On the Pleasure Derived From Terror. A Fragment Sir Bertrand's Adventures in a Ruinous Castle The Story of Fitzalan.  Top That the exercise of our benevolent feelings, as called forth by the view of human afflictions, should be a source of pleasure, cannot appear wonderful to one who considers that relation between the moral and natural system of man, which has connected a degree of satisfaction with every action or emotion productive of the general welfare. The painful sensation immediately arising from a scene of misery, is so much softened and alleviated by the reflex sense of self-approbation on attending virtuous sympathy, that we find, on the whole, a very exquisite and refined pleasure remaining, which makes us desirous of again being witnesses to such scenes, instead of flying from them with disgust and horror. It is obvious how greatly such a provision must conduce to the ends of mutual support and assistance. But the apparent delight with which we dwell upon objects of pure terror, where our moral feelings are not in the least concerned, and no passion seems to be excited but the depressing one of fear, is a paradox of the heart, much more difficult of solution. The reality of this source of pleasure seems evident from daily observation. The greediness with which the tales of ghosts and goblins, of murders, earthquakes, fires, shipwrecks, and all the most terrible disasters attending human life, are devoured by every ear, must have been generally remarked. Tragedy, the most favourite work of fiction, has taken a full share of those scenes; "it has supt full with horrors"--and has, perhaps, been more indebted to its tender and pathetic parts. The host of Hamlet, Macbeth descending into the witches' cave, and the tent scene in Richard, command as forcibly the attention of our souls as the parting of Jasseir and Belvidera, the fall of Wolsey, or the death of Shore. The inspiration of terror was by the antient critics assigned as the peculiar province of tragedy; and the Greek and Roman tragedians have introduced some extraordinary personages for this purpose: not only the shades of the dead, but the furies and other fabulous inhabitants of the infernal regions. Collins, in his most poetical ode to Fear, has finely enforced this idea. Tho' gentle Pity claims her mingled part, The old Gothic romance and the Eastern tale, with their genii, giants, enchantments, and transformations, however a refined critic may censure them as absurd and extravagant, will ever retain a most powerful influence on the mind, and interest the reader independently of all perculiarity of taste. Thus the great Milton, who had a strong bias to these wildnesses of the imagination, has with striking effect made the stories "of forests and enchantments drear," a favourite subject with his Penseroso; and had undoubtedly their awakening images strong upon his mind when he breaks out, Call up him that left half-told How are we then to account for the pleasure derived from such objects? I have often been led to imagine that there is a deception in these cases; and that the avidity with which we attend is not a proof of our receiving real pleasure. The pain of suspense, and the irresistible desire of satisfying curiosity, when once raised, for our eagerness to go quite through an adventure, though we suffer actual pain during the whole course of it. We rather chuse to suffer the smart pang of a violent emotion than the uneasy craving of an unsatisfied desire. That this principle, in many instances, may involuntarily carry us through what we dislike, I am convinced from experience. This is the impulse which renders the poorest and most insipid narrative interesting when once we get fairly into it; and I have frequently felt it with regard to our modern novels, which, if lying on my table, and taken up in an idle hour, have led me through the most tedious and disgusting pages, while, like Pistol eating his leek, I have swallowed and execrated to the end. And it will not only force us through dulness, but through actual torture--through the relation of a Damien's execution, or an inquisitor's act of faith. When children, therefore, listen with pale and mute attention to the frightful stories of apparitions, we are not, perhaps, to imagine that they are in a state of enjoyment, any more than the poor bird which is dropping into the mouth of the rattlesnake--they are chained by the ears, and fascinated by curiosity. This solution, however, does not satisfy me with respect to the well-wrought scenes of aritificial terror which are formed by a sublime and vigorous imagination. Here, though we know before-hand what to expect, we enter into them with eagerness, in quest of a pleasure already experienced. This is the pleasure constantly attached to the excitement of surprise from new and wonderful objects. A strange and unexpected event awakens the mind, and keeps it on the stretch; and where the agency of invisible beings is introduced, of "forms unseen, and mightier far than we," our imagination, darting forth, explores with rapture the new world which is laid open to its view, and rejoices in the expansion of its powers. Passion and fancy cooperating elevate the soul to its highest pitch; and the pain of terror is lost in amazement. Hence the more wild, fanciful, and extraordinary are the circumstance of a scene of horror, the more pleasure we receive from it; and where they are too near common nature, though violently borne by curiosity through the adventure, we cannot repeat it or reflect on it, without an overbalance of pain. In the Arabian Nights are many most striking examples of the terrible joined with the marvellous: the story of Alladin, and the travels of Sinbad, are particularly excellent. The Castle of Otranto is a very spirited modern attempt upon the same plan of mixed terror, adapted to the model of Gothic romance. The best conceived, and most strongly worked-up scene of mere natural horror that I recollect, is in Smollett's Ferdinand Count Fathom; where the hero, entertained in a lone house in a forest, finds a corpse just slaughtered in the room where he is sent to sleep, and the door of which is locked upon him. It may be amusing for the reader to compare his feelings upon these, and from thence form his opinion of the justness of my theory. The following fragment, in which both these manners are attempted to be in some degree united, is offered to entertain a solitary winter's evening. ---------- After this adventure, Sir Bertrand turned his steed towards the woulds, hoping to cross these dreary moors before the curfew. But ere he had proceeded half his journey, he was bewildered by the different tracks, and not being able, as far as the eye could reach, to espy any object but the brown heath surrounding him, he was at length quite uncertain which way he should direct his course. Night overtook him in this situation. It was one of those nights when the moon gives a faint glimmering of light through the thick black clouds of a lowering sky. Now and then she suddenly emerged in full splendor from her veil; and then instantly retired behind it, having just served to give the forlorn Sir Bertrand a wide extended prospect over the desolate waste. Hope and native courage a while urged him to push forwards, but at length the increasing darkness and fatigue of body and mind overcame him; he dreaded moving from the ground he stood on, for fear of unknown pits and bogs, and alighting; from his horse in despair, he threw himself on the ground. He had not long continued in that posture the sullen toll of a distant bell struck his ear--he started up, and turning towards the found discerned a dim twinkling light. Instantly he seized his horse's bridle, and with cautious steps advanced towards it. After a painful march he was stopt by a moated ditch surrounding the place from whence the light proceeded; and by a momentary glimpse of moon-light he had a full view of a large antique mansion, with turrets at the corners, and an ample porch in the centre. The injuries of time were strongly marked on every thing about it. The roof in various places was fallen in, the battlements were half demolished, and the windows broken and dismantled. A drawbridge, with a ruinous gateway at each end, led to the court before the building--He entered, and instantly the light, which proceeded from a window in one of the turrets, glided along and vanished; at the same moment the moon sunk beneath a black cloud, and the night was darker than ever. All was silent--Sir Bertrand fastened his steed under a shed, and approaching the house traversed its whole front with light and slow footsteps--All was still as death--He looked in at the lower windows, but could not distinguish a single object through the impenetrable gloom. After a short parley with himself, he entered the porch, and seizing a massy iron knocker at the gate, lifted it up, and hesitating, at length struck a loud stroke. The noise resounded through the whole mansion with hollow echoes. All was still again--He repeated the strokes more boldly and louder--another interval of silence ensued--A third time he knocked, and a third time all was still. He then fell back to some distance that he might discern whether any light could be seen in the whole front--It again appeared in the same place and quickly glided away as before--at the same instant a deep sullen toll sounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand's heart made a fearful stop.--He was a while motionless; then terror impelled him to make some hasty steps toward his steed--but shame stopt his flight; and urged by honour, and a resistless desire of finishing the adventure, he returned to the porch; and working up his soul to a full steadiness of resolution, he drew forth his sword with one hand, and with the other lifted up the latch of the gate. The heavy door, creaking upon its hinges, reluctantly yeilded to his hand--he applied his shoulder to it and forced it open--he quitted it and stept forward--the door instantly shut with a thundering clap. Sir Bertrand's blood was chilled--he turned back to find the door, and it was long ere his trembling hands could seize it--but his utmost strength could not open it again. After several ineffectual attempts, he looked behind him, and beheld, across a hall, upon a large staircase, a pale bluish flame which cast a dismal gleam of light around, He again summoned forth his courage and advanced towards it--It retired. He came to the foot of the stairs, and after a moment's deliberation ascended. He went slowly up, the flame retiring before him, till he came to a wide gallery--The flame proceeded along it, and he followed in silent horrors, treading lightly, for the echoes of his footsteps startled him. It led him to the foot of another staircase, and then vanished--At the same instant another toll sounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand felt it strike upon his heart. He was now in total darkness, and with his arms extended, began to ascend the second staircase. A dead cold hand met his left hand and firmly grasped it, drawing him forcibly forwards---he endeavoured to disengage himself, but could not---he made blow with his sword, and instantly a loud shriek pierced his ears, and the dead hand was left powerless in his--He dropt it, and rushed forwards with a desperate valour. The stairs were narrow and winding, and interrupted by frequent breaches, and loose fragments of stone. The staircase grew narrower and narrower and at length terminated in a low iron grate. Sir Bertrand pushed it open---it led to an intricate winding passage, just large enough to admit a person upon his hands and knees. A faint glimmering of light served to show the nature of the place. Sir Bertrand entered---A deep hollow groan resounded from a distance through the vault---He went forwards, and proceeding beyond the first turning, discerned the same blue flame which had before conducted him. He followed it. The vault, at length, suddenly opened into a lofty gallery, in the midst of which a figure appeared, compleatly armed, with a terrible frown and menacing gesture, and brandishing a sword in his hand. Sir Bertrand undauntedly sprung forwards; and aiming a fierce blow at the figure, it instantly vanished, letting fall a massy iron key. The flame now rested upon a pair of ample folding doors at the end of the gallery. Sir Bertrand went up to it, and applied the key to a brazen lock---with difficulty he turned the bolt---instantly the doors flew open, and discovered a large apartment, at the end of which was a coffin rested upon a bier, with a taper burning on each side of it. Along the room on both sides were gigantic statues of black marble, attired in the Moorish habits, and holding enormous sabres in their right hands. Each of them reared his arm, and advanced one leg forwards, as the knight entered; at the same moment the lid of the coffin flew open, and the bell tolled. The flame still glided forwards, and Sir Bertrand resolutely followed, till he arrived within six paces of the coffin. Suddenly, a lady in a shrowd and black veil rose up in it, and stretched out her arms towards him--at the same time the statues clashed their sabres and advanced. Sir Bertrand flew to the lady and clasped her in his arms--she threw up her veil and kissed his lips; and instantly the whole building shook as with an earthquake, and fell asunder with a horrible crash. Sir Bertrand was thrown into a sudden trance, and on recovering, found himself seated on a velvet sofa, in the most magnificent room he had ever seen, lighted with innumerable tapers, in lustres of pure crystal. A sumptuous banquet was set in the middle. The doors opening to soft music, a lady of incomparable beauty, attired with amazing splendour entered, surrounded by a troop of gay nymphs far more fair than the Graces---She advanced on the knight, and falling on her knees thanked him as her deliverer. The nymphs placed a garland of laurel on his head, and the lady led him by the hand to the banquet, and sat beside him. The nymphs placed themselves at the table, and a numerous train of servants entering, served up the feast; delicious music playing all the time. Sir Bertrand could not speak for astonishment---he could only return their honours by courteous looks and gestures. After the banquet was finished, all retired but the lady, who leading back the knight to the sofa, addressed him in these words:------------------------ Top Sir Bertrand turned his deed toward the wolds, hoping to cross those dreary moors before the curfew tolled. But ere he had proceeded half his journey, he was bewildered by the different tracks; and not being able, as far as the eye could reach, to espy any object but the brown heath surrounding him, he was at length quite uncertain which way he should direct his course. Night overtook him in this situation. It was one of those nights when the moon gives a faint glimmering of light through the thick black clouds of a louring sky. Now and then he suddenly emerged in full splendor from her veil; and then instantly retired behind it, having just served to give the forlorn Sir Bertrand a wide-extended prospect over the desolate waste. Hope and native courage a while urged him to push forward, but at length, the encreasing darkness, and fatigue of body and mind, overcame him. He dreaded moving from the ground he stood on, for fear of unknown pits and bogs; and, alighting from his horse in despair, he threw himfelf on the ground. He had not long continued in that posture, when the sullen toll of a diftant bell struck his ears he started up; and, turning toward the sound, discerned a dim twinkling light. Instantly he seized his horse's bridle, and with cautious steps advanced toward it. After a painful march, he was stopped by a moated ditch surrounding the place from whence the light proceeded and, by a momentary glimpse of moonlight, he had a full view of a large antique mansion, with turrets at the corners, and an ample porch in the centre, The injuries of time were strongly marked on every thing about it.The roof in various places was fallen in, the battlements were half demolished, and the windows broken and dismantled. A draw-bridge, with a ruinous gateway at each end, led to the court before the building. He entered; and instantly the light, which proceeded from a window in one of the turrets, glided along, and vanished at the same moment the moon sunk beneath a black cloud, and the night was darker than ever. All was silent. Sir Bertrand fastened his steed under a shed; and, approaching the house, traversed its whole front with light and slow foot-steps. All was still as death! He looked in at the lower windows, but could not distingush a single object through the impenetrable gloom. After a short parley with himfelf, he entered the porch ; and, seizing a massy iron knocker at the gate, lifted it up, and, hesitating, at length struck a loud stroke. The noise resounded through the whole mansion with hollow echoes. All was still again! He repeated the strokes more boldly, and louder. Another interval of silence ensued! A third time he knocked; and a third time all was still! He then fell back to some distance, that he might discern whether any light could be seen in the whole front. It again appeared in the same place, and quickly glided away as before! at the same instant, a deep, sullen toll sounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand's heart made a fearful stop! He was a while motionless ; then terror impelled him to make some hasty steps toward his steed but shame stopped his flight; and, urged by honour, and a resistless desire of finishing the adventure, he returned to the porch ; and working up his soul to a full steadiness of resolution, he drew forth his sword with one hand, and with the other lifted up the latch of the gate. The heavy door, creaking upon its hinges, reluctantly yielded to his hand, he applied his shoulder to it, and forced it open. He quitted it, and stept forward the door instantly shut with a thundering clap. Sir Bertrand's blood was chilled! He turned back to find the door, and it was long ere his trembling hands could seize it but his utmost strength could not open it again. After several ineffectual attempts, he looked behind him, and beheld, across a hall, upon a large stair-case, a pale bluish flame, which cast a dismal gleam of light around. He again summoned forth his courage, and advanced toward it, it retired. He came to the foot of the stairs ; and, after a moment's deliberation, ascended. He went slowly up, the flame retiring before him, till he came to a wide gallery. The flame proceeded along it, and he followed in silent horror, treading lightly, for the echoes of his footsteps startled him. It led him to the foot of another stair- case, and then vanished! At the same instant another toll sounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand felt it strike upon his heart. He was now in total darkness ; and, with his arms extended, began to ascend the second stair-case. A dead cold hand met his left hand, and firmly grasped it, drawing him forcibly forward he endeavoured to disengage himself, but could not he made a furious blow with his sword, and instantly a loud shriek pierced his ears, and the dead hand was left powerless in his he dropped it, and rushed forward with a desperate valour. The stairs were narrow and winding, and interrupted by frequent breaches, and loose fragments of stones. The stair-case declined narrower and narrower, and at length terminated in a low iron grate. Sir Bertrand pushed it open it led to an intricate winding passage, just large enough to admit a person upon his hands and knees. A faint glimmering of light served to show the nature of the place. Sir Bertrand entered a deep hollow groan resounded from a distance through the vault he went forward ; and, proceeding beyond the first turning, discerned the same blue flame which had before conducted him he followed it. The vault, at length, suddenly opened into a lofty gallery, in the midil of which a figure appeared completely armed, thrusting forward the bloody stump of an arm, with a terrible frown, and menacing gesture, brandishing a sword in his hand. Sir Bertrand undauntedly sprang forward; and, aiming a fierce blow at the figure, it instantly vanished, letting fall a massy iron key. The flame now re fled upon a pair of ample folding doors at the end of the gallery. Sir Bertrand went to it, and applied the key to a brazen lock with difficulty he turned the bolt instantly the doors flew open, and discovered a large apartment, at the end of which was a coffin rested upon a bier, with a taper burning on each side of it. Along the room on both sides were gigantic statues of black marble, attired in the Moorish habit, and holding enormous sabres in their hands. Each of them reared its arm, and advanced one leg forward, as the knight entered; at the same moment the lid of the coffin flew open, and the bell tolled. The flame still glided forward ; and Sir Bertrand resolutely followed, till he arrived within six paces of the coffin. Suddenly a lady in a shroud and black veil rose up in it, and stretched out her arms to ward him at the same time the statues clashed their sabres, and advanced. Sir Bertrand flew to the lady, and clapsed her in his arms she threw up her veil, and kissed his lips ; when instantly the whole building shook as with an earthquake, and fell asunder with a horrible crash. Sir Bertrand was thrown into a sudden trance ; and, on recovering, found himself seated on a velvet sofa, in the most magnificent room he had ever seen, lighted with innumerable tapers, in lustres of pure crystal. A sumptuous banquet was set in the middle. The doors opening to soft music, a lady of incomparable beauty, attired with amazing splendor, entered, surrounded by a troop of gay nymphs more fair than the graces. She advanced to the knight ; and, falling on her knees, thanked him as her deliverer. The nymphs put a garland of laurel upon his head ; and the lady led him by the hand to the banquet, and sat beside him. The nymphs placed themselves at the table ; and a numerous train of servants entering, served up the feast, delicious mufic playing all the time. Sir Bertrand could not speak for astonishment. He could only return their honours by courteous looks and gestures. After the banquet was finished, all retired but the lady ; who, leading back the knight to the sofa, addresed him in these words: " Sir Knight, The grateful remembrance of my delivery from the iron hand of the Moorish tyrant, who in dying bequeathed his soul to the prince of the air for the horrid purpose of confining me in this my patrimonial castle, shall never be erased from my memory. And if to you I own his power over me, it was but transient and of short duration. With horror I view the remains of his now extinguished fascination ; and though years have rolled after years, and involved in their course the fate of my venerable ancestors, yet I have at last the consolation to find myself by your valor free from the machinations of Almanzor (for that was the name of the Moorish prince, whom our valiant king Edward brought over with him on his return from the crusades). My father approved of my union with him, but, alas! I never beheld him without the utmost horror. His dark insidious looks, compared to the open and undisguised mien of him I had lately lost in the troubles of the times, made me shudder. In an unlucky moment I was induced to feign obedience to my father's will, a covenant with Almanzor, which he pretended would place me next heir to the Moorish throne. Each signature was made with our blood, and a requiem was afterward sung for the success of the union. But alas ! minds are not easily transferred ; my soul owned allegiance to Sir Walter, a generous Knight of this country, and whom this horrid eastern tyrant had destroyed in conflict ; and because I peremptorily refuted to drink his blood, this mender swore he would invoke every power to confine me until some more valorous Knight should arrive to release me from his hands. How long I have been enchanted, I do not know? but this I can declare, that from that time to the present I have not been free from horrid dreams like those which are said to infest the wicked in their graves. " So saying she rose up, and taking Sir Bertrand by the hand, led him to the couch, where he took his repose for a few hours. Early in the morning he took his departure, promising to return soon. He was as good as his word and in a few days, the priest united them for ever. The marriage was attended with great pomp, both of ecclesiastic and military men, who all bestowed, the most liberal benedictions upon this happy pair. Top It was after sunset, one evening, in the decline of autumn, when, in consequence of a letter which he had just received, summoning him to attend the death-bed of a much-loved friend, the protector of his infancy, that Fitzalan, after having most affectionately embraced and bade adieu to his beloved wife Edith, and his infant Edwin, mounted his steed, and departed from his dwelling. He had many miles to travel and a great part of the road he was to pursue, lay over a bleak and dreary heath of immense extent. He quitted his home, though only for a short time, with extreme reluctance; and, notwithstanding his haste, while it remained in sight, often stopped and looked back to catch another glimpse of the place which contained all that he held dear. Edith, and her little boy, followed him to the gate , waved their hands to him while hs remained visible and when the distance and the advance of night hid him from them, returned to the house in a melancholy mood. Edith trembled for her husband, though she knew not why : the tears stole saft down her cheeks, and little Edwin, feeing his mother weep, clasped his arms round her neck hid his head in her bosom and mingled his tears with hers. Fitzalan having at length lost fight of the dear objects that retarded his progress, pursued his journey with all possible swiftness: in a few minutes he entered upon the heath, across which lay the road he was necessitated to take. Not a single house was to be seen before him not an individual traveller appeared, whose presence and conversation might enliven the tedious way he had to go. It was now night, and the moon had not yet risen. The chilling wind, that howling mournfully through the trees Scattered their shrivelled yellow foliage upon the ground ; the gloomy, spectrelike appearance of every surrounding object; the late parting from his wife and child; and the painful nature of the duty he was then hastening to perform, all contributed to fill the bosom of Fitzalan with the most melancholy reflections. " It is now sixteen years ago," said he to himself, with a sigh, "since my brave and tender father disappeared on this heath ; slain, most probably, by the sword of some vile assassin! Would to God that I could avenge his death! but, alas, I know not his murderer! The venerable Sir Edmund too, the friend, the guardian of my youth; he, whose liberality preserved my independance, when the rapacious Fitzurban, wrested from me my paternal domains he will, perhaps, ere I can arrive at his castle, be no more! I shall not have the sad satisfaction of closing those eyes that were ever turned upon me with the tendered affection.- I shall not receive the blessing of him who delighted to contribute to my happiness : but yet, all is not lost. My faithful lovely Edith, my little Edwin, still remain ; and, while I possess them, I cannot be miserable." In this manner Fitzalan gave vent to his meditations. He had now travelled over one-third of the heath, when he imagined that he heard, at a great distance, as the gale wasted the sound, the trampling of horses feet : he stopped for a moment, in hopes that some one might be journeying the same way with himself : he listened but not again hearing it, he supposed that he had been deceived by the wind sweeping through the branches of the old half-leafless trees that were thinly scattered over the heath. He therefore proceeded: but, in a few minutes, again heard very plainly the noise of horsemen, advancing with great rapidity : he once more halted, and, favoured by the wind, and the stillness which reigned around him, heard one of them say to the other " By'r lady ! Walter, I wish we were well out of this adventure : for if he should prove such a lion-hearted fellow, as I have been told he is, it may, perhaps, cost us some broken bones, if even it should not turn out worse." " Why, what a fool you are, Hugo !" re-joined the other, angrily. " Do you think that us two, well-armed, are not a match for him? It is very well that the baron does not hear you express your childish fears , he would certainly send you to keep company with the ghosts in the caverns of the castle ; but, on the other hand, do but think of the angels [1] we shall get possession of when we go back. Two hundred think of that, Hugo sweet, pretty creatures! how I long to be fingering them. By St. Cuthbert! I should desire no better sport than to have such a commission every day. Faith, I would soon be as rich as the baron ; and not a whit less honest with it. But come, come, spur on, he cannot be far before us ; and the sooner we get through the business, the sooner we shall get our reward. But, if we should lose him through you fears, you may e'en go back to the castle by yourself : for my part, I would as soon meet the devil as meet the baron, when he has been disappointed in one of his projects." Fitzalan heard this mysterious discourse with a conderable degree of anxiety. He was convinced that they were assassins; and though he knew not why, yet still he was firmly convinced that he was the object of their pursuit. The assassins were now so near that they discovered Fitzalan, and loudly called out to him to stop. As Fitzalan disdained the least thought of 'flying from his enemies, even if flight might be of any avail, he turned his horse, and, in an angry tone, demanded the reason of their insolence. " Ask no questions of us," replied the ferocious Walter, "but surrender yourself our prisoner." " Slave!" rejoined Fitzalan, instantly drawing his sword, and advancing upon the ruffian, who was not backward in doing the same. Fitzalan, at last, disarmed his opponent , and, at the fame instant, received a blow on the temple from Hugo, who had slyly got behind him, which stretched him senseless on the ground. On recovering from his trance, he found himself bound to the horse, his hands firmly fastened behind him, and the horse led by the two ruffians who had attacked him. He repeatedly asked his conductors to what place they were conveying him, but he asked them in vain; they preserved the most profound silence. After having travelled across the heath above an hour, the faint beams of the waning moon showed, at some distance, the turrets of a castle, which appeared to Fitzalan to be that of the baron Fitzurban. He was right in his conjecture it was the castle of Fitzurban ; and thither were the ruffians conveying him. In a few minutes they reached it ; and Walter having given the signal, the draw-bridge was letdown; Fitzalan, when disarmed, and faint with loss of blood, finding it impossible to make any effectual resistance, suffered himfelf to be taken off the horse and fettered. He was now led by Hugo and Walter, with their swords drawn, into the inner court ; and Walter taking a key from his pocket applied it to a door, the lock of which being rusty with age, it was some time before it could be made to open ; but, at length, he succeeded. He entered, followed by Fitzalan and Hugo, and descended a number of steps into a passage of great length, damp and noisome ; from which many others branched forth : at the end of this passage, a massy door strongly bolted presented itself. Walter drew back the bolts, and unlocking the door, conducted Fitzalan into a dungeon of considerable extent, and wet with unwholesome vapours. In one corner lay a bundle of draw, almost rotten with age. "This, Sir," said Walter, pointing to it with a malignant smile, " is your bed ; I hope you will approve of it. We will leave you to your meditations ; you will be but seldom disturbed, I promise you." " Base, dastardly slave!" exclaimed Fitzalan, his eyes flaming with indignation. With a contemptuous sneer, Walter and his comrade now quitted the dungeon ; and as, they fastened the bolts, harsh and rusty from the lapse of years, Fitzalan felt his heart die within him. He flung himself on the bed of straw, in a state of mind nearly allied to phrenzy a thousand tender recollections presented themfelves to him, and every one of them contributed to render his present situation more horrible : torn, for ever, from his Edith! from his Edwin! manacled in a dungeon! and, perhaps, on the verge of death ; not a ray of hope illumined the dreary prospect: before him : " Gracious heaven!" he exclaimed, " if I had been doomed to fall in the fair face of day, on the field of glory, I had indeed been bled: but, to be thus immured and (hackled! fated, too, to perish by the hand of some vile assassin, inglorious and unrevenged! thus to fall, and from those it is too much for mortal endurance." In exclamations like this, of mingled grief and indignation, Fitzalan gave utterance to his feelings. Yet, disastrous as his present situation was, the thought of the sorrow which his Edith would suffer from his loss, gave him a thousand times more unsufferable agony than the dangers to which he was exposed. Walter and Hugo, after having secured Fitzalan, proceeded to give the baron an account of the success of their mission. They found him waiting for them with the utmost impatience. " Well, my trusty friends," exclaimed he,, the instant they appeared, " is Fitzalan in my power beyond the possibility of escape ?" " He is, my Lord," answered Walter, " as safe as locks, bolts, and the dungeon under the north tower, can keep him." " The north tower ! the north tower ! repeated the baron in a hurried tone, pressing his hands forcibly against his forehead, while his eyes flamed with all the wildness of phrenzy. His minions looked first at their lord, and then at each other, with an expression of surprise. In a few moments the baron recovered himself, and continued the discourse. " Do not be alarmed, my friends," said he, " a violent pain shot through my head, but it is gone ; and I am well again. I thank you both for your fidelity : here is the reward which I promised you. This is but a small part of what you shall receive when my happiness is confirmed. Now that the hated Fitzalan is in my power, it will be a matter of very little difficulty to effect the completion of my wishes. Tomorrow night you will proceed to execute the plan which I unfolded to you. Be faithful! and rest assured, that I will reward you beyond even the utmoft extent of your hopes. Hugo! to your care I commit the man I detest. At present you may both retire." They bowed and obeyed. When he was somewhat recovered from his tempest of passion and agony, Fitzalan rose from the ground, and with agitated steps paced his prison, carefully examining every corner of it, in expectation of discovering some outlet that might afford him the hope of escape, though ever so distant. His search was not in vain. A part of the wall, when struck, returned a hollow sound ; this proved to be a small door, which he supposed led to some other of the dungeon under the castle. His heart rose on this discovery. "With an eager hand he fought to find the bolts or locks, but without effect it appeared to be fastened on the other side, and the massiness of the plates of iron with which it was defended, mocked every attempt to procure a passage by force. It was not, however, till he was entirely worn out by the violence of his exertions, that Fitzalan desisted from endeavouring to accomplish his purpose. Baffled in all his efforts, and made more wretched by their failure, he threw himself on his damp and half-decayed heap of draw. All was solemn silence ; except when it was broken by the rattling of his chains, or when the castle-bell in deep and sullen tones announced the lapse of the hours. Fitzalan several times imagined that he heard a low but heavy groan, which feemed to him like that of a person expiring : and twice or thrice he thought the bolts of the door he had discovered just grated, as though someone were striving softly to draw them back. He listened each time with the most profound attention ; but not hearing any thing more, concluded that it was the effect of his over -heated and bewildered imagination. After several hours of indescribable suffering had elapsed, the agonized and exhausted Fitzalan sunk into slumber. But to him, slumber was no respite from anguish. Innumerable dim and indefinable but horrid forms, appeared to float before him, and view him with scowling and portentous aspects. Now he thought that he heard a more than mortal voice call upon him to execute vengeance on a murderer. He started the scene changed the murderer, fallen beneath his sword, lay lifeless at his feet it vanished, and he beheld his Edith kneeling for mercy, his little Edwin clinging round her neck, screaming in terror, while a ruffian, whose dagger was stained with the half-congealed blood of recent murder, was in the act of stabbing her. He sprang forward to save her, and awoke, every limb convulsed, and the cold drops of horror trickling down his frame. " Merciful God!" he exclaimed, " my unprotected Edith !" Thus passed the hours, till at last the dawning day appeared through a narrow oblique perforation in the wall, which just served to keep the air of the dungeon from total stagnation. Fitzalan could now examine his prison more minutely than before. This he did, but with no better effect. The door remained impervious to all his efforts; and the window, if so it might be called, gave still less prospect of escape ; for independant of its form, length, and narrowness, it was firmly secured, both inside and out, by thick iron bars, which almost excluded the little light and air which was intended to be admitted. Once more then, Fitzalan in despair gave up his search, and endeavoured to discover the motives of his imprisonment, but in vain. He was roused from his reverie, by the unbarring of the dungeon-door it opened, and Hugo entered, armed, and with a drawn sword in his hand. He brought with him a pitcher of water and a small loaf, which he laid down near the door, and instantly departed without uttering a word. Heavily indeed passed the hours of this day: night at last came, and brought with it the same horrors as the preceding one. He still thought that he heard at times the deep chilling groan, and the hand endeavouring to remove the fastenings of the door which he had found impassable. He slept; again, the voice called for vengeance ; again, the murderer lay slain; again, his Edith appeared on the brink of ruin; and he thought that now, with a frantic voice, she called on him to save her from destruction. About noon the next day the doors unbarred, and Hugo entered, armed, and bringing, as before, a loaf and pitcher. " Tell me," cried Fitzalan, starting from the ground, " by what authority, and for what purpose, I am brought here. To. what fate am I doomed ?" " To death," answered Hugo. " It is decided upon. To-night, when the castle clock strikes twelve, expect your executioners. Recommend yourself therefore to God, and prepare for your end. I wish," added he, in a softened tone, " that I were to have no part in your murder ; but if I were to refuse, my own life would be the forfeit." Saying this, he closed the door, leaving Fitzalan in a state of mind bordering upon madness. In exclamations of the most unbounded rage, in vain attempts to force a passage from his dungeon, and in meditating upon the helpless situation of his wife and infant, hour after hour passed away, till at length the bell announced eleven. Fitzalan now rallying his scattered senses, prostrated himself in supplication to the father of mercy ; and implored his protection for his Edwin, for his Edith. "When he pronounced these dear names, all his resolution vanished: his dreams recurred to his mind, and he felt an overpowering and ominous fear for their safety. A hollow groan rung through the cell he started, looked wildly round, and listened but all was silent. In a few minutes the castle clock began to strike the hour of twelve. Its heavy tone sunk to the heart of Fitzalan. It was to him the voice of death. With a harsh and hideous sound the bolts flew back. " They come," exclaimed Fitzalan ; and sprang from the ground, resolved, though unarmed, to resist to the last, and, if possible, not to die unrevenged. The door which he had so often tried in vain, flew open, and a pale light gleamed through the dungeon. The blood of Fitzalan ran cold in his veins, as his eyes met the form of a venerable old man, on whose face was the pallid hue of dissolution. In his left breast, which was bare, appeared two deep and mortal wounds. The figure beckoned to Fitzalan, whose faculties were all absorbed in awe and wonder ; to follow which, recovering from his surprise, he obeyed. The fetters with which he was bound instantly fell from his limbs. He followed his guide, and entered the next cell, which was illumined by a faint radiance, whofe source was not visible. The door closed upon them, and the bars jarred together; his conductor advanced to near the centre of the place then stopped; and turning round, pointed to Fitzalan a human skull laying on the ground, and by its side a dagger ; from their condition, they appeared to have lain there many years. Fitzalan shuddered at the sight ; and involuntarily stooping, took up the dagger. His guide fixed his sunken eyes on him with an expression of the utmost satisfaction and tenderness,and extended his arm toward a door near them, which directly opened 'then articulating with an awful voice, " vengeance on my murderer!" disappeared, leaving the dungeon in total darkness. Fitzalan paused for a moment ; it seemed to him the delusion of some delirious dream ; he paused but for a moment a thousand blended ideas and recollections of the past and present rushed across his brain, and he turned to execute the command he had received. As he passed out of this place, he heard the doors of his late prison unbarring, and he shuddered at the thought of the fate allotted to him, which he had so wonderfully escaped. He turned up a narrow winding pair of stairs, and traversed several suites of apartments without meeting any one. As he passed along he heard a voice he stopped and liftened, and heard the person exclaim, " By this time it is all over, and I shall be happy Happy! wretch that I am, how can I talk of happiness? Haunted day and night by ten thousand fiends, my life is a burthen: yet I dare not die! Was I not deeply damned enough before, but I must plunge myself yet deeper in perdition! O it may not be too late to save this one crime. Ho! Walter, Hugo, touch him not, I charge you ! Ah! that bleeding form which glares upon me! O forgive me! O spare that frown, it freezes my heart!" The voice was silent for a moment, and then continued, " Foolish phantasies! Shall I be the slave of fear? No, let him die. I shall now enjoy what I have long wished for. If she resists, force shall bend her stubborn spirit. Shame! shall I be foiled by a woman? Oh, my brain fires again! And have I dipped my hands in blood: have I doomed my soul to eternal misery for a woman? First damned by avarice, then by lust, it is vain for me to hope for mercy from heaven! Then let me seize on every pleasure here, nor think of hereafter. To think is madness. Peace! conscience, peace ! I will not hear thee! She shall be mine." Fitzalan, wrought to phrenzy during this soliloquy, had raised his dagger: a door now opened just before him, from which Fitzurban came out, with a lamp and sword in his hand. As soon as he saw Fitzalan, he shrieked, dropped the sword, and before he could call for mercy, felt the dagger in his bosom. He fell and seeing Fitzalan prepare to repeat the blow, feebly uttered, " Hold! in mercy hold your hand! It is enough!" The attendants, alarmed by the noise of their lord falling, now came in, and bore him to a couch. Yet such was their hatred of him, that not one of them offered to molest Fitzalan. The dying man motioned with his hand for his servants to retire farther, and Fitzalan to advance. " O much injured knight," he groaned, " can you forgive me? Will you speak peace to my departing spirit? O look not so sternly! Yet I deserve it. I have sinned beyond hope of pardon. But I must be speedy in my tale, I feel the hand of death upon me! O God! O Christ! O save a wretched sinner! Alas! for me there is no hope." Weak through loss of blood and agony, Fitzurban fainted ; when he recovered, he continued " It is now more than sixteen years since, to gratify my avarice, I caused your father to be seized as he was travelling, and conveyed to this castle. He fell in one of the dungeons of the north tower by the hands of an assassin. I gained possession of his domains by the vilest means. I robbed you of your birth-right , but I lost my peace ; since that hour I have been a stranger to happiness. Suspecting all, and hated by all, I have existed the most miserable of wretches. Sleeping or waking, the spirit of your father has unceasingly been present; has still frowned on me, and threatened me with vengeance for my crimes. O save me from him! Now he smiles on me with scorn, and bids the fiend snatch my trembling soul. O mercy! mercy!" Terror stopped his utterance. In a few moments he was more calm, and proceeded " Two years ago, I first saw your Edith, and instantly"-- " Where, where is my Edith?" cried Fitzalan impetuously. " Ruffian, restore her to me." " She is safe and spotless," answered the dying Fitzurban " restrain awhile your just indignation, and liften to me. From the time I saw your Edith, I felt a fresh fire burning in my breast. I devised a thousand plans to get her into my possession; and as fast as I had formed, rejected them. It was not till four days ago, that I formed the scheme which I put in practice ; and which has righteously ended in my destruction. I wrote the letter in the name of Sir Edmund, well knowing that you would fly to your friend. The result you know. Your Edith was deluded in the same manner by a letter which I dispatched yesterday morning, and which was pretended to be written by your orders from the bedside of Sir Edmund. She likewife fell into the snare, and was brought hither. I have seen her but once, when she received me with indignation, and awed me into silence by her frown. Enraged by this reception, I ordered Hugo and Walter to dispatch you in the dungeon; and resolved to use force, if I could not by persuasion conquer the hatred of Edith. Heaven in its justice has restored you to liberty, and I fall the victim of mv own wickedness. Would to God that my death might expiate all my crimes! I make you the heir of all my domains. May you long be happy with your Edith! O speak pardon and peace to my guilty soul. Yet a short time, O spare me, heaven! O I am lost they seize me Mercy, Lord, mercy!" He faintly shrieked, averted his head, as if to shun the sight of something dreadful, and expired before Fitzalan could pronounce the intreated forgiveness. After gazing a few moments on the corpse of the lifeless Fitzurban, whose features were fixed in convulsive agony, Fitzalan ordered one of the servants to conduct him to the chamber of Edith. When he entered she was sitting absorbed in grief, with Edwin laying in her lap, and the tears trickling from her eyes upon him. As Fitzalan advanced, she lifted up her head, and frowned, but as soon as she perceived her lord, she sprang into his arms. Edwin bounded toward him, clung round him, and expressed his joy by a thousand infantine, endearing actions. Fitzalan embraced her with the most unbounded rapture ; and when the tumult of joy had a little subsided, proceeded to relate his adventure in the dungeon, in the following words: " My dearly beloved Edith," and with these words he tenderly embraced her, " Heaven has rewarded you for your constancy. Fitzurban, that slave whose cankered mind projected our ruin, is no more! It was his .contrivance by a letter to draw me from your arms, and by the same artful means to bring you here for violation. His dying confession to me made me tremble. He related, that in the same dungeon whence I have but just emerged, my father expired under the bloody hand of an assassin. Like me he was waylaid, and being overpowered by force was led to this place, where his short confinement concluded with his death. Like him I was to have suffered under the ruffian hand of servile murderers, but heaven has averted the stroke by sending the spirit of my father to my assistance. It was he who furnished me with the dagger, the inftrument of his own death, for the destruction of Fitzurban his mortal enemy, and desperate though just retribution has lain him at my feet. It is just now in my power to right myself. He has bequeathed his own domains to me, and restored what he had unjustly usurped from my father ; and thus, my dear Edith, heaven rewards the patience of the faithful servant."  [1] An antient gold coin worth ten shillings. |
