Wagner, the Wehr-Wolf (page 7)

CHAPTER L.
THE COUNT OF ARESTINO—THE PLOT THICKENS.

Return we now to the fair city of flowers—to thee, delightful Florence—vine crowned queen of Tuscany! The summer has come, and the gardens are brilliant with dyes and hues of infinite variety; the hills and the valleys are clothed in their brightest emerald garment—and the Arno winds its peaceful way between banks blushing with choicest fruits of the earth.

But, though gay that July scene—though glorious in its splendor that unclouded summer sun, though gorgeous the balconies filled with flowers, and brilliant the parterres of Tuscan roses, yet gloomy was the countenance and dark were the thoughts of the Count of Arestino, as he paced with agitated steps one of the splendid apartments of his palace. The old man was actually endowed with a good, a generous, a kind and forgiving disposition; but the infidelity of his wife, the being on whom he had so doted, and who was once his joy and his pride—that infidelity had warped his best feelings, soured his temper, and aroused the dark spirit of vengeance.

“She lives! she lives!” he murmured to himself, pausing for a moment to press his feverish hand to his heated brow; “she lives! and doubtless under the protection of her paramour! But I shall know more presently. Antonio is faithful—he will not deceive me!”

And the count resumed his agitated walk up and down the room. A few minutes elapsed, when the door opened slowly, and Antonio, whom the reader may remember to have been a valet in the service of the Riverola family, made his appearance.

The count hastened toward him, exclaiming: “What news, Antonio? Speak—hast thou learnt aught more of—of her?”

“My lord,” answered the valet, closing the door behind him, “I have ascertained everything. The individual who spoke darkly and mysteriously to me last evening, has within this hour made me acquainted with many strange things.”

“But the countess?—I mean the guilty, fallen creature who once bore my name?” ejaculated the old nobleman, his voice trembling with impatience.

“There is no doubt, my lord, that her ladyship lives, and that she is still in Florence,” answered Antonio.

“The shameless woman,” cried the Count of Arestino, his usually pale face becoming perfectly death-like through the violence of his inward emotions. “But how know you all this?” demanded his lordship, suddenly turning toward the dependent;  “who is your informant—and can he be relied on? Remember I took thee into my service at thine own solicitation—I have no guarantee for thy fidelity, and I am influential to punish as well as rich to reward!”

“Your lordship has bound me to you by ties of gratitude,” responded Antonio, “for when discarded suddenly by the young Count of Riverola, I found an asylum and employment in your lordship’s palace. It is your lordship’s bounty which has enabled me to give bread to my aged mother; and I should be a villain were I to deceive you.”

“I believe you, Antonio,” said the count: “and now tell me how you are assured that the countess escaped from the conflagration and ruin of the institution to which my just vengeance had consigned her—how, too, you have learnt that she is still in Florence.”

“I have ascertained, my lord, beyond all possibility of doubt,” answered the valet, “that the assailants of the convent were a terrible horde of banditti, at that time headed by Stephano Verrina, who has since disappeared no one knows whither; that the Marquis of Orsini was one of the leaders in the awful deed of sacrilege, and that her ladyship the countess, and a young maiden named Flora Francatelli, were rescued by the robbers from their cells in the establishment. These ladies and the marquis quitted the stronghold of the banditti together, blindfolded and guided forth by that same Stephano Verrina whom I mentioned just now, Lomellino (the present captain of the horde), and another bandit.”

“And who is your informant? how learned you all this?” demanded the count, trembling with the excitement of painful reminiscences reawakened, and with the hope of speedy vengeance on the guilty pair, his wife and the marquis.

“My lord,” said Antonio, “pardon me if I remain silent; but I dare not compromise the man——”

“Antonio,” exclaimed the count, wrathfully, “you are deceiving me! Tell me who was your informant—I command you—hesitate not——”

“My lord! my lord!” cried the valet, “is it not enough that I prove my assertions—that I——”

“No!” cried the nobleman; “I have seen so much duplicity where all appeared to be innocence—so much deceit where all wore the aspect of integrity, that I can trust man no more. How know I for certain that all this may not be some idle tale which you yourself have forged, to induce me to put confidence in you, to intrust you with gold to bribe your pretended informant, but which will really remain in your own pocket? Speak, Antonio—tell me all, or I shall listen to you no more, and your servitude in this mansion then ceases.”

“I will speak frankly, my lord,” replied the valet; “but in the course you may adopt——”

“Fear not for yourself, nor for your informant, Antonio,” interrupted the count, impatiently. “Be ye both leagued with the banditti yourselves, or be ye allied to the fiends of hell,” he  added, with fiercer emphasis, “I care not so long as I can render ye the instruments of my vengeance!”

“Good, my lord!” exclaimed Antonio, delighted with this assurance; “and now I can speak fearlessly and frankly. My informant is that other bandit who accompanied Stephano Verrina and Lomellino when the countess, Flora, and the marquis were conducted blindfold from the robbers’ stronghold. But while they were yet all inmates of that stronghold, this same bandit, whose name is Venturo, overheard the marquis inform Stephano Verrina that he intended to remain in Florence to obtain the liberation of a Jew who was imprisoned in the dungeons of the inquisition: and this Jew, Venturo also learnt by subsequent inquiry from Verrina, is a certain Isaachar ben Solomon.”

“Isaachar ben Solomon!” ejaculated the count, the whole incident of the diamonds returning with all its painful details to his mind. “Oh! no wonder,” he added, bitterly, “that the marquis has so much kindness for him! But, proceed—proceed, Antonio.”

“I was about to inform your lordship,” continued the valet, “that Venturo, of whom I have spoken, happened the next day to overhear the marquis inform the countess that he should be compelled to stay for that purpose in Florence; whereupon Flora Francatelli offered her ladyship a home at her aunt’s residence, whither she herself should return on her liberation from the stronghold. Then it was that the maiden mentioned to the countess the name of her family, and when Venturo represented all these facts to me just now, I at once knew who this same Flora Francatelli is and where she dwells.”

“You know where she dwells!” cried the count, joyfully. “Then, Giulia, the false, the faithless, the perjured Giulia is in my power! Unless, indeed,” he added, more slowly—“unless she may have removed to another place of abode——”

“That, my lord, shall be speedily ascertained,” said Antonio. “I will instruct my mother to call, on some pretext, at the cottage inhabited by Dame Francatelli: and she will soon learn whether there be another female resident there besides the aunt and the niece Flora.”

“Do so, Antonio,” exclaimed the count. “Let no unnecessary delay take place. Here is gold—much gold, for thee to divide between thyself and the bandit informant. See that thou art faithful to my interests, and that sum shall prove but a small earnest of what thy reward will be.”

The valet secured about his person the well-filled purse that was handed to him, and retired.

The Count of Arestino remained alone to brood over his plans of vengeance. It was horrible—horrible to behold that aged and venerable man, trembling as he was on the verge of eternity, now meditating schemes of dark and dire revenge. But his wrongs were great—wrongs which, though common enough in that voluptuous Italian clime, and especially in that age and city of licentiousness and debauchery, were not the less sure to be  followed by a fearful retribution, where retribution was within the reach of him who was outraged.

“Ha! ha!” he chuckled fearfully to himself, as he now paced the room with a lighter step—as if joy filled his heart; “all those who have injured me are within the reach of my vengeance. The Jew in the inquisition; the marquis open to a charge of diabolical sacrilege—and Giulia assuredly in Florence! I dealt too leniently with that Jew—I sent to pay for the redemption of jewels which were my own property! All my life have I been a just—a humane—a merciful man; I will be so no more. The world’s doings are adverse to generosity and fair-dealing. In my old age have I learnt this! Oh! the perfidy of women toward a doting—a confiding—a fond heart, works strange alterations in the heart of the deceived one! I, who but a year—nay, six months ago—would not harm the meanest reptile that crawls, now thirst for vengeance—vengeance,” repeated the old man, in a shrieking, hysterical tone, “upon those who have wronged me! I will exterminate them at one fell swoop—exterminate them all—all!” And his voice rang screechingly and wildly through the lofty room of that splendid mansion.

CHAPTER LI.
THE MEETING.

On the bank of the Arno, in a somewhat retired situation, stood a neat cottage in the midst of a little garden, surrounded by no formal pile of bricks to constitute a wall, but protected only by its own sweet hedge or fragrant shrubs and blooming plants. Over the portico of the humble but comfortable tenement twined the honeysuckle and the clematis; and the sides of the building were almost completely veiled by the vines amidst the verdant foliage of which appeared large hunches of purple grapes.

At an open casement on the ground floor, an elderly female, very plainly but very neatly attired, and wearing a placid smile and a good-natured expression upon a countenance which had once been handsome, sat watching the glorious spectacle of the setting sun. The orb of day went down in a flood of purple and gold, behind the western hills; and now the dame began suddenly to cast uneasy glances toward the path that led along the bank of the river.

But the maiden for whose return the good aunt felt anxious, was not far distant; indeed Flora Francatelli, wearing a thick veil over her head, was already proceeding homeward after a short ramble by the margin of the stream, when the reverie in which she was plunged was interrupted by the sounds of hasty footsteps behind. Ever fearful of treachery since the terrible incident of her imprisonment in the Carmelite Convent, she redoubled her speed, blaming herself for having been beguiled by the beauty of the evening to prolong her walk farther than she intended on setting out—when the increasing haste of the footsteps behind her excited the keenest alarms within her bosom—for she now felt convinced that she was pursued.

 The cottage was already in sight, and a hundred paces only separated her from its door, when a well-known voice—a voice which caused every fiber in her heart to thrill with surprise and joy—exclaimed: “Flora! beloved one; fly not! Oh! I could not be deceived in the symmetry of thy form—the graciousness of thy gait—I knew it was thou.”

And in another moment the maiden was clasped in the arms of Francisco, Count of Riverola. Impossible were it to describe the ecstatic bliss of this meeting—a meeting so unexpected on either side: for a minute before, Flora had deemed the young nobleman to be far away, fighting in the cause of the cross, while Francisco was proceeding to make inquiries at the cottage concerning his beloved, but with a heart that scarcely dared nourish a hope of her reappearance.

“Oh! my well-beloved Flora!” exclaimed Francisco; “and are we indeed thus blest, or is it a delusive dream? But tell me, sweet maiden, tell me whether thou hast ceased to think of one, from whose memory thine image has never been absent since the date of thy sudden and mysterious disappearance.”

Flora could not reply in words—her heart was too full for the utterance of her feelings; but as she raised the veil from her charming countenance, the tears of joy which stood upon her long lashes, and the heavenly smile which played upon her lips, and the deep blushes which overspread her cheeks spoke far more eloquently of unaltered affection than all the vows and pledges which might have flowed from the tongue.

“Thou lovest me—lovest me—lovest me still!” exclaimed the enraptured count, again clasping her in his arms, and now imprinting innumerable kisses on her lips, her cheeks, and her fair brow. Hasty explanations speedily ensued, and Francisco now learnt for the first time the cause of Flora’s disappearance—her incarceration in the convent—and the particulars of her release.

“But who could have been the author of that outrage?” exclaimed the count, his cheeks flushing with indignation, and his hand instinctively grasping his sword; “whom could you, sweet maiden, have offended? what fiend thus vented his malignity on thee?”

“Hold, my lord!” cried Flora, in a beseeching tone; “perhaps you——”

And she checked herself abruptly.

“Call me not ‘my lord,’ dearest maiden,” said the count; “to thee I am Francisco, as thou to me art Flora—my own beloved Flora! But wherefore didst thou stop short thus? wherefore not conclude the sentence that was half uttered? Oh, Flora—a terrible suspicion strikes me! Speak—relieve me from the cruel suspicion under which I now labor; was it my sister—my much lamented sister, who did thee that foul wrong?”

“I know not,” replied Flora, weeping; “but—alas! pardon me, dear Francisco—if I suspect aught so bad of any one connected with thee—and yet Heaven knows how freely, how sincerely I forgive my enemy——” Her voice was lost in sobs; and her head drooped on her lover’s breast.

 “Weep not, dearest one!” exclaimed Francisco. “Let not our meeting be rendered mournful with tears. Thou knowest, perhaps, that Nisida disappeared as suddenly and as mysteriously as thou didst; but could she also have become the victim of the Carmelites? And did she, alas! perish in the ruins of the convent?”

“I am well assured that the Lady Nisida was not doomed to that fate,” answered Flora; “for had she been consigned to the convent, as a punishment for some real offense, or on some groundless charge, she must have passed the ordeal of the chamber of penitence, where I should have seen her. Yes, Francisco—I have heard of her mysterious disappearance, and I have shed many, many tears when I have thought of her, poor lady! although,” added the maiden in a low and plaintive tone, “I fear, Francisco, that it was indeed she who doomed me to that monastic dungeon. Doubtless, her keen perception—far more keen than in those who are blessed with the faculties which were lost to her—enabled her to penetrate the secret of that affection with which you had honored me, and in which I felt so much happiness.”

“I confessed my love to Nisida,” interrupted Francisco; “but it was not until your disappearance I was driven to despair, Flora. I was mad with grief, and I could not, neither did I, attempt to conceal my emotion. I told Nisida all: and well—oh! well—do I recollect the reply which she gave me, giving fond assurance that my happiness would alone be consulted.”

“Alas! Was there no double meaning in that assurance?” asked Flora, gently. “The Lady Nisida knew well how inconsistent with your high rank—your proud fortunes—your great name, was that love which you bore for a humble and obscure girl——”

“A love which I shall not be ashamed to own in the sight of all Florence,” exclaimed Francisco in an impassioned tone. “But if Nisida were the cause of that cruel outrage on thee, my Flora, we will forgive her—for she could have acted only through conscientious, though most mistaken, motives. Mistaken, indeed! for never could I have known happiness again hadst thou not been restored to me. It was to wean my mind from pondering on afflictions that goaded me to despair that I embarked in the cause of Christendom against the encroachments of Moslem power. Thinking that thou wast forever lost to me—that my sister also had become the victim of some murderous hand,—harassed by doubts the most cruel—an uncertainty the most agonizing,—I sought death on the walls of Rhodes; but the destroying angel’s arrow rebounded from my corselet—his sword was broken against my shield!

“During my voyage back to Italy—after beholding the crescent planted on the walls where the Christian standard had floated for so many, many years—a storm overtook the ship; and yet the destroying angel gave me not the death I courted. This evening I once more set foot in Florence. From my own mansion Nisida is still absent: and no tidings have been received of her. Alas! is she then lost to me forever? Without tarrying  even to change my travel-soiled clothes, I set out to make inquiries concerning another whom I love—and that other is thyself! Here, thanks to a merciful Heaven, my heart has not been doomed to experience a second and equally cruel disappointment; for I have found thee at last, my Flora—and henceforth my arm shall protect thee from peril.”

“How have I deserved so much kindness at thine hands?” murmured the maiden, again drooping her blushing head. “And oh! what will you think, Francisco—what will you say, when you learn that I was there—there in that cottage—with my aunt—when you called the last time to inquire if any tidings had been received of me——”

“You were there!” exclaimed Francisco, starting back in surprise not unmingled with anger; “you were there, Flora—and you knew that I was in despair concerning thee—that I would have given worlds to have heard of thy safety,—I, who thought that some fiend in human shape had sent thee to an early grave?”

“Forgive me, Francisco: forgive me!” cried Flora, bursting into tears; “but it was not my fault! On the night following the one in which the banditti stormed the convent, as I ere now detailed to your ears, I returned home to my aunt. When the excitement of our meeting was past, and when we were alone together, I threw myself at her feet, confessed all that had passed between thee and me, and implored her advice.

“‘Flora,’ she said, while her tears fell upon me as I knelt, ‘no happiness will come to thee, my child, from this attachment which has already plunged thee into so much misery. It is beyond all doubt certain that the relations of the count were the authors of thy imprisonment; and their persecutions would only be renewed, were they to learn that the count was made aware of your reappearance in Florence. For thy sake, then, my child, I shall suffer the impression of thy continued absence and loss to remain on the minds of those who may inquire concerning thee; and should his lordship call here again, most especially to him shall I appear stricken with grief on account of thee. His passion, my child, is one of boyhood—evanescent, though ardent while it endures. He will soon forget thee; and when he shall have learnt to love another there will no longer be any necessity for thee to live an existence of concealment.’

“Thus spoke my aunt, dear Francisco, and I dared not gainsay her. When you came the last time. I heard your voice; I listened from my chamber door to all you said to my aunt, and I longed to fly into your arms. You went away and my heart was nearly broken. Some days afterward we learnt the strange disappearance of the Lady Nisida and then knew that you must have received a severe blow, for I was well aware how much you loved her. Two or three weeks elapsed, and then we heard that you were about to depart to the wars. Oh! how bitter were the tears that I shed, how fervent were the prayers that I offered up for your safety.”

“And those prayers have been heard on high, beloved one,  exclaimed Francisco, who had listened with melting heart and returning tenderness to the narrative which the maiden told so simply but so sincerely, and in the most plaintive tones of her musical voice.

“Can you forgive me now?” asked the blushing maiden, her swimming eyes bending on her lover glances eloquently expressive of hope.

“I have nothing to forgive, sweet girl,” replied Francisco. “Your aunt behaved with a prudence which in justice I cannot condemn; and you acted with an obedience and submission to your venerable relative which I could not be arbitrary enough to blame. We have both endured much for each other, my Flora; but the days of our trials are passed; and your good aunt will be convinced that in giving your young heart to me, you have not confided in one who is undeserving of so much love. Let us hasten into her presence. But one question have I yet to ask you,” he added, suddenly recollecting an idea which had ere now made some impression on his mind. “You informed me how you were liberated from the convent, and you mentioned the name of the Countess of Arestino, whom circumstances had made your companion in that establishment, and to whom your aunt gave an asylum. Know you not, dearest Flora, that fame reports not well of that same Giulia of Arestino—and that a woman of tarnished reputation is no fitting associate for an innocent and artless maiden such as thou?”

“During the period that the Lady of Arestino and myself were companions in captivity,” responded Flora, with a frankness as amiable as it was convincing, “she never in the most distant manner alluded to her love for the Marquis of Orsini. When the marquis appeared in the convent, in company with the robbers, I was far too much bewildered with the passing events, to devote a thought to what might be the nature of their connection; and even when I had more leisure for reflection, during the entire day which I passed in the stronghold of the banditti, I saw naught in it save what I conceived to be the bond of close relationship. I offered her ladyship an asylum at the abode of my aunt, as I should have given a home, under such circumstances, to the veriest wretch crawling on the face of the earth. But in that cottage the countess and myself have not continued in close companionship; for my aunt accidentally learnt that fame reported not well of the Lady of Arestino, and in a gentle manner she begged her to seek another home at her earliest leisure. The countess implored my venerable relative to permit her to retrain at the cottage, as her life would be in danger were she not afforded a sure and safe asylum. Moved by her earnest entreaties, my aunt assented; and the countess has almost constantly remained in her own chamber. Sometimes—but very rarely—she goes forth after dusk, and in a deep disguise; the marquis has not, however, visited the cottage since my aunt made this discovery relative to the reputation of the Lady of Arestino.”

“Thanks, charming Flora, for that explanation!” cried the young count. “Let us now hasten to thine aunt; and in her  presence will I renew to thee all the vows of unalterable and honorable affection which my heart suggests, as a means of proving that I am worthy of thy love.”

And, hand-in-hand, that fine young noble and that beauteous, blushing maiden proceeded to the cottage.

Two persons, concealed in an adjacent grove, had overheard every syllable of the above conversation. These were the valet Antonio, and his mother, Dame Margaretha, at whose dwelling, it will be recollected, the unfortunate Agnes had so long resided, under the protection of the late Count of Riverola.

“This is fortunate, mother!” said Antonio, when Francisco and Flora had retired from the vicinity of the grove. “You are spared the trouble of a visit to the old Signora Francatelli; and I have learned sufficient to enable me to work out all my plans alike of aggrandizement and revenge. Let us retrace our way into the city; thou wilt return to thy home—and I shall hence straight to the Lord Count of Arestino.”

CHAPTER LII.
THE GREEK PAGE—SONG OF THE GREEK PAGE—A REVELATION.

Three months had now elapsed since Ibrahim-Pasha had risen to the exalted rank of grand vizier, and had married the sister of Solyman the Magnificent. The sultan daily became more attached to him; and he, on his part, acquired influence over his imperial master. Vested with a power so nearly absolute that Solyman signed without ever perusing the hatti-sheriffs, or decrees, drawn up by Ibrahim,—and enjoying the confidence of the divan, all the members of which were devoted to his interests,—the renegade administered according to his own discretion, the affairs of that mighty empire. Avaricious, and ever intent upon the aggrandizement of his own fortunes, he accumulated vast treasures; but he also maintained a household and lived in a style unequaled by any of his predecessors in office. Having married a sister of the sultan, he was not permitted a plurality of wives;—but he purchased the most beauteous slaves for his harem, and plunged headlong into a vortex of dissipation and pleasure.

For some weeks he had manifested the most ardent and impassioned attachment toward Aischa, who, during that period, was happy in the belief that she alone possessed his heart. But the customs of the East, as well as the duties of his office, kept them so much apart, that he had no leisure to discover the graces of her mind, nor to appreciate all the powers of her naturally fine, and indeed well-cultivated intellect; so that the beauty of her person constituted the only basis on which his affection was maintained. The fervor of such a love soon cooled with satiety: and those female slaves whom he had at first procured as indispensable appendages to his rank and station, were not long in becoming the sources of new pleasure and voluptuous enjoyment. Aischa beheld his increasing indifference, and strove to bind him to her by representing all she had done  for him. He listened coldly at first; but when, on several occasions, the same remonstrances were repeated, he answered angrily.

“Had it not been for my influence,” she said to him one day, when the dispute had become more serious than preceding quarrels of the kind, “you might still have been an humble secretary to a Christian noble.”

“Not so,” replied the grand vizier; “for at the very time when I first beheld thee in the Bezestein, certain offers had been secretly conveyed to me from the reis-effendi.”

“In whose service you would have lingered as a mere subordinate for long, long years,” returned Aischa. “It was I who urged you on. Have I not often assured you that your image dwelt in my memory after the accident which first led to our meeting—that one of my faithful women noticed my thoughtful mood—and that when I confessed to her the truth, she stated to me that, by a singular coincidence, her own brother was employed by the reis-effendi as an agent to tempt you with the offers to which you have alluded? Then, inquiries which my slave instituted, brought to my ears the flattering tidings that you also thought of me, and I resolved to grant you an interview. From that moment my influence hurried you on to power—and when you became the favorite of the mighty Solyman, I confessed to him that I had seen and that I loved you. His fraternal attachment to me is great—greater than to any other of his sisters, seeing that himself and I were born of the same mother, though at a long interval. Thus was it that my persuasion made him think higher and oftener of you than he would else have done—and now that you have attained the summit of glory and power, she who has helped to raise you is neglected and loved no longer.”

“Cease these reproaches, Aischa,” exclaimed Ibrahim, who had listened impatiently to her long address, “or I will give thee less of my company than heretofore. See that the next time I visit thee my reception may be with smiles instead of tears—with sweet words instead of reproaches.” And in this cruel manner the heartless renegade quitted his beauteous wife, leaving her plunged in the most profound affliction.

But as Ibrahim traversed the corridors leading to his own apartments, his heart smote him for the harshness and unfeeling nature of his conduct; and as one disagreeable idea, by disposing the spirits to melancholy, usually arouses others that were previously slumbering in the cells of the brain, all the turpitude of his apostasy was recalled with new force to his mind.

Repairing to a small but magnificently furnished saloon in a retired part of the palace, he dismissed the slaves who were waiting at the door, ordering them, however, to send into his presence a young Greek page who had recently entered his service. In a few minutes the youth made his appearance, and stood in a respectful attitude near the door.

“Come and sit at my feet, Constantine,” said the grand vizier, “and thou shalt sing to me one of those airs of thy  native Greece with which thou hast occasionally delighted mine ears. I know not how it is, boy—but thy presence pleases me, and thy voice soothes my soul, when oppressed with the cares of my high office.”

Joy flashed from the bright black eyes of the young Greek page as he glided noiselessly over the thick carpet, but that emotion of pleasure was instantly changed to one of deep deference.

“Proceed,” said his master, “and sing me that plaintive song which is supposed to depict the woes of one of the unhappy sons of Greece.”

“But may not its sentiments offend your highness?” asked the page.

“It is but a song,” responded Ibrahim. “I give thee full permission to sing those verses, and I should be sorry were you to subdue aught of the impassioned feelings which they are well calculated to excite within thee.”

The page turned his handsome countenance up toward the grand vizier, and commenced in melodious, liquid tones, the following song—

SONG OF THE GREEK PAGE.

“Oh, are there not beings condemned from their birth,

To drag, without solace or hope o’er the earth,

The burden of grief and of sorrow?

Doomed wretches who know, while they tremblingly say,

‘The star of my fate appears brighter to-day,’

That it is but a brief and a mocking ray,

To make darkness darker to-morrow.

“And ’tis not to the vile and base alone

That unchanging grief and sorrow are known,

But as oft to the pure and guileless;

And he, from whose fervid and generous lip,

Gush words of the kindest fellowship,

Of the same pure fountain may not sip

In return, but it is sad and smileless!

“Yes; such doomed mortals, alas! there be

And mine is that self-same destiny;

The fate of the lorn and lonely;

For e’en in my childhood’s early day,

The comrades I sought would turn away;

And of all the band, from the sportive play

Was I thrust and excluded only.

“When fifteen summers had passed o’er my head,

I stood on the battle-field strewn with the dead.

For the day of the Moslem’s glory

Had made me an orphan child, and there

My sire was stretched; and his bosom bare

Showed a gaping wound; and the flowing hair

Of his head was damp and gory.

“My sire was the chief of the patriot band,

That had fought and died for their native land,

When her rightful prince betrayed her;

 On his kith and kin did the vengeance fall

Of the Mussulman foes—and each and all

Were swept from the old ancestral hall,

Save myself, by the fierce invader!

“And I was spared from that blood-stained grave

To be dragged away as the Moslem’s slave,

And bend to the foe victorious,—

But, O Greece! to thee does my memory turn

Its longing eyes—and my heart-strings yearn

To behold thee rise in thy might and spurn,

As of yore, thy yoke inglorious!

“But oh! whither has Spartan courage fled?

And why, proud Athens! above thine head

Is the Mussulman crescent gleaming?

Have thine ancient memories no avail?

And art thou not fired at the legend tale

Which reminds thee how the whole world grew pale,

And recoiled from thy banners streaming?”

“Enough, boy,” exclaimed Ibrahim: then in a low tone, he murmured to himself, “The Christians have indeed much cause to anathematize the encroachments and tyranny of the Moslems.”

There was a short pause, during which the grand vizier was absorbed in profound meditation, while the Greek page never once withdrew his eyes from the countenance of that high functionary.

“Boy,” at length said Ibrahim, “you appear attached to me. I have observed many proofs of your devotion during the few months that you have been in my service. Speak—is there aught that I can do to make you happy? Have you relations or friends who need protection? If they be poor, I will relieve their necessities.”

“My lips cannot express the gratitude which my heart feels toward your highness,” returned the page, “but I have no friends in behalf of whom I might supplicate the bounty of your highness.”

“Are you yourself happy, Constantine?” asked Ibrahim.

“Happy in being permitted to attend upon your highness,” was the reply, delivered in a soft and tremulous tone.

“But is it in my power to render you happier?” demanded the grand vizier.

Constantine hung down his head—reflected for a few moments, and then murmured “Yes.”

“Then, by Heaven!” exclaimed Ibrahim Pasha, “thou hast only to name thy request, and it will be granted. I know not wherefore, but I am attached to thee much. I feel interested in thy welfare, and I would be rejoiced to minister to thy happiness.”

“I am already happier than I was—happier, because my lips have drunk in such words flowing from the lips of one who is exalted as highly as I am insignificant and humble.” said the page, in a voice tremulous with emotion, but sweetly musical. “Yes, I am happier,” he continued—“and yet my soul is filled  with the image of a dear, a well-beloved sister, who pines in loneliness and solitude, ever dwelling on a hapless love which she has formed for one who knows not that he is so loved, and who perhaps may never—never know it.”

“Ah, thou hast a sister, Constantine?” exclaimed the grand vizier. “And is she as lovely as a sister of a youth so handsome as thou art ought to be?”

“She has been assured by those who have sought her hand, that she is indeed beautiful,” answered Constantine. “But of what avail are her charms, since he whom she loves may never whisper in her ear the delicious words, ‘I love thee in return.’”

“Does the object of her affections possess so obdurate a heart?” inquired the grand vizier, strangely interested in the discourse of his youthful page.

“It is not that he scorns my sister’s love,” replied Constantine; “but it is that he knows not of its existence. It is true that he has seen her once—yet ’twere probable that he remembers not there is such a being in the world. Thus came it to pass, my lord—an officer, holding a high rank in the service of his imperial majesty, the great Solyman, had occasion to visit a humble dwelling wherein my sister resided. She—poor silly maiden! was so struck by his almost god-like beauty—so dazzled by his fascinating address—so enchanted by the sound of his voice, that she surrendered up her heart suddenly and secretly—surrendered it beyond all power of reclamation. Since then she has never ceased to ponder upon this fatal passion—this unhappy love; she has nursed his image in her mind, until her reason has rocked with the wild thoughts, the ardent hopes, the emotions of despair—all the conflicting sentiments of feeling, in a word, which so ardent and so strange a love must naturally engender. Enthusiastic, yet tender; fervent, yet melting in her soul; and while she does not attempt to close her eyes to the conviction that she is cherishing a passion which is preying upon her very vitals, she nevertheless clings to it as a martyr to the stake! Oh! my lord, canst thou marvel if I feel deeply for my unhappy sister?”

“But wherefore doth she remain thus unhappy?” demanded Ibrahim-Pasha. “Surely there are means of conveying to the object of her attachment an intimation how deeply he is beloved? and he must be something more than human,” he added, in an impassioned tone, “if he can remain obdurate to the tears and sighs of a beauteous creature, such as thy sister doubtless is.”

“And were he to spurn her from him—oh! your highness, it would kill her!” said the page, fixing his large, eloquent eyes upon the countenance of the grand vizier. “Consider his exalted rank and her humble position——”

“Doth she aspire to become his wife?” asked Ibrahim.

“She would be contented to serve him as his veriest slave,” responded Constantine, now strangely excited, “were he but to look kindly upon her: she would deem herself blest in receiving a smile from his lips, so long as it was bestowed as a reward for all the tender love she bears him.”

 “Who is this man that is so fortunate as to have excited so profound an interest in the heart of one so beautiful?” demanded the grand vizier. “Name him to me—I will order him to appear before me—and, for thy sake, I will become an eloquent pleader on behalf of thy sister.”

Words cannot express the joy which flashed from the eyes of the page, and animated his handsome though softly feminine countenance, as, casting himself on his knees at the feet of Ibrahim Pasha, he murmured, “Great lord, that man whom my sister loves, and for whom she would lay down her life, is thyself!”

Ibrahim was for some minutes too much overcome by astonishment to offer an observation—to utter a word; while the page remained kneeling at his feet. Then suddenly it flashed to the mind of the grand vizier that the only humble abode which he had entered since he had become an officer holding a high rank in the service of Solyman, was that of his Greek emissary, Demetrius; and it now occurred to him, that there was a striking likeness between the young page and the beautiful Calanthe: whom he had seen on that occasion.

“Constantine,” he said, at length, “art thou, then, the brother of that Demetrius whom I dispatched some three months ago to Florence?”

“I am, my lord—and ’tis our sister Calanthe of whom I have spoken,” was the reply. “Oh! pardon my arrogance—my presumption, great vizier!” he continued, suddenly rising from his kneeling position, and now standing with his arms meekly folded across his breast—“pardon the arrogance, the insolence of my conduct,” he exclaimed; “but it was for the sake of my sister that I sought service in the household of your highness. I thought that if I could succeed in gaining your notice—if in any way I could obtain such favor in your eyes as to be admitted to speak with one so highly raised above me as thou art, I fancied that some opportunity would enable me to make those representations which have issued from my lips this day. How patiently I have waited that occasion, Heaven knows! how ardent have been my hopes of success, when from time to time your highness singled me out from amongst the numerous free pages of your princely household to attend upon your privacy—how ardent, I say, these hopes have been, your highness may possibly divine. And now, my lord, that I have succeeded in gaining your attention and pouring this secret into your ears, I will away to Calanthe and impart all the happiness that is in store for her. Though the flowers may hold up their heads high in the light of the glorious sun, yet she shall hold hers higher in the favor of your smile. Generous master,” he added, suddenly sinking his voice to a lower tone and reassuming the deferential air which he had partially lost in the excitement of speaking, “permit me now to depart.”

“This evening, Constantine,” said the grand vizier, fixing his dark eyes significantly upon the page, “let your sister enter the harem by the private door in the garden. Here is a key; I will  give the necessary instructions to the female slaves to welcome her.”

Constantine received the key, made a low obeisance, and withdrew, leaving the grand vizier to feast his voluptuous imagination with delicious thoughts of the beauteous Calanthe.

CHAPTER LIII.
THE SULTANA VALIDA—THE THREE BLACK SLAVES.

In the meantime the Princess Aischa, the now neglected wife of the grand vizier, had repaired to the imperial seraglio to obtain an interview with her brother, Solyman the Magnificent. The sultan, as the reader has already learnt, was deeply attached to Aischa. Their mother, the sultana, or empress mother, who was still alive, occupied apartments in the seraglio. Her children entertained the greatest respect for her: and her influence over the sultan, who possessed an excellent heart, though his sway was not altogether unstained by cruelties, was known to be great.

It was therefore to her mother and her brother that the beautiful Aischa proceeded; and when she was alone with them in the Valida’s apartment, and removed her veil, they immediately noticed that she had been weeping. Upon being questioned relative to the cause of her sorrow, she burst into an agony of tears, and was for some time unable to reply. At length, half regretting that she had taken the present step, Aischa slowly revealed her various causes of complaint against the grand vizier.

“By Allah!” exclaimed the sultan, “the ungrateful Ibrahim shall not thus spurn and neglect the costly gift which I, his master, condescended to bestow upon him! What! when the Shah of Persia, the Khan of the Tartars, and the Prince of Karamania all sought thine hand, and dispatched embassadors laden with rich gifts to our court to demand thee in marriage, did I not send them back with cold words of denial to their sovereigns? And was it to bestow thee, my sister, on this ungrateful boy, who was so late naught save a dog of a Christian, ready to eat the dirt under our imperial feet,—was it to bestow thee on such an one as he, that I refused the offers of the Persian Shah! By the tomb of the prophet! this indignity shall cease!”

“Restrain your wrath, my son,” said the Sultana Valida. “Ibrahim must not be openly disgraced: the effects of his punishment would redound on our beloved Aischa. No—rather intrust this affair to me; and fear not that I shall fail in compelling this haughty pasha to return to the arms of his wife—ay, and implore her pardon for his late neglect.”

“Oh! dearest mother, if thou canst accomplish this,” exclaimed Aischa, her countenance becoming animated with joy and her heart palpitating with hope, “thou wouldst render me happy indeed.”

“Trust to me, daughter,” replied the Sultana Valida. “In the meantime seek not to learn my intentions; but, on thy  return home, send me by some trusty slave thy pass-key to the harem. And thou, my son, wilt lend me thine imperial signet-ring for twelve hours!”

“Remember,” said the sultan, as he drew the jewel from his finger, “that he who wears that ring possesses a talisman of immense power—a sign which none to whom it is shown dares disobey; remember this, my mother, and use it with caution.”

“Fear not, my dearly beloved son,” answered the Sultana Valida, concealing the ring in her bosom. “And now, Aischa, do you return to the palace of your haughty husband, who ere twelve hours be passed, shall sue for pardon at thy feet.”

The sultan and Aischa both knew that their mother was a woman of powerful intellect and determined character; and they sought not to penetrate into the secret of her intentions.

Solyman withdrew to preside at a meeting of the divan; and Aischa returned to the palace of the grand vizier, attended by the slaves who had waited for her in an anteroom leading to her mother’s apartments.

It was now late in the afternoon, and the time for evening prayer had arrived ere the Sultana Valida received the pass-key to Ibrahim Pasha’s harem. But the moment it was conveyed to her, she summoned to her presence three black slaves, belonging to the corps of the bostanjis, or gardeners, who also served as executioners, when a person of rank was to be subjected to the process of bowstring, or when any dark deed was to be accomplished in silence and with caution. Terrible appendages to the household of Ottoman sultans were the black slaves belonging to that corps—like snakes, they insinuated themselves, noiselessly and ominously into the presence of their victims, and it were as vain to preach peace to the warring elements which God alone can control, as to implore mercy at the hands of those remorseless Ethiopians!

To the three black slaves did the Sultana Valida issue her commands; and to the eldest she intrusted Solyman’s signet-ring and the pass-key which Aischa had sent her. The slaves bowed three times to the empress mother—laid their hands on their heads to imply that they would deserve decapitation if they neglected the orders they had received—and then withdrew. There was something terribly sinister in their appearance, as they retired noiselessly but rapidly through the long, silent and darkened corridors of the imperial harem.

It was night—and the moon shone softly and sweetly upon the mighty city of Constantinople, tipping each of its thousand spires and pinnacles as with a star.

Ibrahim Pasha, having disposed of the business of the day, and now with his imagination full of the beautiful Calanthe, hastened to the anteroom, or principal apartment of the harem.

The harem, occupying one complete wing of the vizier’s palace, consisted of three stories. On the ground floor were the apartments of the Princess Aischa and her numerous female dependents. These opened from a spacious marble hall; and at the folding-doors leading into them, were stationed two black dwarfs, who were deaf and dumb. Their presence was not in  any way derogatory to the character of Aischa, but actually denoted the superior rank of the lady who occupied those apartments in respect to the numerous females who tenanted the rooms above. As she was the sister of the sultan, Ibrahim dared not appear in her presence without obtaining her previous assent through the medium of one of the mutes, who were remarkably keen in understanding and conveying intelligence by means of signs. A grand marble staircase led from the hall to the two floors containing the apartments of the ladies of the harem; and thus, though Aischa dwelt in the same wing as those females, her own abode was as distinct from theirs as if she were the tenant of a separate house altogether.

On the first floor there was a large and magnificently furnished room in which the ladies of the harem were accustomed to assemble when they chose to quit the solitude of their own chambers for the enjoyment of each other’s society. The ceiling of the anteroom; as this immense apartment was called, was gilt entirely over; it was supported by twenty slender columns of crystal; and the splendid chandeliers which were suspended to it, diffused a soft and mellow light, producing the most striking effects on that mass of gilding, those reflecting columns, and the wainscoted walls inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and with ivory of different colors. A Persian carpet three inches thick was spread upon the floor. Along two opposite sides ran continuous sofas, supported by low, white marble pillars, and covered with purple figured velvet fringed with gold. In the middle of this gorgeous apartment was a large table, shaped like a crescent, and spread with all kinds of preserved fruits, confectionery, cakes, and delicious beverages of a non-alcoholic nature.

The room was crowded with beauteous women when the presence of Ibrahim was announced by a slave. There were the fair-complexioned daughters of Georgia—the cold, reserved, but lovely Circassians—the warm and impassioned Persians—the voluptuous Wallachians—the timid Tartars—the dusky Indians—the talkative Turkish ladies—beauties, too, of Italy, Spain, and Portugal—indeed, specimens of female perfection from many, many nations. Their various styles of beauty, and their characteristic national dresses, formed a scene truly delightful to gaze upon: but the grand vizier noticed none of the countenances so anxiously turned toward him to mark on which his eyes would settle in preference; and the ladies noiselessly withdrew, leaving their master alone with the slave in the anteroom.

Ibrahim threw himself on a sofa, and gave some hasty instructions to the slave, who immediately retired. In about a quarter of an hour he came back, conducting into the anteroom a lady veiled from head to foot. The slave then withdrew altogether; and Ibrahim approached the lady, saying, “Calanthe—beauteous Calanthe! welcome to my palace.”

She removed her veil; and Ibrahim fixed his eager eyes upon the countenance thus disclosed to him; but he was immediately struck by the marvelous resemblance existing between his page  Constantine, and the charming Calanthe. It will be remembered that when he called, in a mean disguise, at the abode of Demetrius, he saw Calanthe for the first time, and only for a short period; and though he was even then struck by her beauty, yet the impression it made was but momentary: and he had so far forgotten Calanthe as never to behold in Constantine the least resemblance to any one whom he had seen before.

But now that Calanthe’s countenance burst upon him in all the glory of its superb Greek beauty, that resemblance struck him with all the force of a new idea; and he was about to express his astonishment that so wondrous a likeness should subsist between brother and sister, when the maiden sunk at his feet, exclaiming, “Pardon me, great vizier; but Constantine and Calanthe are one and the same thing.”

“Methought the brother pleaded with marvelous eloquence on behalf of his sister,” said Ibrahim, with a smile; and raising Calanthe from her suppliant posture, he led her to a seat, gazing on her the while with eyes expressive of intense passion.

“Your highness,” observed the maiden, after a short pause, “has heard from my own lips how profound is the attachment which I have dared to conceive for you—how great is the admiration which I entertain for the brilliant powers of your intellect. To be with thee, great Ibrahim, will I abandon my country, friends—ay, and even creed, shouldst thou demand that concession; for in thee—and in thee only—are all my hopes of happiness now centered!”

“And those hopes shall not be disappointed, dearest Calanthe!” exclaimed Ibrahim, clasping her in his arms. “But a few minutes before you entered this room a hundred women—the choicest flowers of all climes—were gathered here; and yet I value one smile on thy lips more than all the tender endearments that those purchased houris could bestow. For thy love was unbought—it was a love that prompted thee to attach thyself to me in a menial capacity——”

The impassioned language of the grand vizier was suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door, and three black slaves glided into the anteroom—half crouching as they stole along—and fixing on the beauteous Calanthe eyes, the dark pupils of which seemed to glare horribly from the whites in which they were set.

“Dogs! what signifies this intrusion?” exclaimed Ibrahim Pasha, starting from the sofa, and grasping the handle of his scimiter.

The chief the three slaves uttered not a word of reply, but exhibited the imperial signet, and at the same time unrolled from the coil which he had hitherto held in his hand a long green silken bowstring. At that ominous spectacle Ibrahim fell back, his countenance becoming ashy pale, and his frame trembling with an icy shudder from head to foot.

“Choose between this and her,” whispered the slave, in a deep tone, as he first glanced at the bowstring and then looked toward Calanthe, who knew that some terrible danger was impending, but was unable to divine where or when it was to fall.

 “Merciful Allah!” exclaimed the grand vizier; and throwing himself upon the floor, he buried his face in his hands.

In another moment Calanthe was seized and gagged, before even a word or a scream could escape her lips; but Ibrahim heard the rustling of her dress as she unavailingly struggled with the monsters in whose power she was. The selfish ingrate! he drew not his scimiter to defend her—he no longer remembered all the tender love she bore him—but, appalled by the menace of the bowstring, backed by the warrant of the sultan’s signet ring, he lay groveling on the rich Persian carpet, giving vent to his alarms by low and piteous groans.

Then he heard the door once more close as softly as possible: he looked up—glared with wild anxiety around—and breathed more freely on finding himself alone! For the Ethiopians had departed with their victim! Slowly rising from his supine posture, Ibrahim approached the table, filled a crystal cup with sherbet to the brim, and drank the cooling beverage, which seemed to go hissing down his parched throat—so dreadful was the thirst which the horror of the scene just enacted had produced.

Then the sickening as well as maddening conviction struck to his very soul, that though the envied and almost worshiped vizier of a mighty empire—having authority of life and death over millions of human beings, and able to dispose of the governments and patronage of huge provinces and mighty cities—he was but a miserable, helpless slave in the eyes of another greater still—an ephemeron whom the breath of Solyman the Magnificent could destroy! And overcome by this conviction, he threw himself on the sofa, bursting into an agony of tears—tears of mingled rage and woe. Yes; the proud, the selfish, the haughty renegade wept as bitterly as ever even a poor, weak woman was known to weep!

*****

How calm and beautiful lay the waters of the Golden Horn beneath the light of that lovely moon which shone so chastely and so serenely above, as if pouring its argent luster upon a world where no evil passions were known—no hearts were stained with crime—no iniquity of human imagining was in the course of perpetration. But, ah! what sound is that which breaks on the silence of the night! Is it the splash of oars? No—for the two black slaves who guide yon boat which has shot out from the shore into the center of the gulf, are resting on the slight sculls—the boat itself, too, is now stationary—and not a ripple is stirred up by its grotesquely-shaped prow. What, then, was that sound?

’Twas the voice of agony bursting from woman’s throat; and the boat is about to become the scene of a deed of horror, though one of frequent—alas! too frequent—occurrence in that clime, and especially on that gulf.

The gag has slipped from Calanthe’s mouth; and a long loud scream of agonizing despair sweeps over the surface of the water—rending the calm and moonlit air—but dying away ere it can raise an echo on either shore. Strong are the arms and relentless  is the black monster who has now seized the unhappy Greek maiden in his ferocious grasp—while the luster of the pale orb of night streams on that countenance lately radiant with impassioned hope, but now convulsed with indescribable horror.

Again the scream bursts from the victim’s lips; but its thrilling, cutting agony is interrupted by a sudden plunge—a splash—a gurgling and a rippling of the waters—and the corpse of the murdered Calanthe is borne toward the deeper and darker bosom of the Bosporus.

The sun was already dispersing the orient mists, when the chief of the three black slaves once more stood in the presence of the grand vizier, who had passed the night in the anteroom, alone, and a prey to the most lively mental tortures. So noiselessly and reptile-like did the hideous Ethiopian steal into the apartment, that he was within a yard of the grand vizier ere the latter was aware that the door had even opened. Ibrahim started as if from a snake about to spring upon him—for the ominous bowstring swung negligently from the slave’s hand, and the imperial signet still glistened on his finger.

“Mighty pasha!” spoke the Ethiopian in a low and cold tone; “thus saith the Sultana Valida: ‘Cease to treat thy wife with neglect. Hasten to her—throw thyself at her feet—implore her pardon for the past—and give her hope of affection for the future. Shouldst thou neglect this warning, then every night will the rival whom thou preferrest to her be torn from thine arms, and be devoted as food for the fishes. She whom thou didst so prefer this night that is passed sleeps in the dark green bed of the Bosporus. Take warning, pasha; for the bowstring may be used at last. Moreover, see that thou revealest not to the Princess Aischa the incident of the night, nor the nature of the threats which send thee back repentant to her arms.’”

And, with these words, the slave glided hastily from the room, leaving the grand vizier a prey to feelings of ineffable horror. His punishment on earth had begun—and he knew it. What had his ambition gained? Though rich, invested with high rank, and surrounded by every luxury, he was more wretched than the meanest slave who was accustomed to kiss the dust at his feet.

But, subduing the fearful agitation which oppressed him—composing his feelings and his countenance as well as he was able, the proud and haughty Ibrahim hastened to implore admittance to his wife’s chamber, and when the boon was accorded, and he found himself in her presence, he besought her pardon in a voice and with a manner expressive of the most humiliating penitence. Thus, at the moment when thousands—perhaps millions, were envying the bright fortunes and glorious destiny of Ibrahim the Happy, as he was denominated—the dark and terrible despotism of the Sultana Valida made him tremble for his life, and compelled him to sue at Aischa’s feet for pardon. And if, at the same instant of his crushed spirit and wounded pride, there were a balm found to soothe the racking fibers of his heart, the anodyne consisted in the tender love which Aischa  manifested toward him, and the touching sincerity with which she assured him of her complete forgiveness.

*****

Return we again to that Mediterranean island on which Fernand Wagner and the beauteous Nisida espoused each other by solemn vows plighted in the face of Heaven, and where they have now resided for six long months. At first how happy—how supremely happy was Nisida, having tutored herself so far to forget the jarring interests of that world which lay beyond the sea, as to abandon her soul without reservation to the delights of the new existence on which she had entered. Enabled once more to use that charming voice which God had given her, but which had remained hushed for so many years,—able also to listen to the words that fell from the lips of her lover, without being forced to subdue and crush the emotions which they excited,—and secure in the possession of him to whom she was so madly devoted, and who manifested such endearing tenderness toward herself, Nisida indeed felt as if she were another being, or endowed with the lease of a new life.

At first, too, how much had Wagner and Nisida to say to each other,—how many fond assurances to give—how many protestations of unalterable affection to make! For hours would they sit together upon the seashore, or on the bank of the limpid stream in the valley, and converse almost unceasingly, wearying not of each other’s discourse, and sustaining the interests and the enjoyment of that interchange of thoughts by flying from topic to topic just as their unshackled imagination suggested. But Fernand never questioned Nisida concerning the motive which had induced her to feign dumbness and deafness for so many years; she had given him to understand that family reasons of the deepest importance, and involving dreadful mysteries from the contemplation of which she recoiled with horror, had prompted so tremendous a self-martyrdom:—and he loved her too well to outrage her feelings by urging her to touch more than she might choose on that topic.

Careful not to approach the vicinity of large trees, for fear of these dreadful tenants of the isle who might be said to divide its sovereignty with them, the lovers—may we not venture to call them husband and wife?—would ramble hand-in-hand, along the stream’s enchanting banks, in the calm hours of moonlight, which lent softer charms to the scene than when the gorgeous sun was bathed all in gold. Or else they would wander on the sands to the musical murmur of the rippling sea,—their arms clasping each other’s neck—their eyes exchanging glances of fondness—hers of ardent passion, his of more melting tenderness. But there was too much sensuality in the disposition of Nisida to render her love for Wagner sufficient and powerful enough to insure permanent contentment with her present lot.

The first time that the fatal eve drew near when he must exchange the shape of man for that of a horrid wolf, he had said to her, “Beloved Nisida, I remember that there are finer and different fruits on the other side of the island, beyond the range of mountains; and I should rejoice to obtain for thee a variety.  Console thyself for a few hours during mine absence; and on my return we shall experience renewed and increased happiness, as if we were meeting again after a long separation.” Vainly did Nisida assure him that she reckoned not for a more extensive variety of fruits than those which the nearest grove yielded, and that she would rather have his society than all the luxuries which his absence and return might bring; he overruled her remonstrances—and she at length permitted him to depart. Then he crossed the mountains by means of the path which he had described when he escaped from the torrent at the point where the tree stretched across the stream, as described in the preceding chapter; and on the other side of the range of hills he fulfilled the dreadful destiny of the Wehr-Wolf! On his return to Nisida—after an absence of nearly twenty-four hours, for the time occupied in crossing and recrossing the mountains was considerable—he found her gloomy and pensive. His long absence had vexed her: she in the secrecy of her own heart had felt a craving for a change of scene—and she naturally suspected that it was to gratify a similar want that Fernand had undertaken the transmontane journey. She received his fruits coldly; and it was some time ere he could succeed in winning her back to perfect good humor.

The next interval of a month glided away, the little incident which had for a moment ruffled the harmony of their lives was forgotten—at least by Nisida;—and so devoted was Fernand in his attention, so tenderly sincere in his attachment toward her—and so joyful, too, was she in the possession of one whose masculine beauty was almost superhumanly great, that those incipient cravings for change of scene—those nascent longings for a return to the great and busy world, returned but seldom and were even then easily subdued in her breast.

When the second fatal date after their union on the island approached, Wagner was compelled to urge some new but necessarily trivial excuse for again crossing the mountains; and Nisida’s remonstrances were more authoritative and earnest than on the previous occasion. Nevertheless he succeeded in obtaining her consent: but during his absence of four or five-and-twenty hours, the lady had ample leisure to ponder on home—the busy world across the sea—and her well-beloved brother Francisco. Fernand when he came back, found her gloomy and reserved; then, as he essayed to wean her from her dark thoughts, she responded petulantly and even reproachingly.

The ensuing month glided away as happily as the two former ones; and though Fernand’s attentions and manifestations of fondness increased, if possible, still Nisida would frequently sigh and look wistfully at the sea as if she would have joyed to behold a sail in the horizon. The third time the fatal close of the month drew nigh, Wagner knew not how to act; but some petulance on the part of Nisida furnished him with an excuse which his generous heart only had recourse to with the deepest, the keenest anguish. Throwing back the harsh word at her whom he loved so devotedly, he exclaimed, “Nisida, I leave thee for a few hours until thy good humor shall have returned;” and without  waiting for a reply he darted toward the mountains. For some time the lady remained seated gloomily upon the sand; but as hour after hour passed away, and the sun went down, and the moon gathered power to light the enchanting scene of landscape and of sea, she grew uneasy and restless. Throughout that night she wandered up and down on the sands, now weeping at the thought that she herself had been unkind—then angry at the conviction that Fernand was treating her more harshly than she deserved.

It was not till the sun was high in the heavens that Wagner reappeared; and though Nisida was in reality delighted to find all her wild alarms, in which the monstrous snakes of the isle entered largely, thus completely dissipated, yet she concealed the joy which she experienced in beholding his safe return, and received him with gloomy hauteur. Oh! how her conduct went to Wagner’s heart!—for he knew that, so long as the direful necessity which had compelled his absence remained unexplained, Nisida was justified in attributing that absence to unkind feelings and motives on his part. A thousand times that day was he on the point of throwing himself at her feet and revealing all the details of that frightful destiny; but he dared not—oh! no, he dared not—and a profound melancholy seized upon his soul. Nisida now relented, chiefly because she herself felt miserable by the contemplation of his unhappiness; and harmony was restored between them.

But during the fourth month of their union, the lady began to speak more frequently and frankly of the weariness and monotony of their present existence; and when Fernand essayed to console her, she responded by deep-drawn sighs. His love was based on those enduring elements which would have rendered him content to dwell forever with Nisida on that island, which had no sameness for him so long as she was there to be his companion; but her love subsisted rather sensually than mentally; and now that her fierce and long-pent up desires had experienced gratification, she longed to return to the land of her birth, to embrace her brother Francisco; yes, even though she should be again compelled to simulate the deaf and dumb. The close of the fourth month was at hand, and Wagner was at a loss how to act. New excuses for a fresh absence were impossible; and it was with a heart full of anguish that he was compelled to seize an opportunity in the afternoon of the last day of the month, to steal away from Nisida and hasten across the mountains. Oh! what would she think of his absence now?—an absence for which he had not prepared her, and which was not on this occasion justified by any petulance or willfulness on her part? The idea was maddening, but there was no alternative.

It was noon on the ensuing day when Fernand Wagner, pale and care-worn, again sought that spot on the strand where the rudely constructed cottage stood; but Nisida was not within the hut. He roved along the shore to a considerable distance, and still beheld her not. Terrible alarms now oppressed him. Could she have done some desperate deed to rid herself of an existence whereof she was weary? or had some fatal accident befallen  her. From the shore he hastened to the valley; and there, seated by the side of the crystal stream, he beheld the object of his search. He ran—he flew toward her; but she seemed not to observe him; and when he caught a glimpse of her countenance, he shrank back in dismay—it was so pale, and yet so expressive of deep, concentrated rage!

But we cannot linger on this portion of our tale. Suffice it to say that Wagner exerted all his eloquence, all his powers of persuasion to induce Nisida to turn a kind glance upon him; and it was only when, goaded to desperation by her stern silence and her implacable mien, he exclaimed, “Since I am no longer worthy of even a look or a syllable, I will quit thee forever!” It was only when these words conveyed to Nisida a frightful menace of loneliness, that she relented and gradually suffered herself to be appeased. But vainly did she question him relative to the cause of his absence on this occasion; he offered a variety of excuses, and she believed none of them.

The month that followed was characterized by many quarrels and disputes; for Nisida’s soul acquired all the restlessness which had marked it ere she was thrown on the island, but which solitude at first and then the possession of Wagner, had for a time so greatly subdued. Nevertheless, there were still occasions when she would cling to Wagner with all the confiding fondness of one who remembered how he had saved her life from the hideous anaconda, and who looked up to him as her only joy and solace in that clime, the beauty of which became painful with its monotony—yes, she would cling to him as they roved along the sands together—she would gaze up into his countenance, and as she read assurances of the deepest affection in his fine dark eyes, she would exclaim rapturously, “Oh! how handsome—how god-like art thou, my Fernand! Pardon me—pardon me, that I should ever have nursed resentment against thee!”

It was when she was in such a mood as this that he murmured in her ears, “Nisida dearest, thou hast thy secret which I have never sought to penetrate. I also have my secret, beloved one, as I hinted to thee on that day which united us in this island; and into that mystery of mine thou mayest not look. But at certain intervals I must absent myself from thee for a few hours, as I hitherto have done; and on my return, O dearest Nisida! let me not behold that glorious countenance of thine clouded with anger and with gloom!”

Then ere she could utter a word of reply, he sealed her lips with kisses—he pressed her fervently to his heart, and at that moment she thought he seemed so divinely handsome, and she felt so proud of possessing the love of a man invested with such superhuman beauty and such a splendid intellect, that she attempted not a remonstrance nor a complaint against what was but the preface to a fifth absence of four-and-twenty hours. And when Fernand Wagner reappeared again, his Nisida hastened to meet him as he descended from the mountains—those mountains which were crossed over by a surefooted and agile man with so much difficulty, and which he knew it would be  impossible for him to traverse during that mad career in which he was monthly doomed to whirl along in his lupine shape—yes, she hurried to meet him—receiving him with open arms—smiled tenderly upon him—and led him to the sea-shore, where she had spread the noonday meal in the most inviting manner.

The unwearied and unchanging nature of his love had touched her heart; and, during the long hours of his fifth absence, she had reasoned on the folly of marring the sweet harmony which should prevail between the only two human tenants of that island. The afternoon passed more happily than many and many a previous day had done; Nisida thought that Fernand had never seemed so handsome, though somewhat pale, and he fancied that his companion had never appeared so magnificently beautiful as now, while she lay half reclining in his arms, the rays of the setting sun faintly illuminating her aquiline countenance, and giving a glossy richness to the luxuriant black hair which floated negligently over her naked shoulders.

When the last beams of the orb of day died flickeringly in the far horizon, the tender pair retired to their hut rejoicing in the serene and happy way in which the last few hours had glided over their heads—when a dark figure passed along the sand and stopped at a short distance from the door of the rudely constructed tenement.

And assuredly this was no mortal being—nor wore it now a mortal shape—but Satan—in all the horrors of his ugliness, though still invested with that sublimity of mien which marked the mighty fallen angel—Satan, clothed in terrors ineffable, it was.

For a few moments he stood contemplating the hut wherein the sleepers lay; dread lightnings flushed from his eyes, and the forked electric fluid seemed to play round his haughty brow, while his fearful countenance, the features of which no human pen may venture to describe, expressed malignant hate, anticipated triumph, and tremendous scorn.

Then, extending his right hand toward the hut, and speaking in that deep sonorous tone, which when heard by mortal ears, seemed to jar against the very soul, he chanted the following incantation:—

“Woman of wild and fierce desires!

Why languish thus the wonted fires

That arm’d thine heart and nerved thine hand

To do whate’er thy firmness planned?

Has maudlin love subdued thy soul,

Once so impatient of control?

Has amorous play enslaved the mind

Where erst no common chains confined?

Has tender dalliance power to kill

The wild, indomitable will?

No more must love thus paralyze

And crush thine iron energies;

No more must maudlin passion stay

Thy despot soul’s remorseless sway;

Henceforth thy lips shall cease to smile

Upon the beauties of this Isle;

 Henceforth thy mental glance shall roam,

O’er the Mediterranean foam,

Toward thy far-off Tuscan home!

Alarms for young Francisco’s weal,

And doubts into thy breast steal;

While retrospection carries back

Thy memory o’er time’s beaten track

And stops at that dread hour when thou

With burning eyes and flashing brow,

Call’d Heaven to hear the solemn vow

Dictated with the latest breath

Of the fond mother on the untimely bed of death.”

Thus spoke the demon; and having chanted the incantation, full of menace and of deep design, he turned to depart.

Sleep was still upon the eyes of Fernand and Nisida as they lay in each other’s arms—the island and the sea, too, were sleeping in the soft light of the silver moon, and the countless stars which gemmed the vault of heaven,—when the dark figure passed along the sand, away from the rudely-constructed tenement.

CHAPTER LIV.

When the sun rose again from the orient wave, Fernand repaired to the grove, as was his wont, to gather fruits for the morning repast, while Nisida bathed her fair form in the waters of the Mediterranean.

But there was a gloom upon that lady’s brow, and there was a somber flashing in her large dark eyes which denoted an incipient conflict of emotions stirring within her breast.

She had retired to rest, as we have seen on the previous evening, with a heart glowing toward her beloved and handsome Fernand—she had fallen asleep with the tender sounds of his musical yet manly voice in her ears, and the image of his beautiful countenance in her mind—but in the night—she knew not at what hour—strange dreams began to oppress her, ominous visions filled her with anxiety.

It seemed as if some being, having right to reproach and power to taunt, whispered to her as she slept, stern remonstrances against the idle, voluptuous, and dreaming life she was leading, mocking her for passing her time in the maudlin delights of love, calling upon her to arouse her latent energies and shake off that luxurious lethargy, teaching her to look upon the island, beauteous though it were, as one vast prison in which she was confined, from whence there were, nevertheless, means of escape, raising up before her mental vision all the most alluring and bustling scenes of her own fair, native city of Florence, then bitterly reproaching her for having allowed her soul to be more wrapped up in the society of Fernand Wagner, than solicitous, as it was wont to be, for the welfare of her brother Francisco, creating, too, wild doubts in her imagination as to whether circumstances might not, after all, have united her brother and Flora Francatelli in the bonds of a union which for many reasons she abhorred, and lastly thundering in her ears  the terrific accusation that she was perjured to a solemn and an awful vow pledged by her lips, on a dread occasion, and to the dictating voice of her dying mother.

When she awoke in the morning her brain appeared to be in confusion, but as her thoughts gradually settled themselves in the various cells of the seat of memory, the entire details of her long dream assumed the semblance of a connected chain, even as we have just described them.

For these thoughts had arisen in the nature and order commanded by the demon.

Fernand Wagner saw that the mind of his lovely companion, his charming bride, was ruffled; and, as he embraced her tenderly, he inquired the cause. His caresses for the moment soothed her, and induced her to struggle against the ideas which oppressed: for there are thoughts that Satan excites within us, which we can wrestle with—ay, and conquer if we will.

Finding that Nisida became more composed, and that she treated her mournfulness and his agitation merely as the results of a disagreeable dream, Fernand rose, hastened to perform his own ablutions, and then repaired to the adjacent grove, as above stated. But Nisida remained not long in the Mediterranean’s mighty bath; the moment Wagner had departed from her presence, thoughts which had recently passed in sad procession through her brain came back with renewed vigor; forcing themselves, as it were, upon her contemplation, because she offered but a feeble resistance to their returning invasion. And as she stood on the shore, having donned her scant clothing, and now combing out her long, luxuriant hair, to the silk richness of which the salt water had lent a more glorious gloss—she became a prey to an increasing restlessness—an augmenting anxiety, a longing to quit the island, and an earnest desire to behold her brother Francisco once again, sentiments and cravings which gave to her countenance an expression of somber lowering and concentrated passion, such as it was wont to exhibit in those days when her simulated deafness and dumbness forced her to subdue all the workings of her excited soul, and compress her vermilion lips to check the ebullition of that language which on those occasions struggled to pour itself forth.

“O Italy! Italy!” she exclaimed in an impassioned tone; “shall I ever behold thee again? O! my beloved native land, thou too, fair city, whose name is fraught with so many varied reminiscences for me, am I doomed never to visit ye more?”

“Nisida—dearest Nisida!” said Wagner, who had returned to her unperceived, and unheard—for his feet passed noiselessly over the sand; “wherefore those passionate exclamations? why this anxious longing to revisit the busy, bustling world? Are not the calm and serene delights of this island sufficient for our happiness? or art thou wearied of me who love thee so tenderly?”

“I am not wearied of thee, my Fernand!” replied Nisida, “nor do I fail to appreciate all thy tender affection toward me. But—I can conceal it from myself and from thee no longer—I  am overcome with the monotony of this isle. Unvaried sunshine during the day, unchanging calmness by night, pall upon the soul. I crave variety, even the variety that would be afforded by a magnificent storm, or the eruption of yon sleeping volcano. My thoughts wander in spite of myself toward Italy; I think, too, of my brother—the young and inexperienced Francisco! Moreover, there is in our mansion at Florence, a terrible mystery which prying eyes may seek to penetrate,—a closet containing a fearful secret, which, if published to the world, would heap loathing execrations and disgrace on the haughty name of Riverola! And now Francisco is the sole guardian of that mystery, which he himself knows not, or at least knew not, when last we were together. But it requires a strong and energetic mind, like my own, to watch over that awful secret. And now, Fernand, dear Fernand, thou canst not blame me, thou wilt not reproach me, if I experience an irresistible longing to return to my native land?”

“And know you not, Nisida,” said Wagner, in a tone of mingled mournfulness and reproach, “that, even if there were any means for thee to return to Florence, I could not accompany thee? Dost thou not remember that I informed thee, that being doomed to death, I escaped from the power of the authorities—it matters not how; and that were I to set foot in Florence, it would be to return to my dungeon?”

“Alas! all this I remember well—too well!” exclaimed Nisida. “And think not, my Fernand, that I feel no pang, when I lay bare to thee the state of my soul. But if it were possible for us to go to Italy, thou couldst dwell secretly and retiredly in some suburb of Florence, and we should be together often—very often!”

“No—Nisida,” answered Wagner; “that were impossible! Never more may I venture into that city—and if thou couldst even find the means to revisit thy native clime, thither must thou go, and there must thou dwell alone!”

For Wagner knew full well that were the lady to return to Florence, she would hear of the frightful incidents which marked his trial and also the day of his escape; and, though he had at first inclined to impart to her the terrible secret of his fate—yet subsequent and more calm deliberation in his own mind had convinced him of the imprudence of giving her love a shock by such a tremendous—such an appalling revelation.

“Fernand,” said Nisida, breaking silence after a long pause, during which she was wrapped in profound meditation, “thy words go to my heart like fiery arrows! O my handsome—my beautiful—my beloved Fernand, why does destiny thus persecute us? It is impossible for thee to return to Florence:—it is equally impossible for me to renounce the first opportunity which Heaven may afford for me to repair thither! My God! wherefore do our fates tend in such opposite directions? to separate from thee were maddening: to abandon my brother Francisco—to desert the grave and solemn interests which demand my presence at home, were to render myself perjured to a vow  which I breathed and which Heaven witnessed, when I knelt long years ago at the death-bed of my mother!”

“After all thou hast said, my beloved Nisida,” exclaimed Fernand, in a voice expressive of the deepest melancholy, “I should be wrong—I should be even criminal to listen only to the whispering of my own selfishness and retain thee here, did opportunity serve for thy departure. But on this island shall I remain—perhaps forever! And if the time should come when you grew wearied of that bustling world across the sea, and thy memory traveled to this lonely isle where thy Fernand was left behind thee,—haply thou wouldst embark to return hither and pass the remainder of thy days with one who can never cease to love thee!”

Tears came into the eyes of Nisida—of her who so seldom, so very seldom wept;—and throwing herself into Wagner’s arms, she exclaimed, “God grant that I may revisit my native land; and believe me, oh! believe me, when I declare that I would come back to thee the moment the interests of my brother no longer demanded my presence!”

They embraced fondly, and then sat down upon the sand to partake of their morning repast.

But the thoughts of both were naturally intent upon the recent topic of their discourse; and their conversation, though each endeavored to force it into other channels, reverted to the subject which was now uppermost in their minds.

“What must my poor brother Francisco conjecture to be the cause of my prolonged, and to him mysterious absence?” said Nisida, as her eyes were cast wistfully over the wide expanse of waters. “Methinks that I have already hinted to thee how the foolish passion which he had conceived for a maiden of low degree and obscure birth, compelled me, in accordance with his nearest and best interest, to consign the object of his boyish love to the convent of the Carmelites? Yes, and it was with surprise and dismay incredible that I heard, ere I was torn away from Florence by the villain Stephano, how that convent was sacked and destroyed by unknown marauders——”

“Full intelligence of which terrible sacrilege you communicated to me by signs the second and last time you visited me in my dungeon,” observed Wagner.

“And I heard also, with increased fear,” continued Nisida, “that some of the inmates of that convent had escaped; and, being unable, in consequence of my simulated deafness and dumbness, to set on foot the necessary inquiries, I could not learn whether Flora Francatelli was amongst those who had so escaped the almost general ruin. O! if she should have survived that fatal night—and if she should have again encountered my brother! Alas! thou perceivest, my Fernand, how necessary it is for me to quit the island on the first occasion which may serve for that purpose!”

“And wouldst thou, Nisida,” asked Wagner reproachfully, “place thyself as a barrier between the Count of Riverola and her whom he loves?”

“Yes!” ejaculated Nisida, her countenance suddenly assuming  a stern and imperious expression: “for the most important interests are involved in the marriage which he may contract. But enough of this, Fernand,” she added, relapsing into a more tender mood. “And now tell me—canst thou blame me for the longing desire which has seized upon me—the ardent craving to return to Florence?”

“Nay—I do not blame thee, dearest Nisida!” he exclaimed; “but I pity thee—I feel for thee! Because,” he continued, “if I understand rightly, thou wilt be compelled to feign deafness and dumbness once more, in order to work out thy mysterious aims;—thou wilt be compelled to submit to that awful martyrdom—that terrible duplicity which thou wilt find so painful and difficult to resume, after the full enjoyment of the blessed faculties of speech and hearing.”

“Alas! such will be my duty!” murmured Nisida; “and oh! that destiny is a sad one! But,” she exclaimed, after a moment’s pause, and as a reminiscence appeared suddenly to strike her, “dost thou not think that even such a destiny as that becomes tolerable, when it is fulfilled as the only means of carrying out the conditions of a vow breathed to a well-beloved and dying mother? But wearisome—oh! crushingly tedious was that mode of existence;—and the first bright day of real happiness which I enjoyed, was that when I first knew that thou didst love me! And again, Fernand—oh! again was I supremely happy when, one evening—thou may’st remember well,—it was the eve that my brother and the minion Flora exchanged tender words together in the room adjoining that where we were seated—on that evening, Fernand, I besought by signs that thou wouldst breathe the words—I love thee! and thou didst so—and I drank in those words as a person dying with thirst would imbibe pure spring water placed to his lips!”

Fernand pressed Nisida to his heart—for he saw, in spite of her anxiety to return to Italy, that she really loved him.

But though sensual and impassioned feelings led the beauteous Nisida thus frequently to melt into softness and tenderness when she contemplated the wondrously handsome countenance of Fernand, yet from this day forth her longing to return to Italy became more earnest—more irresistible; and she would compel him to sit by her side for hours together on the shore, while she eagerly watched for the appearance of a sail in the horizon. And Fernand, who divined her object, himself now longed for the advent of a ship;—so sincere was his love for Nisida that he was ready to make any sacrifice in order to promote her happiness. Thus passed away the sixth month; and on the afternoon of the last day thereof, when Wagner was about to observe to her that the time had now arrived for him to pass the mountains once again, she said of her own accord, “Fernand, my beloved, when next you visit the other side of the island, you would do well to raise some sign, or leave some permanent mark to show that there are inhabitants on this island. For a ship might touch at that point—the sailors might seek the shore for water, and they would then search  to discover where those who raised the signal-post are dwelling.”

“Your wish shall be fulfilled, dearest,” answered Wagner; “and without delay will I seek the other side of the island.”

They then embraced tenderly, and Fernand departed, once more to fulfill his frightful doom! Nisida watched his receding form until it was lost in the groves intervening between the plains and the acclivities of the range of mountains; and then she seated herself again on the sand, wondering of what nature her husband’s secret could be, and why it compelled him to absent himself occasionally from her. Though he kept an accurate calculation of the lapse of time, and counted the passing days with unvarying precision, yet she retained no such faithful calendar in her memory, and had not observed that his absence always occurred on the last day of the month.

The hour of sunset was now rapidly approaching, and as Nisida was wrapped in thought, but with her eyes fixed wistfully upon the mighty bosom of the deep, a slight sound as of the rustling of garments fell upon her ears. She started up and glanced suddenly around. But how ineffable was her astonishment—how great was her sudden joy, when she beheld the figure of a man approaching her; for it instantly struck her that the same ship which had conveyed him thither might bear her away from a scene which had latterly become insupportably monotonous.

The individual whose presence thus excited her astonishment and her delight, was tall, thin, and attired rather in the German than in the Italian fashion: but, as he drew nearer, Nisida experienced indefinable emotions of alarm, and vague fears rushed to her soul—for the expression of that being’s countenance was such as to inspire no pleasurable emotions. It was not that he was ugly;—no—his features were well formed, and his eyes were of dazzling brilliancy. But their glances were penetrating and reptile-like,—glances beneath which those of ordinary mortals would have quailed; and his countenance was stamped with a mingled sardonism and melancholy which rendered it painful to contemplate.

Nisida attributed her feeling of uneasiness and embarrassment to the shame which she experienced at finding herself half-naked in the presence of a stranger, for so oppressive bad become the heat of the summer, that her clothing was most scanty, and she had long ceased to decorate her person with garlands and wreaths of fantastically woven flowers.

“Fear not, lady,” said the demon, for he indeed it was; “I am come to counsel and solace, not to alarm thee.”

“How knowest thou that I require counsel? and who art thou that talkest to me of solace?” asked Nisida, her sentiment of shame yielding to one of boundless surprise at hearing herself thus addressed by a being who appeared to read the very inmost secrets of her soul.

“I am one who can penetrate into all the mysteries of the human heart,” returned the fiend, in his sonorous, deep-toned voice; “and I can gather thy history from the expression of thy  countenance, the attitude in which I first beheld thee, while thou wast still seated upon the strand, and the mingled emotions of surprise and joy with which thou didst mark my presence. Is it, then, difficult to imagine that thou requirest counsel to teach thee how to proceed so as to obtain thine emancipation from this isle? or would it be extraordinary if, moved by thy sorrow, I offered to befriend thee? And is it not ever the way with mortals—poor, weak, miserable beings that they are—to grow speedily dissatisfied with their lot? In the spirit of religion ye say that Heaven controls your destinies according to its own wise purposes; and when all goes well with ye, and you have your desires, ye pray and are thankful, because, forsooth,” added the demon, with a smile of bitter scorn, “it is so easy to pray when ye are contented and happy, and so easy to be thankful when ye are pampered with all ye require. Here art thou, lady, on an island teeming with all the choicest fruits of the earth, and enjoying an eternal summer, where all is pleasant to the view, and to whose silent shores the cares of the great world cannot come; and yet thou wouldst quit this calm retreat, and rush back into the vortex of evil passions, warring interests, conflicting pursuits! But I will not weary thee with my reflections; although it is my nature first to upbraid and taunt those whom I intend to serve!”

“And who art thou, strange being, that reasoneth morally with the smile of scorn upon thy lips?” demanded Nisida, the vague alarms which had previously influenced her reviving with additional power; “who art thou, I say, that comest to reproach, and yet profferest thine aid?”

“No matter who I am,” replied the fiend. “Some day thou may’st know me better, if thou——”

“But how camest thou hither? Where is the ship that brought thee—the boat that landed thee?” demanded Nisida in a tone of feverish impatience.

“No ship brought me hither—no boat set me on the shore,” answered the demon, fixing his eyes—those piercing eyes upon Nisida’s countenance, as if to read the impression which this strange revelation made upon her secret soul.

“Then who art thou?” exclaimed the lady, a cold shudder passing over her entire frame, although she retreated not nor withdrew the glances which she, through her wondrous strength of mind, was enabled to retain fixed upon the demon’s countenance.

“Seek not to learn as yet who I am,” said the fiend. “Let it suffice for thee to know that I am something more than a mere mortal—a being gifted with powers which, in the hands of such a one as thou, would throw the entire world into convulsions; for there is much in thee after my own heart, beauteous Nisida of Riverola.”

“Ah! thou art even acquainted with my name,” cried Nisida, again shuddering violently in spite of her powerful efforts to appear calm and fearless.

“I am acquainted with thy name, and with all that concerns thee and thine, Nisida,” replied the fiend; “ay,” he added, with  a malignant chuckle, “even to the mystery of the closet in thy late father’s chamber, and the contents of the terrible manuscript which taught thee such dreadful secrets! I know, too, all that thou hast done to serve thine aims—thy simulated deafness and dumbness—the assassination of Agnes—the imprisonment of Flora in the convent——”

“Then art thou indeed some superhuman power,” interrupted Nisida, in a tone of inexpressible alarm; “and I dare hold no further converse with thee.”

“One moment—and thou wilt think differently!” exclaimed the demon. “But I will give thee an evidence of my power. Here, take this instrument—’tis called a telescope—and use it for a single minute. Glance across the waters, and thou shalt behold a scene which will interest thee somewhat, I trow.”

The fiend handed her a telescope and directed her to apply it to her eyes. She obeyed him, though reluctantly; but intense curiosity overcame her scruples, and, moreover, her extraordinary strength of mind aided her in supporting the presence of one whom she knew to be invested with superhuman powers—but of what nature she feared to guess. Nisida turned toward the sea, and used the magic telescope as directed, while the demon stood behind her, his countenance expressing a diabolical triumph, mingled with blighting scorn.

But ah! what does Nisida behold? The moment she applies the telescope to her eye, she is transported as it were to her own native city. She is in Florence—yes, in the fair capital of Tuscany. Every familiar scene is presented to her again; and she once more views the busy crowds and the bustling haunts of men. She sweeps them all with a hurried glance; and then her look settled upon a young couple walking together in a secluded place on the banks of the Arno. But oh! how terribly flashed her eyes—how changed with wrath and concentrated rage suddenly becomes her countenance! For in that fond pair, wandering so lovingly together on the Arno’s margin she recognized her brother Francisco and the maiden Flora Francatelli!

“Thou hast seen enough!” cried the demon, snatching the telescope from her hands. “And now, more than ever,” he added with a malignant smile of triumph, “dost thou long to revisit thy native land. It was to confirm that longing that I showed thee the scene thou hast just witnessed.”

“And canst thou give me the means to return thither?” demanded Nisida, almost maddened by the spectacle that had met her eyes.

“Listen!” exclaimed the fiend, “and hear me patiently. I charge thee not to breathe to thy Fernand one word descriptive of this interview which thou hast had with me. Thou couldst simulate dumbness for ten long years or more, with a success which rendered thee great and glorious in my eyes—for I love the hypocrite and the deceiver,” he added with one of his diabolical smiles; “although I myself deceive them! Be dumb, then, in all that relates to my visit to thee here. But thou mayst so beset thy Fernand with earnest entreaties to give thee the means of departure from this island—for he can  do so, if he have the will—that he shall be unable to resist thy prayer—thy fears—thy anguish, real or feigned, whichever that anguish may be. And should he not yield to thy intercessions, then assail him on another point. Tell him that thou wilt never rest until thou shalt have discovered the cause of those periodical visits which he makes to the other side of the mountains—threaten to accompany him the next time he goes thither. But I need not teach you how to be energetic nor eloquent. For thou art a woman of iron mind and of persuasive tongue; and thy perseverance, as is thy will, is indomitable. Follow my counsel, then—and, though the future to a great extent be concealed from my view, yet I dare prophesy success for thee! And now farewell, Nisida—farewell!”

And the demon retreated rapidly toward the forests, as if to seek the abode of those terrible serpents whose cunning was akin to his own.

Nisida was too much astonished by the nature of the counsel which his deep sonorous voice had wafted to her ear, to be able to utter a word until his receding form was no longer visible, and then she exclaimed wildly; “I have assuredly seen Satan face to face!”

And her blood ran cold in her veins. But a few moments were sufficient to enable that woman of wondrous energy to recover her presence of mind and collect her scattered thoughts; and she sat down on the sand to ponder upon the strange incidents which had so terribly varied the monotony of her existence. She thought, too, of the scene which she had beholden on the banks of the Arno—her worst fears were confirmed; Flora had escaped from the ruin of the Carmelite convent—was alive, was at liberty—and was with Francisco! Oh! how she now longed for the return of Fernand Wagner; but many hours must elapse—a night must pass—and the orb of day which had by this time gone down, must gain the meridian once more ere he would come back. And in the meantime, although she suspected it not, he must fulfill the awful doom of a Wehr-Wolf, as the reader will find by the perusal of the next chapter.

CHAPTER LV.

It was within a few minutes of sunset, as Fernand Wagner, having crossed the mountains, hastened down that bituminous declivity constituting the scene of desolation which separated the range of volcano hills from the delightful plains and verdant groves stretching to the sea-shore.

A shudder passed over his frame as he beheld the solitary tree in which he had seen the monstrous snake playing and gamboling, on the morning when he was thrown upon this Mediterranean isle.

“Oh!” he exclaimed aloud, as he sped onward, “what happiness and also what misery have I known in this clime. But, doomed and fated being that I am, such is my destiny; and so must I be, here or elsewhere, in whichever land I may visit, in  whatever part of the earth I may abide. Oh! merciful Heaven, can no prayer, no self-mortification, remove the ban—the curse—from my devoted head?

“Oh! just Heaven,” he exclaimed, stretching forth his arms toward the sky, and with ineffable anguish depicted on his upturned countenance; “spare me! Have I not been punished enough! Oh! take away from me this appalling doom—let me become old, wrinkled, forlorn, and poor once more,—let me return to my humble cot in the Black Forest, or let me die. Almighty power! if thou wilt—but spare me—spare me now! Wretch—wretch that I was to be dazzled by the specious promises, O Faust! But I am justly punished—thy vengeance, O Heaven, is well deserved—sinner, sinner that I am!”

Those were the last human sounds he uttered for several hours; for, scarcely had they escaped his lips, when the horrible change began, and in a few moments a wild yell rent the air, and a monstrous wolf sprung from the spot where Wagner had fallen down in such agonizing writhings.

Away—away went the ferocious animal heading toward the sea—careering, thundering on, as if intent on plunging into the silent depths, and there ending its course in a watery grave.

But no: death yawns not for the Wehr-Wolf! Scarcely have its feet touched the verge of the water, when the monster wheels round and continues its whirlwind way without for an instant relaxing one tittle of its speed. Away—away, through the fruit-bearing groves, clearing for itself a path of ruin and havoc,—scattering the gems of the trees, and breaking down the richly-laden vines; away—away flies the monster, hideous howls bursting from its foaming mouth. The birds scream and whistle wildly, as startled from their usual tranquil retreats, they spread their gay and gaudy plumage, and go with gushing sound through the evening air. He reaches the bank of a stream, and bounds along its pleasant margin, trampling to death noble swans which vainly seek to evade the fury of the rushing monster.

Away—away toward the forest hurries the Wehr-Wolf—impelled, lashed on by an invincible scourge, and filling the woods with its appalling yells—while its mouth scatters foam like thick flakes of snow. Hark, there is an ominous rustling in one of the trees of the forest; and the monster seems to instinctively know the danger which menaces it. But still its course is not changed;—it seems not to exercise its own will in shaping its course. Down the tremendous snake flings itself from the tree—and in an instant its hideous coils are wound round the foaming, steaming, palpitating body of the wolf. The air is rent with the yell of agony that bursts from the throat of the horrified monster as it tumbles over and over, as if it had run to the length of a tether—for the snake clings with its tail to the bough from which it has darted down. But the yielding of the wolf is only momentary; up—up it springs again—and away,—away it careers, more madly, more desperately, more ferociously, if possible, than before.

And the snake? Oh! poor, weak and powerless was even that  dread reptile of forty feet in length, when combated with a monster lashed on and also protected by invisible fiends. For, as the wolf sped on again, the boa was dragged as if by a thousand horses from its coiling hold upon the bough—and shaken, lacerated, and affrighted, the hideous reptile unwound itself from the ferocious animal, and fell powerless on the grass, where the vermin of the forest attacked it with their greedy maws ere its pestilential breath had ceased.

Away—away toward the mountains rushes the Wehr-Wolf,—those mountains which constitute the barrier of safety to protect Nisida from the fangs of the animal that would mangle her fair form were she to cross its path. But, ah! he rushes up the acclivity—he clears rugged rock and jutting crag with wondrous bounds;—just Heaven! will he pass those heights—will he cross the range of volcanic hills?

Oh! Nisida, who art on the other side of that range, little dreamest thou of the peril that menaces thee. Joy! joy!—the danger has passed; the wolf turns aside from a loftier impediment of crag than had yet appeared in its course: and down—down again toward the groves and valleys—over the bituminous waste made by the volcano—on, on goes the monster. Away, away, through the verdant scenes once more, fresh havoc—fresh desolation—fresh ruin marking his maddening course,—away, away the Wehr-Wolf speeds.

The moon rises to give a stronger and purer light to the dreadful spectacle, a light stronger and purer than that of night itself, which is never completely dark in the tropics. Away, away, and still on, on—outstripping time—running a race with the fleeting moments, till hours and hours of unrelaxing speed are numbered—thus goes the wolf. And now he snuffs the morning air: the fresh breeze from the east raises the foam of the Mediterranean waves, and allays the heat on the body of the careening, bounding, and almost flying monster.

His howling grows less ferocious—his yells become less terrible; and now his pace is a trifle more measured,—that relaxation of a whirlwind speed gradually increasing.

’Tis done; the course is o’er—the race is run;—and the Wehr-Wolf falls in writhing agonies upon the fresh grass, whence in a few moments rises Fernand Wagner—a man once more! But as he throws a glance of horror around on the scene of his night’s dread employment, he starts back with mingled aversion and alarm; for there—with folded arms, eyes terrible to look upon, and a countenance expressing infernal triumph and bitter scorn, stood the demon.

“Fiend, what would’st thou with me?” demanded Wagner. “Are not the sufferings which I have just endured, enough to satisfy thy hatred of all human beings? are not the horrors of the past night sufficient to glut even thine insatiate heart?”

“Mortal,” said the demon, speaking in his profound and awe-inspiring tones, “didst thou take all thy miseries which at this moment afflict thy race, combine all the bitter woes, and crushing sorrows that madden the brains of men, mix up all the tears and collect all the sobs and sighs that tell of human agony,  then multiply the aggregate by ten million, million times its sum, and go on multiplying by millions and millions, till thou wast tired of counting, thou would’st not form even an idea of that huge amount of human misery which could alone appease me. For on man do I visit the hate wherewith my own fall has animated me; powerless on high, where once I was so powerful, I make my kingdom of earth and hell—and in both my influence is great and is terrible!”

“Yes—yes; too great—too terrible!” exclaimed Wagner. “But why dost thou persecute me with thy presence? I did not call thee—I did not invoke thine aid.”

“No, but thou requirest it!” said the demon, with a satirical smile. “Thinkest thou to be enabled to dream away thine existence in this island, with the warm, impassioned Nisida? No, mortal—no! Already doth she pine for her own native Italian clime; and she will end by loathing thee and this land, if she continue to dwell here, and with only thee as her companion. But it is in thy power to make Nisida forget Italy—Francisco—Flora—and all the grave interests and dreadful mysteries which seem to demand her presence in the busy world;—it is in thy power to render her happy and contented in this island—to attach her to thee for the remainder of thine existence—to provide her with the means of preserving her youth and her beauty unimpaired, even as thine own—to crush forever all those pinings and longings which now carry her glances wistfully across the sea,—in a word, to bend her mind to all thy wishes—her soul to all thy purposes! Yes;—it is in thy power to do all this—and the same decision which shall place that amount of ineffable happiness within thy reach, will also redeem thee from the horrible destiny of a Wehr-Wolf—leaving thee thy youth and thy beauty, and investing thee with a power equal to that enjoyed by thy late master, Faust.”

“And doubtless on the same conditions?” said Wagner, half-ironically, and half in horror at the mere thought of surrendering his soul to Satan.

“Art thou blind to the means of promoting thy earthly happiness?” demanded the demon, fixing on Fernand a glance intended to appal and intimidate, but at which he on whom it was bent quailed not. “Hast thou not received sufficient experience of the terrific sufferings which twelve times a year thou art doomed to endure? Knowest thou not on each occasion thou destroyest human life, where mortal beings are in thy path—or that thou ravagest the fair scenes which He whose name I dare not mention has created? and art thou ignorant of the tremendous horror and loathsome obloquy which attach themselves to the name of a Wehr-Wolf? See—thou art already wearied of traveling through the various climes of the earth; thou no longer delightest in cultivating thine intellect, so marvelously adapted to receive knowledge of all kinds; and thy power to create whole mines of wealth is exercised no more. But thou would’st fix thine abode in this island forever, were Nisida to remain thy companion! Well—and if thou losest her? for assuredly a vessel will some day touch on these shores—what would’st thou do  then? All lonely, desolate, forlorn, thou would’st curse the day that gave thee regenerated life—thou would’st seek death—and to thee death may not come yet for many, many years! Fernand, thou art worse than mad not to embrace my offers. Consent to become mine—mine eternally, when thy mortal breath shall leave thy body, and in the meantime I promise thee power illimitable—happiness such as no human being ever yet enjoyed——”

“No—no!” exclaimed Wagner. “Rather the destiny of a Wehr-Wolf—rather the solitude of this island for the remainder of my days—than resign all chance of salvation! And that mine immortal soul is yet safe, the very temptations thou offerest with such eloquent persuasion fully proves! Oh! Heaven, of its infinite mercy, will receive the dreadful sufferings ’tis mine to endure each month, as an atonement for that hour of weakness, madness, folly, when dazzled by the words of Faust, and overwhelmed by a weight of miseries, I accepted a regenerated existence. Yes, Heaven will forgive me yet: and therefore avaunt, fiend! avaunt!” And as he uttered these words he made the sign of the cross, and the demon fled away howling. Wagner turned aside in dismay, and sank upon the ground as if blasted by the lightning. A deep sleep fell on Fernand’s eyes, and in his dreams he thought he heard a solemn but rejoicing strain of music filling the air. That divine melody seemed to speak a language eloquent and intelligible, and to give him hope and promise of a deliverance from the dreadful destiny which his weakness and folly had entailed upon him. The music grew fainter and fainter, and at the moment when it died away altogether a heavenly and radiant being rose in the midst of a cloud, an angel, clad in white and shining garments, and with snowy wings closed, and drooping from its shoulders. Looking benignly upon the sleeping Wagner the angel said in a soft and liquid tone, “Thrice hast thou resisted the temptations of the enemy of mankind: once in thy dungeon at Florence, a second time amidst the defiles of yon mountains, and now on this spot. He will appear to thee no more, unless thou thyself summon him. Much hast thou already done in atonement for the crime that endangered thy soul when, withdrawing thy faith from Heaven, thou didst accept new life on the conditions proposed to thee by the agent of Satan; but much more must thou yet do, ere that atonement will be complete!” The form ceased to speak, and gradually became fainter and fainter, until it disappeared with its glorious halo altogether.

Then Fernand awoke, and his dream was vividly impressed upon his memory.

Assuming a kneeling posture, he clasped his hands fervently together, and said aloud, “Merciful Heaven! be the vision one divinely sent, or be it but the sport of an imagination fevered by a long night of suffering, I receive it as an emblem and as a sign of hope and promise!”

He arose. The sun was now high in the heaven, and he hastened to the shore to perform his ablutions. Refreshed in body with the bath which he took in the Mediterranean, and in mind  with the influence of the vision, he retraced his way toward the mountains. The range was passed in safety, and he once more set foot on that section of the island where Nisida was so anxiously awaiting his presence.

The hour at which Fernand Wagner was accustomed to return after his periodical excursions beyond the mountains, had long passed; for it will be remembered that he had fallen asleep and slumbered some time, after his restoration to human shape and his encounter with the demon. Nisida was already a prey to the wildest alarms, which were not altogether untainted with selfishness; for the enemy of mankind had led her to believe that Wagner had within his reach certain means of enabling her to quit the island, and she trembled lest death might have intervened to snatch him away, and thus annihilate the hopes which had been so insidiously infused into her soul. She was also distressed at his prolonged absence on grounds more creditable to her heart, for she shuddered at the idea that her handsome Fernand might at that very moment be writhing in the coils of a horrible snake. Then, arousing herself, Nisida resolved to attempt the passage of the mountains, and seek for her lover and rescue him if possible, and if not, to die with him. But as she drew near the craggy mountains she suddenly beheld the object of her anxiety approaching her, and in a few minutes they were locked in each other’s arms.

“My Fernand,” said Nisida at length, “I feared that some danger had befallen you, and I was hastening to join you on the other side of these heights, either to aid you in escaping from the peril, or to share its consequences with you.”

“Beloved Nisida!” exclaimed Wagner, “how welcome to me is this proof of thy regard, this earnest of thy love.”

“I can never cease to love you, dear Fernand,” answered Nisida, turning her fine large eyes upon his handsome face. “Oh, that I should seek to quit thee! The thought smites me to the inmost recesses of my heart. And yet it is to some extent thy fault, for wherefore wilt thou not accompany me?”

“In the first place, beloved one,” replied Wagner, “thou talkest as if a ship were already in sight, or a boat lay ready to launch from this shore; secondly, I have before assured thee that I dared not return to Florence, and that as I cannot therefore be thy companion thither, it would be better for me to remain on the island, to which, perhaps,” he added in a mournful tone, “you might, after all, never come back!”

“Oh! Fernand, think not so ill of your Nisida!” she cried, throwing one of her snowy full arms round his neck, and looking earnestly, but yet tenderly on his countenance. “Never, never shall I know happiness again until I have revisited Florence. Each day that passes without giving me a hope to see this aim fulfilled, increases my misery, adds to my uneasiness, augments my anxiety—so that in a short time my suspense will become intolerable. It is nearly so already, Fernand—but pity me; yes—and help me, if you can!”

“Dearest Nisida, willingly would I sacrifice my own inclinations to forward thine,” exclaimed Wagner in a tone of deep  sincerity; “but how is it possible that I can aid thee? I have not wings to affix to thy fair shoulder, I have not a voice powerful enough to raise echoes on a shore whence assistance might be sent. Nay, look not so sternly on me, beloved Nisida, I did not intend to vex thee with idle jestings; but thou knowest that I cannot aid thee.”

“Fernand, you love me not!” exclaimed Nisida, suddenly withdrawing her arm from its fond position about his neck, and retreating a few paces. “No; you do not love me as you were wont, or as I love you! You doubtless have some means of gratifying my ardent longings. A secret voice whispers within me that if you chose to exert all your powers, you might render me happy—at least so happy as I could be when separated from you! I have assured you that naught save the most important interests would render me thus anxious to return to my native city; and if you find me thus importunate, you should pity me, not refuse to aid me.”

“Holy Virgin! this is maddening!” cried Wagner. “Nisida—be reasonable; how can I assist thee? how can I enable thee to cross that sea which appears to us boundless? And thou accusest me of not loving thee, Nisida! Oh! this is too cruel!”

“No, it is thou who art cruel!” exclaimed Nisida, in an impassioned tone. “I know that you are not a being of an ordinary stamp, that your intellect is as wonderful as your person is godlike,—and that you possess a mine of knowledge in the extent of which no mortal can equal thee. Is it strange—is it marvelous, then, that I should implore thee to exert thy powers—the vast powers of thy glorious intelligence, to forward my design? Nay, seek not to interrupt me, Fernand, denial is vain! A secret voice continues to whisper within me that thou art able to do all I ask; I know not the means to be used—I seek not to know them; but that thou hast such means within thy reach, is a conviction firmly impressed upon my mind. Here, then, Fernand, at thy feet, on my knees, do I implore thee, beseech thee, not to refuse the boon which I, thy loving wife, crave at the hands of thee, my husband, as if I were a humble suppliant suing at the footstool of a throned king!”

“Nisida, Nisida!” cried Fernand, painfully excited by this sudden movement on her part, and endeavoring to rise: “what means so strange a proceeding? Rise, dearest, rise; it is not to me that you must thus humble yourself!”

“No; I will not quit this suppliant attitude until you shall have granted my request—my prayer,” said Nisida. “Refuse me not, my Fernand. Oh! I implore you not to refuse me! Whatever means be within your reach, exert them on my behalf. A brother’s interest, the remembrance of a solemn vow breathed only to my lamented and much-wronged mother—and the safeguard of a mystery, the discovery of which by curious and prying eyes would heap infamy and disgrace upon the family that bears the name of Riverola—all these reasons render me thus anxious to return to Italy. And if you keep me here, Fernand, I shall pine away—I shall perish before your eyes, and you will repent of your harshness when it is too late. Or else,” she added,  speaking with wild rapidity, “I shall be reduced to despair, and in a moment of excitement shall seek death in those silent waters, or climb yon craggy mountains to fling myself headlong from their summit.”

“Nisida, your menaces are maddening as your supplications to me are vain and useless!” said Wagner, himself now laboring under a fearful excitement. “Rise, I implore you, rise, and let us endeavor to converse more calmly—more rationally.”

“Yes—I will rise,” said Nisida, now affecting a sullen haughtiness, and preparing to wield another of the weapons which the demon had placed in her hand: “I rise, Fernand, because I feel that I was wrong thus to abase myself—I, who bear the proud name of Riverola;”—and she tossed her head indignantly. “Well—it seems that you are resolved to keep me chained to your side on this island. Be it so: but henceforth let there be no mistrust—no mystery—no secrets between us. If Italy must be forgotten forever, then this isle shall become our world, and our thoughts shall travel not beyond its confines. All shall be mutual confidence—a reciprocal outpouring of our minutest thoughts. On that condition only will existence here be tolerable to us both. And now as a proof that thou wilt assent to this proposal—than which nothing can be more rational—let our new life of mutual confidence date from this moment. Tell me then, my Fernand,” she proceeded, assuming a winning manner, and throwing as much pathos as possible into her sweetly musical voice—that voice which gave new and indescribable, charms to the soft Italian language—“tell me then, my Fernand, wherefore thou quittest me at certain intervals—why thou invariably seekest on those occasions the opposite side of the island—and whether thou wilt in future suffer me to be the companion of those journeys?”

“Thou be my companion—thou, Nisida!” exclaimed Wagner, his whole frame convulsed with mental agony. “Merciful Heaven! what fiend has prompted thee thus to speak! Nisida,” he said, suddenly exercising a strong mastery over his emotions, as he seized her hand and pressed it with spasmodic violence—“Nisida, as thou valuest our happiness seek not to penetrate into my secret—proffer not that mad request again!”

And dropping her hand he paced the shore with the agitation of reviving excitement.

“Fernand,” said Nisida, approaching him, and once more speaking in a resolute and even severe tone—“listen to me. When we met upon the island, an accident of a terrible nature led me to forget my vow of self-imposed dumbness; and when the excitement occasioned by that accident had somewhat passed you were in doubt whether you had really heard my voice or had been deluded by fevered imagination. It would have been easy for me to simulate dumbness again; and you would have believed that the bewilderment of the dread scene had misled you. But I chose not to maintain a secret from thee—and I confess that my long supposed loss of two glorious faculties was a mere deed of duplicity on my part. At that time you said that you also had explanations to give; and yet months and months have  passed by, and confidence has not begotten confidence. Let this mistrust on your part cease. Reveal to me the cause of these frequent excursions across the mountains; or else the next time that you set out on one of these mysterious journeys, I shall assuredly become your companion.”

“Now, Nisida,” exclaimed Wagner, his heart rent with indescribable tortures—“it is you who are cruel—you are unjust!”

“No, Fernand—it is you!” cried Nisida, in a thrilling, penetrating tone, as if of anguish.

“Merciful Heaven! what misery is in store for us both!” said Wagner, pressing his hand to his burning brow. “Oh! that some ship would appear to bear thee away—or that my destiny were other than it is!”

And he flung himself upon the sand in a fit of blank despair. Nisida now trembled at the violence of those emotions which she had raised in the breast of him whom she loved; and for a minute she reproached herself for having so implicitly obeyed the counsel of the evil spirit.

Her own feelings were worked up to that pitch of excitement with which women—even in the strongest-minded, must have its vent in tears; and she burst into an agony of weeping.

The sound of those sobs was more than the generous-hearted and affectionate Fernand could bear; and starting from the sand whereon he had flung himself, he exclaimed, “Nisida, my beloved Nisida, dry those tears, subdue this frenzied grief! Let us say no more upon these exciting topics this evening; but I will meditate, I will reflect upon the morrow, and then I will communicate to thee the result of my deliberations.”

“Oh! there is then hope for me yet!” cried Nisida, joyfully; “and thou hast the means to grant my wishes, but thou fearest to use them. We will say no more this evening on subjects calculated to give so little pleasure; but to-morrow, my Fernand, to-morrow.”

And Nisida stopped her own utterance by pressing her lips to those of Wagner, winding her beauteous arms most lovingly round his neck at the same time, and pressing him to her bosom.

But that night and the ensuing morn were destined to wring the heart-cords of the unhappy Fernand: for the influence of the demon, though unknown and unrecognized, was dominant with Nisida.