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Namine, "the poor baroness died of grief because you wouldn’t have the count."

"Who has reported so absurd a tale?" asked Caroline, indignantly.

"The baron, ma’amselle, told us all so, and very sorry we all were."

"Do you believe it, Namine?"

Namine looked askance at the baron, and then whispered—

"No, ma’amselle, nor nobody else, no how, not by no manner of means,

ma’amselle. Oh, we know the baron. We know—"

"What is all this whispering?" cried the baron. "Methinks, Caroline Mecklenburgh, on such an occasion as this you might be better occupied than in holding a whispered conversation with a menial."

"Baron Zindorf," answered Caroline, "if your conscience was as clear of offence to my poor aunt while she was living as mine is of disrespect to her now she is no more, you could mention her without the pang which you must feel hardened as you are."

" ‘Tis well," said the baron, making a great effort to suppress his rage. "You forget your situation, and brave me."

"No, Baron Zindorf, it is because I remember my situation as a prisoner in the castle to which I was invited as a guest, that I speak thus plainly."

"Hush!" said Euphoric, gently.

Caroline felt that she had allowed her feelings to overcome her prudence and she now paused, determined to say no more.

"Caroline Mecklenburgh forgets," sneered the baron, "that I hold a

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hostage for her good behaviour in the gay gallant, whose lustre, methinks, by this time, is a little dimmed by the vaults of Zindorf."

Caroline answered not, but moved slowly to the door.

"Humph!" said the baron; "that is a more tender point than a dead aunt. Are you ready to attend me to the chapel?"

"Lead on, sir," answered Caroline, "I’ll follow."

The baron walked to the door.

"Forward!" he cried.

At that moment the chapel bell tolled dismally, and the sound reverberated in hollow echoes through the castle.

The sound seemed to transfix every one for a moment.

"Forward!" cried the baron, imperiously.

Again the bell tolled, and the torch-bearers slowly advanced.

There was a slight bustle in closing the door, and arranging the order in which they were to proceed to the chapel, during which, Euphoric stept noiselessly to the side of Caroline, and whispered,—

"Be wary and cautious. Believe nothing that is repugnant to your feelings."

"What mean you?" said Caroline, in the same tone.

"Hush," answered the page, "time presses."

He immediately stepped back as the baron now advanced, and waving his hand, the party slowly proceeded.

Caroline’s reflections were of the most agonising description. She had loved her aunt as the only being after the death of her mother, in whose sympathetic bosom she could pour her griefs. Her sudden and unexpected death had made a deep impression upon the susceptible mind of Caroline, and she considered it a sacred duty which she owed to her memory to shew no reluctance in following her remains to their last sad resting place.

How deeply agonising, however, were Caroline’s feelings at the reflection that this last mournful duty to the baroness was being performed, perhaps at the price of the existence of him who alone could to her make life a happiness, and dim the memory of past sorrows in the blissful enjoyment of the present.

Might not, she thought, Claudio be even now breathing his last sigh in his dismal and noxious prison? Bad air, confinement, anxiety, and want of due nourishment, might have consummated their work, and Claudio might already be a fit companion for the murdered Montoni.

These thoughts were agonizing, and Caroline’s brain seemed to reel, and her reason became confused as they passed rapidly through her mind.

The dismal tolling of the bell for the dead tended much to keep alive these gloomy impressions, and she followed the baron with clasped hands and a cheek of alabaster hue to the chapel.

The baron led the way through the same apartments which Caroline had traversed with him and Roland on the occasion of her former compulsory visit to the chapel. Her feelings were now, however, too much engaged by

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the actual miseries and anxieties of her situation to permit her to bestow even a passing glance upon the suites of rooms through which she passed.

Her brain was teeming with dreadful anticipations of Claudio’s fate, and she saw nothing of the faded magnificence of those ancient apartments which former Lords of Zindorf had fitted in so costly a style for gaiety and revelling, when hospitality was considered the first of virtues, and no stranger departed hungered from the gates of Zindorf Castle.

They at length arrived at the old hall, in which was the small door which led directly to the chapel. It was open and Caroline could perceive that a stream of light proceeded from the staircase.

The baron had paused a moment at the door, which had aroused Caroline to a consciousness of surrounding objects.

"The remains of the baroness," he said to Caroline, "lie in the chapel, accompanied by such pomp and circumstances of dignity as our deficient means in this emergency could procure. I trust that you, Caroline Mecklenburgh, the only relative of my dearest lady, who will be present on this occasion, will admit that the Baron of Zindorf has done due honour to the remains of her who was, but a short time since, the mistress of this castle."

Caroline felt that this speech was a cruel mockery to her who knew well the state of misery and subjection in which her ant had been kept—a misery which had tended to produce a state of mental weakness which, on, Caroline’ last interview with her aunt, she had shuddered to witness, and feared for a moment to conjecture the end of.

An indignant retort rose to the lips of Caroline; but, before she could speak, a low voice whispered in her ear,—

"Caution."

She turned suddenly, and imploring glance from Euphoric.

Her projected answer to the baron died upon her lips. She merely inclined her head, and signified by a gesture her desire to proceed at once to the chapel, where lay the remains of her relative.

"Advance," said the baron, and the torch-bearer, with slow and measured steps, descended the stairs.

Caroline followed, and, in a few moments, she was in the chapel, which presented a complete blaze of light.

"Where—where," cried Caroline, clasping her hands, "where is what was once my poor aunt?"

The baron motioned to her to follow him,

With a tottering step, and nearly overcome by her emotions, Caroline complied, and he led her to the front of the altar

The tears were gathering in Caroline’s eyes, and dimmed her vision; but dashing them aside, she sunk on her knees before a bier, on which lay the mortal remains of one whose greatest crime on earth consisted in a weakness of disposition which made her too ready an instrument in the hand, of the unprincipled and wicked.

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The body was covered completely by a magnificent pall of purple velvet, which had sunk to the proportions of the corpse, and betrayed to the most superficial observer the sad spectacle which it covered.

CHAPTER XLVI.

CAROLINE remained for a few moments in silent prayer, before the lifeless remains of her aunt, the baroness, and then, with a more composed mind, she rose and looked round the chapel.

Everything which could be collected to render homage and spread an air of majesty and magnificence around death was there assembled.

The whole chapel was hung with black velvet, and wax lights blazed in every direction, making the place as light as day.

The altar was brilliantly illuminated, and altogether Caroline was perfectly astonished at the lustre and magnificence displayed in consigning to dust one who, while living, was treated with the greatest contumely and undisguised contempt, by the very man who seemed now to think that nothing was too costly, and no trouble too great, to emblazon and do honour to her memory.

The baron stood close to Caroline, and he now turned to her and said:—

"Is there anything further which Caroline Mecklenburgh would wish done to honour the remains of her aunt, the Baroness of Zindorf?"

"It matters little," answered Caroline, "what is now done. My poor aunt, the Baroness of Zindorf, is now above earthly vanities, as well as earthly persecutions."

"You are satisfied that I have done all which my own rank and the—the—virtues of the deceased baroness required?"

"Baron Zindorf," said Caroline, "do not press me into a conversation of this nature. It is a subject upon which I wish to express no opinion, nor even make the least remark either of approval or dissent."

"And wherefore this cold behaviour?"

"My position in this castle," answered Caroline, "ought to render that question unnecessary."

A dark scowl passed across the face of the baron, and he stood for a time silent, and regarding Caroline with a look of the most deadly hatred and malignant feeling.

"My aunt lies there," said Caroline, pointing to the bier.

"She does," answered the baron.

"I would fain once more," continued Caroline, "look upon the face of her who loved me well, even though the shadow of death be upon it."

The baron started, and stepped back a pace.

"My request," pursued Caroline, "is not so unusual a one, Baron Zindorf, but I presume it may be granted."

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The baron turned ghastly pale, as he said, in a hesitating voice:—

"Why—why, Caroline Mecklenburgh, disturb the repose of the dead?"

"I do not understand you, sir," she answered. "Can it be possible that my looking upon the face of my deceased relative, can be construed into disturbing the repose of the dead?"

"It is, at best," said the baron, "a sorry sight. A sight to—to haunt the sleep, and sear the brain."

"The sleep of innocence," said Caroline, "may easily defy such visions. The disturbed conscience only acts upon the brain."

"But think," he continued, "to see the corruption of death upon those features we have so often gazed upon in life."

"These are terrors which affright me not," answered Caroline.

" ‘Tis madness!—Insane curiosity," cried the baron. "Why would you fix in your mind an image you would gladly, in after years, rid yourself of, but which memory, ever faithful in the preservation of what is disagreeable, will obtrude upon you in your moments of greatest joy?"

Caroline had not been without a dreadful suspicion that her aunt’s death had been accelerated by some foul means. Her knowledge of the fate of the former baroness, suggested to her mind fearful images of what the baron was capable of doing, when urged on by his arch tempter, the Count Durlack, who, she knew, affected the most undisguised contempt for her aunt, and considered her as an encumbrance in the way of his and the baron’s plans of villany and future aggrandizement and pleasure.

With this horrible suspicion lurking in her mind, Caroline had determined, if such a thing were possible, to obtain a view of the body of her aunt, in order that she might come to some judgment of the truth or falsehood of a surmise, which otherwise, she felt would haunt her through life, and poison every enjoyment.

The reluctance of the baron to comply with her request, strengthened the dreadful impression upon her mind, and she was determined that nothing short of a positive refusal, enforced by actual violence, should deter her from the prosecution of a purpose which became each moment stronger and more fixed in her mind, as an act of duty and necessity.

"Again," she said, "I earnestly press my request," and as she spoke, she laid her hand upon the corner of the bier.

"Forbear! forbear!" cried the baron, grasping her arms. "Why distress my feelings as well as your own?"

Your feelings?" said Caroline.

"Damnation!" cried the baron, stamping upon the chapel floor. "Headstrong fool, do as you will."

Drawing his cloak closer around him, he strode hastily from the spot, and Caroline was left alone by the body of her aunt. She hesitated not a moment, but gently taking hold of the massive pall, she turned it from the face of the corpse.

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The light fell strongly upon the pallid features, and Caroline shuddered as she gazed on them.

There was an expression of pain upon the countenance, which did not at all tend to dissipate the suspicions of Caroline, but she could observe no actual indication of violence.

With a deep sigh, she was about to replace the pall, in a state of as great doubt and uncertainty as she had removed it, when she felt some one touch her arm lightly.

She started and turning hastily she saw Euphoric standing close to her, with his finger on his lips.

"Hush," he said, "speak low. Are you satisfied?"

"Alas! no, Euphoric," answered Caroline; "I know not what to think. A dreadful suspicion haunts my mind."

"Concerning your aunt’s sudden decease?"

"Yes, Euphoric."

"It would content you better to be assured even of the truth of worst surmises than to be left in doubt?" asked the page.

"It would," answered Caroline. "To doubt is agony."

"You know your present situation?"

"How do you mean, Euphoric?"

"The lives of all that are dear to you hang upon a thread. The least indiscretion—an exclamation might ruin anything."

"I will be discreet, Euphoric."

"Have you self-command? Can you controul all feeling?"

"Heaven will help me to so much fortitude."

The page looked steadily in her face for a moment or two.

"Enough!" he said. "Let no word or even sigh escape you. We are watched, but I can place myself in such a position that no one can see what I am exactly doing."

"Oh, Heavens, end this suspense!" whispered Caroline.

By one quick movement of his hand the page drew down the pall so as to expose the neck of the baroness. He pointed with his finger.

Caroline looked. The mark of a hand was visible upon the throat. For a moment the chapel seemed to run round with her.

"Rouse yourself or all is lost," said Euphoric, in a hissing whisper.

She leaned heavily on the side of the bier, and by a powerful effort of mind preserved herself from fainting.

"One word," said the page, "and Claudio is a dead man."

He covered the pall again over the body.

"I am satisfied now," said Caroline.

"Hush!" whispered Euphoric. "Not a word. The baron approaches."

"I am calm," said Caroline. "The shock is over, Euphoric."

The baron now approached the bier, and when he came sufficiently near, he said, in an impatient tone—

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"Caroline Mecklenburgh, you have gratified your desire?"

"I have," she answered.

"And you are satisfied?"

"I am."

The chapel door now opened and Caroline looked in that direction.

Preceded by a man bearing a torch, the Count Durlack entered the chapel. He walked directly to the altar, and gravely and ceremoniously bowed to Caroline.

"We meet," he said, "fair Caroline, on a melancholy occasion."

Caroline returned no answer, and the baron said—

"My fair niece, the count, is overpowered by her emotions. Her great affection for the baroness makes her sensibly alive to her loss."

"It is a loss to us all," said the count, laying his hand upon his heart great with great seeming affliction.

"She is, indeed, much to be mourned," said the baron.

Caroline was disgusted at the hypocrisy of this scene, and she turned from the spot and walked a few paces from the altar.

"Do you think it will answer?" whispered the baron to the count.

"She is not in exactly the mood I wished and expected," answered Durlack; "but I have still some hopes."

"We shall see," said the baron. "She resembles her aunt in nothing. By Heaven I never encountered so indomitable a spirit."

"It is the more easily broken," answered the count. "Is everything prepared?"

"It is. Are you determined to push matters to an extremity to-night?"

"I am," cried Durlack. "The matter will not brook delay. We shall have Sir Gaston here sooner than he promised, or I know nothing of him."

"He is, indeed," said the baron, "wont to be better than his word in such matters."

"Caroline Mecklenburgh," said the count, "leaves not this chapel without either becoming the wife of the Count Durlack, or signing the necessary documents, authorising the rents from her estates to be collected for my benefit."

"I will aid you, count," said the baron, "to the utmost of my power."

"Is Francisco prepared to enact the priest?"

"He is, and upon pain of death if he fail, I think he will enact it well. He is a weak knave."

"Then, baron, should everything fall out as we expect, we shall leave Zindorf Castle to-morrow—or rather, this evening, for the castle clock has some time since struck one."

"Agreed," answered the baron. "Roland shall be the companion of flight from here for ever."

"And Euphoric," said Durlack. "He is suitable and faithful."

"That is as you please," answered the baron. "You are aware that the

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vault which conducts towards the secret outlet in the forest, has been, by my order, bricked up solidly?"

"I am. It must be opened, baron."

"That will necessarily consume some time," continued the baron. We will, in consequence, start on our expedition early."

Euphoric crept a few paces nearer to the baron.

"At what hour?" said Durlack.

"One hour after sunset," said the baron. "The moon will not then have risen before we shall be some leagues from Zindorf Castle,"

"Where can we procure horses?"

"At the village. We can take them."

Euphoric slowly crept round the altar away from the vicinity of the speakers.

"Enough," he whispered to himself. "Enough—one hour after sunset. No—no—not yet, Count Durlack. Not yet."

"Let us delay the ceremony no longer," said the count, in a louder voice than their previous conversation, which had been carried on in cautions whispers.

"Caroline," cried the baron, "are you ready?"

"Quite ready," answered Caroline.

"Advance," said the baron, glancing to the further end of the chapel.

Several of the retainers of the castle now approached.

"Bear the body to the oratory," said the baron.

Solemnly the chapel bell now tolled again, and Caroline took her place as chief mourner of the departed.

The torch-bearers ranged themselves on each side of the bier, and the solemn procession started at a slow pace.

The oratory was a small building adjoining the chapel, which was in earlier times used as a place of private devotion by the Barons Zindorf. Underneath its marble pavement was a spacious vault, in which reposed the remains of many Lords of Zindorf, and their ladies and families.

Access was obtained to the vault by removing a large stone of black marble,—on which was engraved the arms of Zindorf,—which closed the entrance. Beneath this stone was a broad flight of marble steps, led at once to the vault, which was floored with black marble, and uncommonly spacious and handsome.

It was very much the custom with noble families, at the period of our tale, to discard the use of coffins for their dead. They were laid frequently in the vaults on marble slabs, and covered with a rich pall only, there suffered gradually to decay and moulder along with their costly covering, into the dust from which, by the Great Ruler of all things, they were created.

This custom was maintained in the family of Zindorf, and there were marble slabs ranged in order in the vault for the reception of the remains