiously adjusted around Caroline.

Euphoric, meanwhile, leaned in a listless manner against the back of a chair, and seemed altogether an indifferent spectator of what was taking place.

"Were you," said Caroline, in a whisper to Namine, as she was adjusting the mantle, "with my poor aunt when she died?"

"No, ma’amselle," answered Namine, "I were not."

"Where did she die?"

"In the chapel, ma’amselle."

"In the chapel! Good Heavens! then it was on that fatal night that I was forced thither to listen to a desecration of the holy service of God."

"When you was going to be married, ma’amselle, and then was it," said