shoulder; he hurries not his cattle, he looks neither at the stream
that flows, nor the beasts that draw, nor the boat that follows; he
plods steadily onwards, trusting to perseverance to attain his end.

Such is a corner of the picture presented to the traveller in Holland,
the country charged, it would seem, more than any other, to enforce
God's command to the waters, _Thou shalt go no farther!_ This silent
repose of creatures and things, this mild light, these neutral tints
and vast motionless plains, are not without a certain poetry of their
own. Wherever space and silence are united, poetry finds place; she
loves all things more or less, whether smiling landscape or dreary
desert; light of wing, a trifle will detain and support her--a blade
of grass often suffices. And Holland, which Butler has called a large
ship always at anchor, has its beauties for the thoughtful observer.
Gradually one learns to admire this land at war with ocean and
struggling daily for existence; those cities which compel the waters
to flow at their ramparts' foot, to follow the given track, and abide
in the allotted bed; then those days of revolt, when the waves would
fain reconquer their independence, when they overflow and inundate,
and destroy, and at last, constrained by the hand of man, subside and
again obey.

As the sun rose, a small boat glided rapidly down the stream. It had a
single occupant, a tall young man, lithe, skilful, and strong, who,
although apparently in haste, kept near the shore, following the
windings of the bank, and avoiding the centre of the current, which
would have accelerated his progress. At that early hour the fields
were deserted; the birds alone had risen earlier than the boatman,
whose large hat of gray felt lay beside him, whilst his brown locks,
tossed backward by the wind, disclosed regular features, a broad open
forehead, and eyes somewhat thoughtful, like those of the men of the
north. His costume denoted a student from a German university. One
gathered from his extreme youth, that his life had hitherto passed on
academic benches, and that it was still a new and lively pleasure to
him to feel the freshness of morning bathe his brow, the breeze play
with his hair, the stream bear along his bark. He hastened, for there
are times when we count the hours ill; when we outstrip and tax them
with delay. Then, if we cannot hurry the pace of time, we prefer at
least to wait at the appointed spot. It calms impatience, and
resembles a commencement of happiness.

When the skiff had rounded a promontory of the bank, its speed
increased, as if the eye directing it had gained sight of the goal. At
a short distance the landscape changed its character. A meadow sloped
down to the stream, fringed by a thick hedge of willows, half uprooted
and inclined over the water. The boat reached the shadow of the trees,
and stopping there, rocked gently on the river, secured by a chain
cast round a branch. The young man stood up and looked anxiously
through the foliage; then he sang, in a low tone, the burthen of a
ballad, a love-plaint, the national poetry of all countries. His
voice, at first subdued, not to break too suddenly the surrounding
silence, gradually rose as the song drew to a close. The clear mellow
notes escaped from the bower of drooping leaves, and expired without
echo or reply upon the surface of the pasture. Then he sat down and
contemplated the peaceful picture presented to his view. The gray sky
had that melancholy look so depressing to the joyless and hopeless;
the cold dull water rolled noiselessly onward; to the left, the plain
extended afar without variety of surface. A few windmills reared their
gaunt arms, waiting for the wind; and the wind, too weak to stir them,
passed on and left them motionless. To the right, at the extremity of
the little meadow, stood a square house of red bricks and regular
construction, isolated, silent, and melancholy. The thick greenish
glass of the windows refused to reflect the sunbeams; the roof
supported gilded vanes of fantastical form; the garden was laid out in
formal parterres. A few tulips, drooping their heavy heads, and
dahlias, propped with white sticks, were the sole flowers growing
there, and these were hemmed in and stifled by hedges of box. Trees,
stunted and shabby, and with dust-covered leaves, were cut into walls
and into various eccentric shapes. At the corners of the formal
alleys, whose complicated windings were limited to a narrow space,
stood a few plaster figures. One of these alleys led to the
willow-hedge. There nature resumed her rights; the willows grew free
and unrestrained, stretching out from the land and drooping into the
water; their inclined trunks forming flying-bridges, supported but at
one end. The bank was high enough for a certain space to intervene
between the stream and the horizontal stems. A few branches, longer
than the rest, swept the surface of the river, and were kept in
constant motion by its current.

Beneath this dome of verdure the boat was moored, and there the young
man mused, gazing at the sky--melancholy as his heart--and at the
stream, in its course uncertain as his destiny. A few willow leaves
fluttered against his brow, one of his hands hung in the water, a
gentle breeze stirred his hair; nameless flowerets, blooming in the
shelter of the trees, gave out a faint perfume, detectible at
intervals, at the wind's caprice. A bird, hidden in the foliage, piped
an amorous note, and the student, cradled in his skiff, awaited his
love. Ungrateful that he was! he called time a laggard, and bid him
speed; he was insensible to the charm of the present hour. Ah! if he
grows old, how well will he understand that fortune then lavished on
him the richest treasures of life--hope and youth!

Suddenly the student started, stood up, and, with outstretched neck,
and eyes riveted on the trees, he listened, scarce daring to breathe.
The foliage opened, and the face of a young girl was revealed to his
gaze. "Christine!" he exclaimed.

Christine stepped upon the trunk of the lowest tree, and seated
herself with address on this pliant bench, which her weight, slight as
it was, caused to yield and rock. One of her arms, extended through
the branches that drooped towards the water, reached that of her
lover, who tenderly pressed her hand. Then she drew herself up again,
and the tree, less loaded, seemed to obey her will by imitating her
movement. The young man sat in his boat, with eyes uplifted towards
the willow on which she he loved reposed.

Christine Van Amberg had none of the distinguishing features of the
country of her birth. Hair black as the raven's wing formed a frame to
a face full of energy and expression. Her large eyes were dark and
penetrating; her eyebrows, strongly marked and almost straight, would
perhaps have imparted too decided a character to her young head, if a
charming expression of candour and naïveté had not given her the
countenance of a child, rather than of a woman. Christine was fifteen
years of age. A slender silver circlet bound her brow and jet-black
tresses--a holiday ornament, according to her country's custom: but
her greatest festival was the sight of her lover. She wore a simple
muslin dress of a pale blue colour; a black silk mantle, intended to
envelope her figure, was placed upon her hair, and fell back upon her
shoulders, as if the better to screen her from the gaze of the
curious. Seated on a tree trunk, surrounded by branches and beside the
water, like Shakspere's Ophelia, Christine was charming. But although
young, beautiful, and beloved, deep melancholy was the characteristic
of her features. Her companion, too, gazed mournfully at her, with
eyes to which the tears seemed about to start.

"Herbert," said the young girl, stooping towards her lover, "Herbert,
be not so sad! we are both too young to despair of life. Herbert!
better times will come."

"Christine! they have refused me your hand, expelled me your
dwelling,--they would separate us entirely: they will succeed,
to-morrow perhaps!..."

"Never!" exclaimed the young girl, with a glance like the lightning's
flash. But, like that flash, the expression of energy was momentary,
and gave way to one of calm melancholy.

"If you would, Christine, if you would!.... how easy were it to fly
together, to unite our destinies on a foreign shore, and to live for
each other, happy and forgotten!... I will lead you to those glorious
lands where the sun shines as you see it in your dreams,--to the
summit of lofty mountains whence the eye discovers a boundless
horizon,--to noble forests with their thousand tints of green, where
the fresh breeze shall quicken your cheek, and sweep from your memory
these fogs, this humid clime, these monotonous plains. Our days shall
pass happily in a country worthy of our loves."

As Herbert spoke, the young girl grew animated; she seemed to see what
he described, her eager eye sought the horizon as though she would
overleap it, her lips parted as to inhale the mountain breeze. Then
she passed her hand hastily across her eyes, and sighed deeply. "No!"
she exclaimed, "no, I must remain here!... Herbert, it is my country:
why does it make me suffer? I remember another sky, another land,--but
no, it is a dream! I was born here, and have scarcely passed the
boundary of this meadow. My mother sang too often beside my cradle the
ballads and boleros of her native Seville; she told me too much of
Spain, and I love that unknown land as one pines after an absent
friend!"

The young girl glanced at the river, over which a dense fog was
spreading. A few rain-drops pattered amongst the leaves; she crossed
her mantle on her breast, and her whole frame shivered with sudden
chill.

"Leave me, Christine, you suffer! return home, and, since you reject
my roof and hearth, abide with those who can shelter and warm you."

A sweet smile played upon Christine's lips. "My beloved," she said,
"near you I prefer the chilling rain, this rough branch, and the
biting wind, to my seat in the house, far from you, beside the blazing
chimney. Ah! with what joy and confidence would I start on foot for
the farthest corner of the earth, your arm my sole support, your love
my only wealth. But ..."

"What retains you, Christine? your father's affection, your sisters'
tenderness, your happy home?"

The young girl grew pale. "Herbert, it is cruel to speak thus. Well
do I know that my father loves me not, that my sisters are often
unkind to me, that my home is unhappy; I know it, indeed I know it,
and I will follow you ... if my mother consents!"

Herbert looked at his mistress with astonishment. "Child!" he
exclaimed, "such consent will never leave your mother's lips. There
are cases where strength and resolution must be found in one's own
heart. Your mother will never say yes."

"Perhaps!" replied Christine, slowly and gravely. "My mother loves me;
I resemble her in most things, and her heart understands mine. She
knows that Scripture says a woman shall leave her father and mother to
follow her husband; she is aware of our attachment, and, since our
door has been closed against you, I have not shed a tear that she has
not detected and replied to by another. You misjudge my mother,
Herbert! Something tells me she has suffered, and knows that a little
happiness is essential to life as the air we breathe. Nor would it
surprise me, if one day, when embracing me, as she does each night
when we are alone, she were to whisper: Begone, my poor child!"

"I cannot think it, Christine. She will bid you obey, be comforted,
forget!"

"Forget! Herbert, my mother forgets nothing. To forget is the resource
of cowardly hearts. No,--none will bid me forget."

And once more a gloomy fire flashed in Christine's eyes, like the
rapid passage of a flame which illumines and instantly expires. It was
a revelation of the future rather than the expression of the present.
An ardent soul dwelt within her, but had not yet cast off all the
encumbrances of childhood. It struggled to make its way, and at times,
succeeding for a moment, a word or cry revealed its presence.

"No--I shall not forget," added Christine; "I love you, and you love
me, who am so little loved! You find me neither foolish, nor
fantastical, nor capricious; you understand my reveries and the
thousand strange thoughts that invade my heart. I am very young,
Herbert; and yet, here, with my hand in yours, I answer for the
future. I shall always love you!... and see, I do not weep. I have
faith in the happiness of our love; how? when? I know not,--it is the
secret of my Creator, who would not have sent me upon earth only to
suffer. Happiness will come when He deems right, but come it will!
Yes,--I am young, full of life, I have need of air and space; I shall
not live enclosed and smothered here. The world is large, and I will
know it; my heart is full of love, and will love for ever. No tears,
dearest! obstacles shall be overcome, they must give way, for I will
be happy!"

"But why delay, Christine? My love! my wife! an opportunity lost may
never be regained. A minute often decides the fate of a lifetime.
Perhaps, at this very moment, happiness is near us! A leap into my
boat, a few strokes of the oar, and we are united for ever!...
Perhaps, if you again return to land, we are for ever separated.
Christine, come! The wind rises: beneath my feet is a sail that will
quickly swell and bear us away rapidly as the wings of yon bird."

Tears flowed fast over Christine's burning cheeks. She shuddered,
looked at her lover, at the horizon, thought of liberty; she
hesitated, and a violent struggle agitated her soul. At last, hiding
her face amongst the leafage of the willow, she clasped her arms round
its stem, as if to withhold herself from entering the boat, and in a
stifled voice muttered the words,--"My mother!" A few seconds
afterwards, she, raised her pallid countenance.

"If I fled," said she gently, "to whom would my mother speak of her
dear country? Who would weep with her when she weeps, if I were gone?
She has other children, but they are gay and happy, and do not
resemble her. Only my mother and myself are sad in our house. My
mother would die of my absence. I must receive her farewell blessing
or remain by her side, chilled like her by this inclement climate,
imprisoned in yonder walls, ill-treated by those who love me not.
Herbert, I will not fly, I will wait!" And she made a movement to
regain the strand.

"One instant,--yet one second,--Christine! I know not what chilling
presentiment oppresses my heart. Dearest,--if we were to meet no more!
If this little corner of earth were our last trysting-place--these
melancholy willows the witnesses of of our eternal separation! Is
it--can it be--the last happy hour of my life that has just slipped
by?"

He covered his face with his hands, to conceal his tears. Christine's
heart beat violently--but she had courage.

Letting herself drop from the tree, she stood upon the bank, separated
from the boat, which could not come nearer to shore.

"Adieu, Herbert!" said she, "one day I will be your wife, faithful and
loving. It shall be, for I will have it so. Let us both pray God to
hasten that happy day. Adieu, I love you! Adieu, and till our next
meeting, for I love you!"

The barrier of reeds and willows opened before the young girl. A few
small branches crackled beneath her tread; there was a slight noise in
the grass and bushes, as when a bird takes flight; then all was
silence.

Herbert wept.

                         __________

The clock in the red brick house struck eight, and the family of Van
Amberg the merchant were mustered in the breakfast-room. Christine was
the only absentee. Near the fire stood the head of the family--Karl
Van Amberg--and beside him his brother, who, older than himself,
yielded the prerogative of seniority, and left him master of the
community. Madame Van Amberg was working near a window, and her two
elder daughters, fair-haired, white-skinned Dutchwomen, prepared the
breakfast.

Karl Van Amberg, the dreaded chief of this family, was of lofty
stature; his gait was stiff; his physiognomy passionless. His face,
whose features at first appeared insignificant, denoted a domineering
temper. His manners were cold. He spoke little; never to praise, but
often in terms of dry and imperious censure. His glance preceded his
words and rendered them nearly superfluous, so energetically could
that small sunken gray eye make itself understood. With the sole aid
of his own patience and ambition, Karl Van Amberg had made a large
fortune. His ships covered the seas. Never loved, always respected,
his credit was every where excellent. Absolute monarch in his own
house, none dreamed of opposing his will. All were mute and awed in
his presence. At this moment, he was leaning against the
chimney-piece. His black garments were very plain, but not devoid of a
certain austere elegance.

William Van Amberg, Karl's brother, was quite of an opposite
character. He would have passed his life in poverty, subsisting on the
scanty income left him by his parents, had not Karl desired wealth. He
placed his modest fortune in his brother's hands, saying, "Act as for
yourself!" Attached to his native nook of land, he lived in peace,
smoking and smiling, and learning from time to time that he was a
richer man by a few hundred thousand francs. One day, he was told that
he possessed a million; in reply, he merely wrote, "Thanks, Karl; it
will be for your children." Then he forgot his riches, and changed
nothing in his manner of life, even adhering in his dress to the
coarse materials and graceless fashion of a peasant dreading the
vicinity of cities. His youthful studies had consisted of a course of
theology. His father, a fervent Catholic, destined him for the church,
but it came to pass, as a consequence of his indecision of character,
that William neither took orders nor married, but lived quietly in his
brother's family. The habitual perusal of religious books sometimes
gave his language a mystical tone, contrasting with the rustic
simplicity of his exterior. This was his only peculiarity; otherwise
he had nothing remarkable but his warm heart and strong good sense. He
was the primitive type of his family: his brother was an example of
the change caused by newly acquired wealth.

Madame Van Amberg, seated at the window, sewed in silence. Her
countenance had the remains of great beauty, but she was weak and
suffering. A single glance sufficed to fix her birth-place far from
Holland. Her black hair and olive tint betrayed a southern origin.
Silently submissive to her husband, his iron character had pressed
heavily upon this delicate creature. She had never murmured; now she
was dying, but without complaint. Her look was one of deep melancholy.
Christine, her third daughter, resembled her. Of dark complexion, like
her mother, she contrasted strongly with her rosy-cheeked sisters. M.
Van Amberg did not love Christine. Rough and cold, even to those he
secretly cherished, he was severe and cruel to those he disliked. He
had never been known to kiss Christine. Her mother's were the only
caresses she knew, and even those were stealthily and tearfully
bestowed. The two poor women hid themselves to love each other.

At intervals, Madame Van Amberg coughed painfully. The damp climate of
Holland was slowly conducting to her grave the daughter of Spain's
ardent land. Her large melancholy eyes mechanically sought the
monotonous horizon, which had bounded her view for twenty years. Fog
and rain surrounded the house. She gazed, shivered as if seized with
deadly cold, then resumed her work.

Eight o'clock had just struck, and the two young Dutchwomen, who,
although rich heiresses, waited upon their father, had just placed the
tea and smoked beef upon the table, when Karl Van Amberg turned
abruptly to his wife.

"Where is your daughter, Madam?"

He spoke of Christine, whom the restless gaze of Madame Van Amberg
vainly sought through the fog veiling the garden. At her husband's
question, the lady rose, opened the door, and, leaning on the
banister, twice uttered her daughter's name. There was no reply; she
grew pale and again looked out anxiously through the fog.

"Go in, Madame," was the surly injunction of Gothon, the old servant
woman, who knelt on the hall flags, which she had flooded with soap and
water, and was now vigorously scrubbing; "Go in, madame; the damp
increases your cough, and Mademoiselle Christine is far enough away!
The bird flew before daybreak."

Madame Van Amberg cast a mournful glance across the meadow, where
nothing moved, and into the parlour, where her stern husband awaited
her; then she went in and sat down at the table, around which the
remainder of the family had already placed themselves. No one spoke.
All could read displeasure upon M. Van Amberg's countenance, and none
dared attempt to change the course of his ideas. His wife kept her
eyes fixed upon the window, hoping her daughter's return. Her lips
scarcely tasted the milk that filled her cup; visible anguish
increased the paleness of her sweet, sad countenance.

"Annunciata, my dear, take some tea," said her brother-in-law. "The
day is chill and damp, and you seem to suffer."

Annunciata smiled sadly at William. For sole answer she raised to her
lips the tea he offered her, but the effort was too painful, and she
replaced the cup upon the table. M. Van Amberg looked at nobody; he
ate, his eyes fixed upon his plate.

"Sister," resumed William, "it is a duty to care for one's health, and
you, who fulfil all your duties, should not neglect that one."

A slight flush tinged the brow of Annunciata. Her eyes encountered
those of her husband, which he slowly turned towards her. Trembling,
almost weeping, she ceased her attempts to eat. And the silence was
again unbroken, as at the commencement of the meal. At last steps were
heard in the passage, the old servant grumbled something which did not
reach the parlour, then the door opened, and Christine entered; her
muslin dress damp with fog, her graceful curls disordered by the wind,
her black mantle glittering with a thousand little rain-drops. She was
crimson with embarrassment and fear. Her empty chair was beside her
mother; she sat down, and hung her head; none offered aught to the
truant child, and the silence continued. Yielding to maternal anxiety,
Madame Van Amberg took a handkerchief and wiped the moisture from
Christine's forehead and hair; then she took her hands to warm them in
her own. For the second time M. Van Amberg looked at his wife. She let
Christine's hands fall, and remained downcast and motionless as her
daughter. M. Van Amberg rose from table. A tear glistened on the
mother's eyes on seeing that her daughter had not eaten. But she said
nothing, and returning to the window, resumed her sewing. Christine
remained at table, preserving her frightened and abashed attitude. The
two eldest girls hastened to remove the breakfast things.

"Do you not see what Wilhelmina and Maria are about? Can you not help
them?"

At her father's voice, Christine hastily rose, seized the cups and
teapot, and hurried to and fro from parlour to pantry.

"Gently! You will break something!" cried M. Van Amberg. "Begin in
time, to finish without hurry."

Christine stood still in the middle of the room. Her two sisters
smiled as they passed her, and one of them muttered--for nobody spoke
loud in M. Van Amberg's presence,--"Christine will hardly learn
housekeeping by looking at the stars and watching the river flow!"

"Now then, Mademoiselle, you are spoiling every thing here!" said the
old servant, who had just come in; "go and change that wet gown, which
ruins all my furniture."

Christine remained where she was, not daring to stir without the
master's order.

"Go," said M. Van Amberg.

The young girl darted from the room and up the stairs, reached her
chamber, threw herself upon the bed and burst into tears. Below,
Madame Van Amberg continued to sew, her head bent over her work. When
the cloth was removed, Wilhelmina and Maria placed a large jug of
beer, glasses, long pipes, and a store of tobacco upon the mahogany
table, and pushed forward two arm-chairs, in which Karl and William
installed themselves.

"Retire to your apartment, Madam," said M. Van Amberg, in the
imperious tone habitual to him when he addressed his wife; "I have to
discuss matters which do not concern you. Do not leave the house; will
call you bye and bye; I wish to speak with you."

Annunciata bowed in token of obedience, and left the room. Wilhelmina
and Maria approached their father, who silently kissed their pretty
cheeks. The two brothers lit their pipes, and remained alone. William
was the first to speak.

"Brother Karl!" said he, resting his arms upon the table, and looking
M. Van Amberg in the face, "before proceeding to business, and at risk
of offending you, I must relieve my heart. Here, all fear you, and
counsel, the salutary support of man, is denied you."

"Speak, William," coldly replied M. Van Amberg.

"Karl, you treat Annunciata very harshly. God commands you to protect
her, and you allow her to suffer, perhaps to die before your eyes,
without caring for her fate. The strong should sustain the weak. In
our native land, we owe kindness to the stranger who cometh from afar.
The husband owes protection to her he has chosen for his wife. For all
these reasons, brother, I say you treat Annunciata ill."

"Does she complain?" said M. Van Amberg, filling his glass.

"No, brother; only the strong resist and complain. A tree falls with a
crash, the reed bends noiselessly to the ground. No, she does not
complain, save by silence and suffering, by constant and passive
obedience, like that of a soul-less automaton. You have deprived her
of life, the poor woman! One day she will cease to move and breathe;
she has long ceased to live!"

"Brother, there are words that should not be inconsiderately spoken,
judgments that should not be hastily passed, for fear of injustice."

"Do I not know your whole life, Karl, as well as my own, and can I not
therefore speak confidently, as one well informed?"

M. Van Amberg inhaled the smoke of his pipe, threw himself back in his
arm-chair, and made no reply.

"I know you as I know myself," resumed William gently, "although our
hearts were made to love and not to resemble each other. When you
found our father's humble dwelling too small, I said nothing; you were
ambitious; when a man is born with that misfortune or blessing, he
must do like the birds, who have wings to soar; he must strive to
rise. You departed; I pressed your hand, and reproached you not; it is
right that each man should be happy his own way. You gained much gold,
and gave me more than I needed. You returned married, and I did not
approve your marriage. It is wiser to seek a companion in the land
where one's days are to end; it is something to love the same places
and things, and then it is only generous to leave one's wife a family,
friends, well-known objects to gaze upon. It is counting greatly on
one's self to take sole charge of her happiness. Happiness sometimes
consists of so many things! Often an imperceptible atom serves as base
to its vast structure: for my part, I do not like presumptuous
experiments on the hearts of others. In short, you married a
foreigner, who perishes with cold in this country, and sighs, amidst
our fogs, for the sun of Spain. You committed a still greater
fault--Forgive me, brother; I speak plainly, in order not to return to
this subject.

"I am attending to you, William; you are my elder brother."

"Thanks for your patience, Karl. No longer young, you married a very
young woman. Your affairs took you to Spain. There you met a needy
Spanish noble, to whom you rendered a weighty service. You were always
generous, and increasing wealth did not close your hand. This noble
had a daughter, a child of fifteen. In spite of your apparent
coldness, you were smitten by her beauty, and you asked her of her
father. Only one thing struck you; that she was poor and would be
enriched by the marriage. A refusal of your offer would have been
ingratitude to a benefactor. They gave you Annunciata, and you took
her, brother, without looking whether joy was in her eyes, without
asking the child whether she willingly followed you, without
interrogating her heart. In that country the heart is precocious in
its awakening ... perhaps she left behind her some youthful dream ...
some early love.... Forgive me, Karl; the subject is difficult to
discuss."

"Change it, William," said M. Van Amberg coldly.

"Be it so. You returned hither, and when your business again took you
forth upon the ocean, you left Annunciata to my care. She lived many
years with me in this house. Karl, her youth was joyless and sad.
Isolated and silent, she wore out her days without pleasure or
variety. Your two eldest daughters, now the life of our dwelling, were
then in the cradle. They were no society to their mother; I was a very
grave companion for that young and beautiful creature. I have little
reading and knowledge, no imagination; I like my quiet arm-chair, my
old books, and my pipe. I at first allowed myself to believe--because
I loved to believe it--that Annunciata resembled me,--that
tranquillity and a comfortable dwelling would suffice for her
happiness, as they sufficed for mine. But at last I understood--what
you, brother, I fear have never comprehended--that she was never
intended for a Dutch housewife. In the first place, the climate
tortured her. She constantly asked me if finer summers would not
come,--if the winters were always so rigorous,--the fogs so frequent.
I told her no, that the year was a bad one; but I told her a
falsehood, for the winters were always the same. At first she tried to
sing her Sevillian romances and boleros, but soon her song died away
and she wept, for it reminded her too much of her own native land.
Silent and motionless she sat, desiring, as I have read in the
Bible,--'The wings of the dove to fly away and be at rest.' Brother,
it was a melancholy sight. You know not how slowly the winter evenings
passed in this parlour. It was dark at four, and she worked by
lamp-light till bed-time. I endeavoured to converse, but she knew
nothing of the things I knew, and I was ignorant of those that
interested her. I saw at last that the greatest kindness was to leave
her to herself. She worked or was idle, wept or was calm, and I
averted my eyes to give her the only consolation in my power,--a
little liberty. But it was very sad, brother!"

There was a moment's silence, broken by M. Van Amberg. "Madame Van
Amberg was in her own dwelling," said he, severely, "with her
children, and under the protection of a devoted friend. Her husband
toiled in foreign parts to increase the fortune of the family; she
remained at home to keep house and educate her daughters; all that is
very natural." And he filled his pipe.

"True," replied William; "but still she was unhappy. Was it a crime?
God will decide. Leave her to his justice, Karl, and let us be
merciful! During your long absence, chance conducted hither some
Spaniards whom Annunciata had known in her childhood, and amongst them
the son of an old friend of her father's. Oh! with what mingled joy
and agitation did the dear child welcome her countrymen! What tears
she shed in the midst of her joy ... for she had forgotten how to be
happy, and every emotion made her weep. How eagerly she heard and
spoke her native tongue! She fancied herself again in Spain; for a
while she was almost happy. You returned, brother, and you were cruel;
one day, without explaining your motives, you shut your door upon the
strangers. Tell me, why would you not allow fellow-countrymen,
friends, a companion of her childhood, to speak to your wife of her
family and native land? Why require complete isolation, and a total
rupture with old friends? She obeyed without a murmur, but she
suffered more than you thought. I watched her closely; I, her old
friend. Since that fresh proof of your rigour, she is sadder than
before. A third time she became a mother; it was in vain; her
unhappiness continued. Brother, your hand has been too heavy on this
feeble creature."

M. Van Amberg rose, and slowly paced the room. "Have you finished,
William?" said he; "this conversation is painful, let it end here; do
not abuse the license I give you."

"No; I have yet more to say. You are a cold and severe husband, but
that is not all; you are also an unjust father. Christine, your third
daughter, is denied her share of your affection, and by this
partiality you further wound the heart of Annunciata. Christine
resembles her; she is what I can fancy her mother at fifteen--a lively
and charming Spaniard; she has all her mother's tastes; like her she
lives with difficulty in our climate, and although born in it, by a
caprice of nature she suffers from it as Annunciata suffered. Brother,
the child is not easy to manage; independent, impassioned, violent in
all her impressions, she has a love of movement and liberty which ill
agrees with our regular habits, but she has also a good heart, and by
appealing to it you might perhaps have tamed her wild spirit. For
Christine you are neither more nor less than a pitiless judge. Her
childhood was one long grief. And thus, far from losing her wild
restlessness, she loves more than ever to be abroad and at liberty;
she goes out at daybreak; she looks upon the house as a cage whose
bars hurt her, and you vainly endeavour to restrain her. Brother, if
you would have obedience, show affection. It is a power that succeeds
when all others fail. Why prevent her marrying the man she loves?
Herbert the student is not rich, nor is his alliance brilliant; but
they love each other!"

M. Van Amberg, who had continued his walk, now stopped short, and
coldly replied to his brother's accusations; "Christine is only
fifteen, and I do my duty by curbing the foolish passion that
prematurely disturbs her reason. As to what you call my partiality,
you have explained it yourself by the defects of her character. You,
who reproach others as pitiless judges, beware yourself of judging too
severely. Every man acts according to his internal perceptions, and
all things are not good to be spoken. Empty your glass, William, and
if you have finished your pipe, do not begin another. The business I
had to discuss with you will keep till another day; it is late, and I
am tired. It is not always wise to rake up the memories of the past. I
wish to be alone a while. Leave me, and tell Madame Van Amberg to come
to me in a quarter of an hour."

"Why not say, 'Tell Annunciata?' Why, for so long a time, has that
strange sweet name never passed your lips?"

"Tell Madame Van Amberg I would speak with her, and leave me,
brother," replied Karl sternly.

William felt he had pushed Karl Van Amberg's patience to its utmost
limit; he got up and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he
hesitated a moment, then ascended, and sought Annunciata in
Christine's chamber. It was a narrow cell, shining with cleanliness,
and containing a few flowers in glasses, a wooden crucifix, with
chaplets of beads hanging on it, and a snow-white bed; a guitar (it
was her mother's) was suspended on the wall. From the window was seen
the meadow, the river, and the willows. Christine sat on the foot of
the bed, still weeping; her mother was beside her, offering her bread
and milk, with which Christine's tears mingled. Annunciata kissed her
daughter's eyes, and then furtively wiped her own. On entering,
William stood for a few moments at the door, mournfully contemplating
this touching picture.

"My brother, my good brother," cried Annunciata, "speak to my child!
She has forgotten prayer and obedience; her heart is no longer
submissive, and her tears avail nothing, for she murmurs and menaces.
Ask her, brother, by whom it was told her that life is joy? that we
live only to be happy? Talk to her of duty, and give her strength to
accomplish it!"

"Your husband inquires for you, sister. Go, I will remain with
Christine."

"I go, my brother," replied Annunciata. Approaching the little mirror
above the chimney-piece, she washed the tear-stains from her eyes,
pressed her hand upon her heart to check its throbbings, and when her
countenance had resumed its expression of calm composure, she
descended the stairs. Gothon was seated on the lower steps.

"You spoil her, madame," said she roughly to her mistress; "foolish
ears need sharp words. You spoil her."

Gothon had been in the house before Annunciata, and had been greatly
displeased by the arrival of her master's foreign lady, whose
authority she never acknowledged. But she had served the Van Ambergs'
mother, and therefore it was without fear of dismissal that she
oppressed, after her own fashion, her timid and gentle mistress.

Annunciata entered the parlour and remained standing near the door as
if waiting an order. Her husband's countenance was graver and more
gloomy than ever.

"Can no one hear us, madam? Are you sure we are alone?"

"Quite alone, sir," replied the astonished Annunciata.

M. Van Amberg recommenced his walk. For some moments he said nothing.
His wife, her hand resting on the back of an arm-chair, silently
awaited his pleasure. At last he again spoke.

"You bring up your daughter Christine badly; I left her to your care
and guidance, and you do not watch over her. Do you know where she
goes and what she does?"

"From her childhood, sir," replied Annunciata gently, pausing between
each phrase, "Christine has loved to live in the open air. She is
delicate, and requires sun and liberty to strengthen her. Till now you
have allowed her to live thus; I saw no harm in letting her follow her
natural bent. If you disapprove, sir, she will obey your orders."

"You bring up your daughter badly," coldly repeated M. Van Amberg.
"She will dishonour the name she bears."

"Sir!!" exclaimed Annunciata, her cheeks suffused with the deepest
crimson; her eyes emitting a momentary but vivid flash.

"Look to it, madam, I will have my name respected, that you know! You
also know I am informed of whatever passes in my house. Your daughter
secretly meets a man to whom I refused her hand; this morning, at six
o'clock, they were together on the river bank!"

"My daughter! my daughter!"--cried Annunciata in disconsolate tones.
"Oh! it is impossible! She is innocent! she shall remain so! I will
place myself between her and evil, I will save my child! I will take
her in my arms, and close her ears to dangerous words. My daughter, I
will say, remain innocent, remain honoured, if you would not see me
die!"

With unmoved eye M. Van Amberg beheld the mother's emotion. Beneath
his frozen gaze, Annunciata felt embarrassed by her own agitation;
she made an effort to calm herself; then, with clasped hands, and eyes
filled with tears, which she would not allow to flow, she resumed, in
a constrained voice:

"Is this beyond doubt, sir?"

"It is," replied M. Van Amberg: "I never accuse without certainty."

There was a moment's silence. M. Van Amberg again spoke.

"You will lock Christine in her room, and bring me the key. She will
have time to reflect, and I trust reflexion will be of service to her;
in a prolonged seclusion she will lose that love of motion and liberty
which leads her into harm; the silence of complete solitude will allay
the tumult of her thoughts. None shall enter her room, save Gothon,
who shall take her her meals, and return me the key. This is what I
have decided upon as proper."

Madame Van Amberg's lips opened several times to speak, but her
courage failed her. At last she advanced a pace or two.

"But I, sir, I," said she in a stifled voice, "_I_ am to see my
child!"

"I said no one," replied M. Van Amberg.

"But she will despair, if none sustain her. I will be severe with her;
you may be assured I will! Let me see her, if only once a-day. She may
fall ill of grief, and who will know it? Gothon dislikes her. For
pity's sake, let me see Christine! For a minute only, a single
minute."

M. Van Amberg once more stood still, and fixed upon his wife a look
that made her stagger. "Not another word!" he said. "I allow no
discussion, madam. No one shall see Christine; do you hear?"

"I will obey," replied Annunciata.

"Convey my orders to your daughter. At dinner bring me the key of her
room. Go."

Madame Van Amberg found Christine alone, seated on her bed, and
exhausted by long weeping. Her beautiful face, at times so energetic,
wore an expression of profound and touching dejection. Her long hair
fell in disorder on her shoulders, her figure was bent, as if weighed
down by grief; her rosary had fallen from her half-open hand; she had
tried to obey her mother and to pray, but had been able only to weep.
Her black mantle, still damp with rain, lay upon a table, a few willow
sprays peeping from its silken folds. Christine eyed them with mingled
love and melancholy. She thought it a century since she saw the sun
rise on the river, on the old trees, and on Herbert's skiff. Her
mother slowly approached her.

"My child," said she, "where were you at daybreak this morning?"

Christine raised her eyes to her mother's face, looked at her, but did
not answer. Annunciata repeated her question without change of word or
tone. Then Christine let herself slide from the bed to the ground, and
kneeled before her mother.

"I was seated," said she, "upon the trunk of a willow that overhangs
the stream. I was near Herbert's boat."

"Christine!" exclaimed Madame Van Amberg, "can it be true? Oh, my
child, could you so infringe the commands laid upon you! Could you
thus forget my lessons and advice! Christine, you thought not of me
when you committed that fault!"

"Herbert said to me, 'Come, you shall be my wife, I will love you
eternally, you shall be free and happy; all is ready for our marriage
and our flight; come!' I replied, 'I will not leave my mother!'
Mother, you have been my safeguard; if it be a crime to follow
Herbert, it is the thought of you alone that prevented my committing
it. I would not leave my mother!"

A beam of joy illumined Annunciata's countenance. Murmuring a
thanksgiving to God, she raised her kneeling child and seated her by
her side.

"Speak to me, Christine," she said, "open your heart, and tell me all
your thoughts. Together we will regret your faults, and seek hope for
the future. Speak, my daughter; conceal nothing."

Christine laid her head upon her mother's shoulder, put one of her
little hands in hers, sighed deeply, as though her heart were too
oppressed for words, and spoke at last with effort and fatigue.

"Mother," she said, "I have nothing to confess that you do not
already know. I love Herbert. He is but a poor student, intrusted to
my father's care, but he has a noble heart--like mine, somewhat sad.
He knows much, and he is gentle to those who know nothing. Poor, he is
proud as a king: he loves, and he tells it only to her who knows it.
My mother, I love Herbert! He asked my hand of my father, whose reply
was a smile of scorn. Then he was kept from me, and I tried to exist
without seeing him. I could not do it. I made many _neuvaines_ on the
rosary you gave me. I had seen you weep and pray, mother, and I said
to myself--Now that I weep as she does, I must also pray like her. But
it happened once, as day broke, that I saw a small boat descend the
stream, then go up again, and again descend; from time to time a white
sail fluttered in the air as one flutters a kerchief to a departing
friend. My thoughts, then as now, were on Herbert; I ran across the
meadow--I reached the stream.--Mother, it was he! hoping and waiting
my coming. Long and mournfully we bewailed our separation; fervently
we vowed to love each other till death. This morning Herbert,
discouraged and weary of waiting a change in our position, urged me to
fly with him. I might have fled, mother, but I thought of you and
remained. I have told you all; if I have done wrong, forgive me,
dearest mother!"

With deep emotion Madame Van Amberg listened to her daughter, and
remained buried in reflection, when Christina paused. She felt that
the young girl's suffering heart needed gentle lessons, affectionate
advice; and, instead of these, she was the bearer of a sentence whose
severity must aggravate the evil--she was compelled to deny her sick
child the remedies that might have saved her.

"You love him very dearly then," said she at last, fixing a long
melancholy look on her daughter's countenance.

"Oh, mother!" exclaimed Christine, "I love him with all my soul! My
life is passed in expecting, seeing, remembering him! I could never
make you comprehend how entirely my heart is his. Often I dream of
dying for him, not to save his life, that were too easy and natural,
but uselessly, at his command."

"Hush! Christine, hush! you frighten me," cried Annunciata, placing
both hands upon her daughter's mouth. By a quick movement Christine
disengaged herself from her mother's arms.

"Ah!" she exclaimed, "you know not what it is to love as I do! My
father could never let himself be loved thus!"

"Be silent, my child! be silent!" repeated Annunciata energetically.
"Oh, my daughter! how to instil into your heart thoughts of peace and
duty! Almighty Father! bless my weak words, that they may touch her
soul! Christine, hear me!"

Annunciata took her daughter's hands, and compelled her to stand
before her. "My child," she said, "you know nothing of life; you walk
at random, and are about to wander from the right path. All young
hearts have been troubled as yours is now. The noble ones have
struggled and triumphed; the others have fallen! Life is no easy and
pleasant passage; its trials are many and painful--its struggles
severe; believe me, for us women there is no true happiness without
the bounds of duty. And when happiness is not our destiny, many great
things still remain to us. Honour, the esteem of others, are not mere
empty words. Hear me, beloved child! That God, whom from your infancy
I have taught you to love, do you not fear offending him? Seek Him,
and you will find better consolation than I can offer. Christine, we
love in God those from whom we are severed on earth. He, who in his
infinite wisdom imposed so many fetters on the heart of woman, foresaw
the sacrifices they would entail, and surely he has kept treasures of
love for hearts that break in obedience to duty."

Annunciata rapidly wiped the tears inundating her fine countenance;
then clasping, Christine's arm--

"On your knees, my child! on our knees both of us before the Christ I
gave you! 'Tis nearly dark, and yet we still discern Him--his arms
seeming to open for us. Bless and save and console my child, oh
merciful God! Appease her heart; make it humble and obedient!"

Her prayer at an end, she rose, and throwing her arms round Christine,
who had passively allowed herself to be placed on her knees and lifted
up again, she embraced her tenderly, pressed her to her heart, and
bathed her hair with tears. "My daughter," she murmured between her
kisses, "my daughter, speak to me! Utter one word that I may take with
me as a hope! My child, will you not speak to your mother?"

"Mother, I love Herbert!" was Christine's reply.

Annunciata looked despairingly at her child, at the crucifix upon the
wall, at the darkening sky seen through the open window. The
dinner-bell rang. Madame Van Amberg made a strong effort to collect
and express her ideas.

"M. Van Amberg," said she in broken voice, "orders you to remain in
your room. I am to take him the key. You are to see no one. The hour
is come, and he expects me."

"A prisoner!" cried Christine; "A prisoner,--alone, all day! Death
rather than that!"

"He will have it so," repeated Annunciata, mournfully; "I must obey.
He will have it so." And she approached the door, casting upon
Christine a look of such ineffable love and grief, that the young
girl, fascinated by the gaze, let her depart without opposition. The
key turned in the lock, and Annunciata, supporting herself by the
banister, slowly descended. She found M. Van Amberg alone in the
parlour.

"You have been a long time up stairs," said he. "Have you convinced
yourself that your daughter saw the student Herbert this morning?"

"She did," murmured Annunciata.

"You have told her my orders?"

"I have done so."

"Where is the key?" She gave it him.

"Now to dinner," said M. Van Amberg, walking into the dining-room.
Annunciata endeavoured to follow him, but her strength failed her, and
she sank upon a chair.

M. Van Amberg sat down alone to his dinner.

                         __________

"A prisoner!" repeated Christine in her solitude; "apart from all!
shut up! Yon meadow was too wide a range; the house too spacious a
prison. I must have a narrower cell, with more visible walls--a
straiter captivity! They deprive me of the little air I breathed--the
scanty liberty I found means to enjoy!"

She opened the window to its full extent; leaned upon the sill, and
looked at the sky. It was very dark; heavy clouds hid the stars; no
light fell upon the earth; different shades of obscurity alone marked
the outlines of objects. The willows, so beautiful when Herbert and
the sun were there, were now a black and motionless mass; dead silence
reigned around. In view of nature thus lifeless and lightless, hopes
of happiness could hardly enter the heart. Christine was in a fever:
she felt oppressed and crushed by unkindly influences, by the
indifference of friends, by a tyrant's will, even by the cold and
mournful night. The young girl's heart beat quickly and rebelliously.

"Be it so!" she exclaimed aloud; "let them have their way! They may
render me unhappy; I will not complain. They sanctify my love by
persecution. Happy, I should perhaps have been ashamed to love so
much. But they rob me of air and liberty; I suffer; I weep. Ah! I feel
proud that my heart still throbs with joy in the midst of so many
evils. My sufferings will hallow my love, will compel the respect of
those who scoffed and slighted it. Herbert! dear Herbert! where are
you at this moment? Do you joyfully anticipate to-morrow's dawn: are
you busy with your boat, preparing it for its early cruise? Or do you
sleep, dreaming of the old willows in the meadow, hearing the waters
murmur through their branches, and the voice of Christine promising
her return? But no; it cannot be; our hearts are too united for their
feelings thus to differ! You are sad, my love, and you know not why; I
am sad with knowledge of our misfortune--'tis the sole difference
separation can establish between us. When shall we meet again,
Herbert? Alas! I know not, but meet we assuredly shall. If God lets me
live, he will let me love you."

Christine shut the window and threw herself on her bed without
undressing. It was cold; she wrapped herself in her mantle, and
gradually her head sank upon her breast. Her hands, at first pressed
against each other, opened and fell by her sides. She dropped asleep,
like an infant, in the midst of her tears.

The first sun-rays, feeble though they were, awoke Christine, who
sprang hastily from her couch. "Herbert waits for me!" she exclaimed.
At her age memory is better for joy than for sorrow. For her the dawn
of day was still a rendezvous of love. The next moment she awoke to
the consciousness of her captivity. She went to the window, leaned out
as on the previous evening, and looked mournfully around. In a corner
of the heavens was a glow of light, intercepted by billows of cloud.
The pale foliage of the willows shivered in the breeze, which ruffled
the leaves without bending the branches; the long fine grass of the
meadow was seen through a veil of fog, as yet undispelled by the sun.
The sounds of awakening nature had not yet begun, when a white sail
stood out upon the surface of the stream, gliding lightly along like
the open wing of a graceful bird. It passed to and fro in front of the
meadow; was lowered before the trees, and then again displayed,
bending the boat's gunwale to the water's surface, hovering
continually around a point of the bank, as though confined within the
circle of an invisible fascination. At long intervals the wind brought
a faint and scarce perceptible sound, like the last notes of a song;
then the little bark again manœuvred, and its sail flapped in the
air. The pale tints of dawn gave way to the warmer sunbeams;
passengers appeared upon the bank; trading boats ascended the river;
the windows of the red brick house opened as if to inhale the morning
air. The boat lowered its sail, and floated slowly away at the will of
the current. Christine looked after it and wept.

Twice during that day, Gothon opened the door of the young girl's
chamber, and brought her a frugal meal. Twice did Gothon depart
without uttering a word. The whole day passed in silence and solitude.
Christine knew not how to get rid of the weary hours. She knelt before
the crucifix, her alabaster rosary in her hand, her head raised
towards the cross, and prayed. But her prayer was for Herbert, to see
him again; she never dreamed of praying to forget him. Then she took
down the guitar, passed round her neck the faded blue riband, tied on
it at Seville, and which her mother would never allow to be changed.
She struck a few chords of the songs she best loved; but her voice was
choked, and her tears flowed more abundantly when she tried to sing.
She collected the little sprays of willow, and placed them in a book
to dry and preserve them. But the day was very long; and the poor
child fluttered in her prison like a caged bird, with an anguish that
each moment increased. Her head burned, her bosom throbbed. At last
night came. Seated near the open window, the cold calmed her a little.
They brought her no light, and time passed more slowly than ever. She
went to bed, but, deprived of her accustomed exercise, tormented by a
thousand anxieties, she could not sleep; she got up, walked about in
the darkness, and again lay down; slumber still avoided her. This time
her eyes, red with tears and watchfulness, beheld the sunrise without
illusion; she did not for a moment forget her captivity, but looked
mournfully out at the little sail which, faithful to its rendezvous,
came each morning with the sun. Again, none but Gothon disturbed her
solitude. During another long day, Christine, alternately desponding
and excited, walked, wept, lamented, and prayed. Night came again.
Nothing broke the silence; the lights in the red house were
extinguished one after the other. Profound darkness covered the earth.
Christine remained at her window, insensible to cold. Suddenly she
started: she heard her name pronounced in low tones at the foot of the
wall. She listened.

"Christine, my daughter!" repeated the voice.

"Mother," exclaimed Christine, "you out in this dreadful weather! I
conjure you to go in!"

"I have been two days in bed, my child; I have been unwell; to-night
I am better; I felt it impossible to remain longer without seeing you,
who are my life, my strength, my health! Oh! you were right not to
leave me; it would have killed me. How are you, dear Christine? Have
you all you require? How do you live, deprived of my caresses?"

"Dearest mother, for heaven's sake, go in! The night is damp and cold;
it will be your death!"

"Your voice warms me; it is far from you that I feel chill and faint.
Dearest child, my heart sends you a thousand kisses."

"I receive them on my knees, mother, my arms extended towards you.
But, when shall I see you again?"

"When you submit, and promise to obey; when you no longer seek him you
are forbidden to see, and whom you must forget. My daughter, it is
your duty."

"Oh mother, I thought your heart could better understand what it never
felt. I thought you respected the true sentiments of the soul, and
that your lips knew not how to utter the word 'forget.' If I forgot, I
should be a mere silly child, capricious, unruly, unworthy your
tenderness. If my malady is without remedy, I am a steadfast woman,
suffering and self-sacrificing. Good God! How is it you do not
understand that?"

"I understand," murmured Annunciata, but in so low a tone, that she
was sure her daughter could not hear her.

"Mother," resumed Christine, "go to my father! summon up that courage
which fails you when you alone are concerned; speak boldly to him,
tell him what I have told you; demand my liberty, my happiness."

"I!" exclaimed Annunciata in terror, "I brave M. Van Amberg, and
oppose his will!"

"Not oppose, but supplicate! compel his heart to understand what mine
experiences; force him to see and hear and feel that my life may
cease, but not my love. Who can do it, if you cannot? I am a captive.
My sisters know not love, my uncle William has never known it. It
needs a woman's voice to express a woman's feelings."

"Christine, you know not what you ask. The effort is above my
strength."

"I ask a proof of my mother's love; I am sure she will give it me."

"I shall die in so doing. M. Van Amberg can kill me by a word."

Christine started and trembled. "Do not go then, dearest mother.
Forgive my egotism; I thought only of myself. If my father has such
terrible power, avoid his anger. I will wait, and entreat none but
God."

There was a brief pause. "Christine," said Madame Van Amberg, "since I
am your only hope, your sole reliance, and you have called me to your
aid, I will speak to him. Our fate is in the hands of heaven."

Annunciata interrupted herself by a cry of terror; a hand rudely
grasped her arm; M. Van Amberg, without uttering a word, dragged her
to the house door, compelled her to enter, took out the key, and made
her pass before him into the parlour. A lamp burned dimly upon the
table, its oil nearly exhausted; at times it emitted a bright flash,
and then suddenly became nearly extinguished. The corners of the room
were in darkness, the doors and windows closed, perfect silence
reigned; the only object on which a strong light fell, was the
countenance of M. Van Amberg. It was calm, cold, motionless. His great
height, the piercing look of his pale gray eyes, the austere
regularity of his features, combined to give him the aspect of an
implacable judge.

"You would speak with me, madam," said he to Annunciata, "I am here,
speak!"

On entering the parlour, Annunciata let herself fall into a chair. Her
clothes streamed with water; her hair, heavy with rain, fell upon her
shoulders, her extreme paleness gave her the appearance of a corpse
rather than of a living creature. Terror obliterated memory, even of
what had just occurred, her mind was confused, she felt only that she
suffered horribly. Her husband's voice and words restored the chain of
her ideas; the poor woman thought of her child, made a violent effort,
rallied her strength, and rose to her feet.

"Now then," she murmured, "since it must be so!"

M. Van Amberg waited in silence, his arms crossed upon his breast, his
eyes fixed upon his wife; he stood like a statue, assisting neither by
word nor gesture the poor creature who trembled before him. Annunciata
looked long at him before speaking; she hoped that at sight of her
tears and sufferings, M. Van Amberg would remember he had loved her.
She threw her whole soul into her eyes, but not a muscle of her
husband's countenance moved. He waited for her to break silence.

"I need your indulgence," she at last said; "it costs me a fearful
effort to address you. In general I do but answer; I am unaccustomed
to speak first, and I am afraid. I dread your anger; have compassion
on a trembling woman, who would fain be silent, and who must speak.
Christine's happiness is in your hands. The poor child implores me to
soften your rigour.... Did I refuse, not a creature upon earth would
intercede for her. This is why I venture to petition you, sir."

M. Van Amberg continued silent. Annunciata wiped the tears from her
cheeks, and resumed with more courage.

"The poor child is much to be pitied; she has inherited the faults you
blame in me. Believe me, sir, I have laboured hard to check them in
the bud. I have striven, exhorted, punished, have spared neither
advice nor prayers, but all in vain. God has not been pleased to spare
me this new grief. Her nature is unchangeable; she is to blame, but
she is also much to be pitied. Christine loves with all her soul.
Women die of such love as hers, and when they do not die, they suffer
frightfully. For pity's sake, sir, let her marry him she loves!"

Annunciata covered her face with her hands, and awaited in an agony of
anxiety her husband's reply.

"Your daughter," said M. Van Amberg, "is still a child; she has
inherited, as you say, a character that needs restraint. I will not
yield to the first caprice that traverses her silly head. Herbert is
only two-and-twenty; we know nothing of his character. Your daughter
requires a protector, and a judicious guide. Herbert has neither
family, fortune, nor position. He shall never be the husband of a
woman who bears the name of Mademoiselle Van Amberg!"

"Sir!" cried Annunciata, clasping her hands and breathless with
emotion, "Sir! the best guidance for a woman's life is a union with
the man she loves! It is her best safeguard, it strengthens her
against the cares of the world. I entreat you, Karl!" exclaimed Madame
Van Amberg, falling upon her knees, "have compassion on my daughter!
Do not render duty a torture; do not exact from her too much courage!
We are weak creatures: we have need both of love and virtue. Place her
not in the terrible necessity of choosing between them. Pity, Karl,
pity!"

"Madam," cried M. Van Amberg, and this time his frame was agitated by
a slight nervous trembling, "Madam, you are very bold to speak to me
thus! You! you! to dare to hold such language to me! Silence! and
teach your daughter not to hesitate in her choice between good and
evil. Do that, instead of weeping uselessly at my feet."

"Yes, it is bold of me, sir, thus to address you; but I have found
courage in suffering. I am ill,--in pain,--my life is worthless, save
as a sacrifice--let my child take it, I will speak for her! Her fate
is in your hands, do not crush her by a cruel decision! An absolute
judge and master should be guarded in word and deed, for a reckoning
will be asked of him! Be merciful to my child!"

M. Van Amberg approached his wife, took her arm, placed his other hand
on her mouth, and said:--

"Silence! I command you; no such scenes in my house, no noise and
whimpering. Your daughters sleep within a few yards of you, do not
disturb their repose. Your servants are above, do not awaken them.
Silence! You had no business to speak; I was wrong to listen to you.
Never dare again to discuss my orders; it is I whom your children must
obey, I whom you must obey yourself. Retire to your apartment, and
to-morrow let me find you what you yesterday were."

M. Van Amberg had regained his usual calmness. He walked slowly from
the room.

"Oh, my daughter!" exclaimed Annunciata, despairingly, "nothing have I
been able to do for you! Merciful Father! what will become of me,
placed between him and her, both inflexible in their resolves!"

The lamp which feebly illuminated this scene of sorrow, now suddenly
went out and left the unhappy mother in profound darkness. The rain
beat against the windows,--the wind howled,--the house clock struck
four.

Christine had seen M. Van Amberg seize Annunciata's arm, and lead her
away with him; afterwards, she had distinguished, through the slight
partitions of the house, a faint echo as of mingled sobs, entreaties,
and reproaches. She understood that her fate was deciding,--that her
poor mother had devoted herself for her, and was face to face with the
stern ruler whose look alone she usually dared not brave. Christine
passed the night in terrible anxiety, abandoning herself alternately
to discouragement and to joyful hopes. At her age it is not easy to
despair. Fear, however, predominated over every other emotion, and she
would have given years of existence to learn what had passed. But the
day went by like the previous one. She saw none but Gothon. Her she
ventured to question, but the old servant had orders not to answer.

Another day elapsed. Christine's solitude was still unbroken, no
friendly voice reached her ear, no kind hand lifted the veil shrouding
her future. The poor girl was exhausted, she had not even the energy
of grief. She wept without complaint, almost without a murmur. Night
came, and she fell asleep, exhausted by her sorrow. She had scarcely
slept an hour when she was awakened by the opening of the door, and
Gothon, lamp in hand, approached her bed. "Get up, Mademoiselle," said
the servant, "and follow me."

Christine dressed herself as in a dream, and hastily followed Gothon,
who conducted her to her mother's room, opened the door and drew back
to let her pass. A sad spectacle met the young girl's eyes.
Annunciata, pale and almost inanimate, lay in the agonies of death.
Her presentiment had not deceived her; suffering and agitation had
snapped the slender strings that bound her to the earth. The light of
the lamp fell full upon her features, whose gentle beauty pain was
impotent to deface. Resignation and courage were upon her countenance,
over which came a gleam of joy when Christine appeared. Wilhelmina and
Maria knelt and wept at the foot of their mother's bed. William stood
a little apart, holding a prayer-book, but his eyes had left the page
to look at Annunciata, and two large tears trembled on their lids. M.
Van Amberg, seated beside his wife's pillow, had his face shaded by
his hand, so that none could see its expression.

With a piercing cry, Christine rushed to Madame Van Amberg, who
received her in her arms. "Mother!" she cried, her cheek against
Annunciata's, "it is I who have killed you! For love of me you have
exceeded your strength."

"No, my beloved child, no," replied Annunciata, kissing her daughter
between each word, "I die of an old and incurable malady. But I die
happy, since I once more clasp you in my arms."

"And they did not let me nurse you!" cried Christine, indignantly
raising her head; "they concealed your illness! They let me weep for
other sorrows than yours, my mother!"

"Dearest child," replied Annunciata gently, "this crisis has been very
sudden; two hours ago they knew not my danger, and I wished to fulfil
my religious duties before seeing you. I wished to think only of God.
Now I can abandon myself to the embraces of my children." And she
clasped her weeping daughters to her heart. "Dear children," said she,
"God is full of mercy to the dying, and sanctifies a mother's
benediction. I bless you, my daughters; remember and pray for me."

The three young girls bowed their heads upon their mother's hand, and
replied by tears alone to this solemn farewell.

"My good brother," resumed Annunciata to William, "My good brother,
we have long lived together, and to me you have ever been a devoted
friend, indulgent and gentle. I thank you, brother!"

William averted his head to conceal his tears, but a deep sob escaped
him, and he turned his venerable face towards Annunciata.

"Do not thank me, sister," he said, "I have done little for you. I
loved you, that is certain, but I could not enliven your solitude. My
sister, you will still live for the happiness of us all."

Annunciata gently shook her head. Her glance sought her husband as if
she would fain have addressed her last words to him. But they expired
on her lips. She looked at him timidly, sadly, and then closed her
eyes, to check the starting tears. She grew visibly weaker, and as
death approached, a painful anxiety took possession of her. Resigned,
she was not calm. It was ordained her soul should suffer and be
troubled to the end. The destiny of one of her daughters disturbed her
last moments; she dared not pronounce the name of Christine, she dared
not ask compassion for her; a thousand conflicting doubts and fears
agitated her poor heart. She died as she had lived, repressing her
tears, concealing her thoughts. From time to time she turned to her
husband, but his head continued sunk upon his hand; not one look of
encouragement could she obtain. At last came the spasm that was to
break this frail existence. "Adieu! Adieu!" she murmured in
unintelligible accents. Her eyes no longer obeyed her, and none could
tell whom they sought. William approached his brother, and placed his
hand upon his shoulder. "Karl!" he whispered in tones audible but to
him he addressed, "she is dying! Have you nothing to say to a poor
creature who has so long lived with you and suffered by you? Living,
you loved her not; do not let her die thus! Fear you not, Karl, lest
this woman, oppressed and slighted by you, should expire with a leaven
of resentment in her heart? Crave her pardon before she departs."

For an instant all was silent. M. Van Amberg stirred not. Annunciata,
her head thrown back, seemed to have already ceased to exist. On a
sudden, she moved, raised herself with difficulty, leaned over towards
M. Van Amberg, and groped for his hand as though she had been blind.
When she found it, she bowed her face upon it, kissed it twice, and
expired in that last kiss.

"On your knees!" cried William, "on your knees, she is in heaven! let
us implore her intercession!" And all knelt down.

Of all the prayers addressed to God by man during his life of trial,
not one is more solemn than that which escapes the desolate heart,
when a beloved soul flies from earth to heaven, to stand, for the
first time, in the presence of its Creator.

M. Van Amberg rose from his knees.

"Leave the room!" said he to his brother and daughters, "I would be
alone with my wife."

Alone, beside the bed of his dead wife, Karl Van Amberg gazed upon the
pale countenance, to which death had restored all the beauty of youth.
A tear, left there by human suffering, a tear which none other was to
follow, glittered upon the clay-cold cheek; one arm still hung out of
bed, as when it held his hand; the head was in the position in which
it had kissed his fingers. He gazed at her, and the icy envelope that
bound his heart was at last broken. "Annunciata!" he exclaimed,
"Annunciata!"

For fifteen years that name had not passed his lips. Throwing himself
on his wife's corpse, he clasped her in his arms and kissed her
forehead.

"Annunciata!" he cried, "can you not feel this kiss of peace and love!
Annunciata, we have both suffered terribly! God did not grant us
happiness. I loved you from the first day that I saw you, a joyous
child in Spain, till this sad moment that I press you dead upon my
heart. Oh Annunciata, how great have been our sufferings!"

Karl Van Amberg wept.

"Repose in peace, poor woman!" he murmured, "may you find in heaven
the repose denied you upon earth!" And with trembling hand he closed
Annunciata's eyes. Then he knelt down beside her.

"Almighty God!" he said, "I have been severe. Be thou merciful!"

                         __________

When, at break of day, M. Van Amberg left the chamber of death, his
face had resumed its habitual expression; his inflexible soul, for a
moment bowed, had regained its usual level. To Annunciata had been
given the last word of love, the last tear of that heart of adamant.
To the eyes of all he reappeared as the stern master and father, the
man on whose brow no sorrow left a trace. His daughters bowed
themselves upon his passage, William spoke not to him, order and
regularity returned to the house. Annunciata was buried without pomp
or procession. She left, to revisit it no more, the melancholy abode
where her suffering soul had worn out its mortal envelope; she ceased
to live, as a sound ceases to be heard, as a cloud passes, as a flower
fades; nothing stopped or altered because she went. If any mourned
her, they mourned in silence; if they thought of her, they proclaimed
not their thoughts; her name was no more heard; only the interior of
the little red house was rather more silent, and M. Van Amberg's
countenance appeared to all more rigid than before. During the day,
Christine's profound grief obeyed the iron will that weighed on each
member of the family. The poor child was silent, worked, sat at table,
lived on as if her heart had not been crushed; but at night, when she
was alone in the little room where her mother had so often wept with
her, she gave free course to grief; she invoked her mother, spoke to
her, extended her arms to her, and would fain have left the earth to
be with her in heaven. "Take me to you, dear mother!" she would
exclaim. "Deprived of you, apart from him, I cannot live! Since I saw
you die, I no longer fear death."

Since the death of Annunciata, Christine was allowed her liberty, M.
Van Amberg doubtless thinking, and with reason, that she would make no
use of it during her first grief. Or, perhaps, with his wife's corpse
scarcely cold, he hesitated to recur to the severity that had caused
her so many tears. Whatever his motive, Christine was free, at least
to all appearance. The three sisters, in deep mourning, never passed
the threshold; they sat all day at work near the low window of the
parlour, supped with their uncle and father, then retired to bed.
During the long hours of their silent work, Christine often thought of
her lover. She dared not attempt to see him; she would have expected
to hear her mother's voice murmur in her ear,--"My daughter, it is too
soon to be happy! Mourn me yet a little, alone and without
consolation."

One morning, after a night of tears, Christine fell into a tardy
slumber, broken by dreams. Now it was her mother, who took her in her
arms, and flew with her towards heaven. "I will not let you live,"
said Annunciata, "for life is sorrow. I have prayed of God to let you
die young, that you may not weep as I have wept!"

The next instant she beheld herself clothed in white, and crowned with
flowers. Herbert was there, love sparkling in his eyes. "Come, my
betrothed!" he said, "life is joy! My love shall guard you from all
evil; come, we will be happy!"

She started up, awakened by a sudden noise in her chamber. The window
was open, and on the floor lay a pebble with a letter attached. Her
first impulse was to fly to the window; a bush stirred in the
direction of the river, but she saw no one. She snatched up the
letter, she guessed it was Herbert's writing. It seems as if one never
saw for the first time the writing of him one loves; the heart
recognises as if the eyes had already seen it. Christine was alone, a
beam of the rising sun tinted the summits of the willows, and hope and
love revived in the young girl's heart, as she read what follows:

"Christine, I can write but a few lines; a long letter, difficult to
conceal, might never reach you. Hear me with your heart, and guess
what I am unable to write. As you know, dearest, my family intrusted
me to your father and gave him all authority over me. He can employ me
at his will, and according to the convenience of his commercial
establishments. Christine, I have just received orders to embark in
one of his ships, sailing for Batavia."

A cry escaped Christine's lips, and her eyes, suffused with tears,
devoured the subsequent lines.

"Your father places the immensity of ocean between us; he separates us
for ever. We are to meet no more! Christine, has your heart, since I
last saw you, learned to comprehend those words? No, my adored
Christine, we must live or die together! Your poor mother is no more;
your presence is no longer essential to the happiness of any one. Your
family is pitiless and without affection for you. Your future is gloom
and unhappiness. Come, then, let us fly together. In the Helder are
numerous ships; they will bear us far from the scene of our
sufferings. All is foreseen and arranged. Christine, my life depends
on your decision. For ever separated!... subscribe to that barbarous
decree, and I terminate an existence which henceforward would be all
bitterness! And you, Christine! will you love another, or live without
love? Oh! come, I have suffered so much without you! I summon you, I
await you, Christine! my bride! At midnight--on the river-bank--I will
be there! and a world of happiness is before us. Come, dear Christine,
come!"

As Christine read, her tears fell fast on Herbert's letter. She
experienced a moment of agonising indecision. She loved passionately,
but she was young and innocent, and love had not yet imparted to her
pure soul the audacity that braves all things. The wise counsels heard
in her father's house, uncle William's pious exhortations, the holy
prayers she had learned from her infancy upwards, resounded in her
ears; the Christ upon her wooden crucifix seemed to look at her; the
beads of her rosary were still warm with the pressure of her fingers.

"Oh! my dream! my dream!" she exclaimed: "Herbert who calls his bride!
my mother claiming her daughter! With him, life and love! With her,
death and heaven!..." And Christine sobbed aloud. For an instant she
tried calmly to contemplate an existence in that melancholy house,
weeping for Herbert, growing old without him, without love, within
those gloomy walls, where no heart sympathised with hers. The picture
was too terrible; she felt that such a future was unendurable. She
wept bitterly, kissed her rosary, her prayer book, as if bidding adieu
to all that had witnessed the innocence of her early years. Then her
heart beat violently. The fire of her glance dried her tears. She
looked out at the river, at the white sail which seemed to remind her
of her vows of love; she gave one last sob, as if breaking irrevocably
the links between her past and future. The image of her mother was no
longer before her. Christine, abandoned to herself, followed the
impulse of her passionate nature; she wept, trembled, hesitated, and
at last exclaimed,--

"At midnight, I will be there!"

Then she wiped her tears, and remained quite still for a few moments,
to calm her violent agitation. A vast future unrolled itself before
her; liberty would be hers; a new world was revealed to her eyes; a
new life began for her.

At last night came. A lamp replaced the fading day-light. The window
was deserted for the table. William and Karl Van Amberg came in. The
former took a book; his brother busied himself with commercial
calculations. The lamp gave a dull light; all was silent, sad, and
monotonous in the apartment. The clock slowly told the succeeding
hours. When its hammer struck ten, there was a movement round the
table; books were shut, work was folded. Karl Van Amberg rose; his two
eldest daughters approached him, and he kissed their foreheads in
silence. Christine no longer a captive, but still in disgrace, bowed
herself before her father. Uncle William, grown drowsy over his book,
put up his spectacles, muttering a "good-night." The family left the
parlour, and the three sisters ascended the wooden staircase. At her
chamber door, Christine felt a tightness at her heart. She turned and
looked after her sisters. "Good-night, Wilhelmina! good-night, Maria!"

The sisters turned their heads. By the faint light of their tapers
Christine saw them smile and kiss their hands to her. Then they
entered their rooms without speaking. Christine found herself alone.
She opened her window; the night was calm; at intervals clouds flitted
across the moon, veiling its brightness. Christine made no
preparations for departure; she only took her mother's rosary, and the
blue ribbon so long attached to the guitar; then she wrapped herself
in her black mantle and sat down by the window. Her heart beat quick,
but no distinct thought agitated her mind. She trembled without
terror; her eyes were tearful, but she felt no regret. For her, the
hour was rather solemn than sad; the struggle was over, and she was
irrevocably decided.

At last midnight came; each stroke of the clock thrilled Christine's
heart; for an instant she stood still, summoning strength and courage;
then, turning towards the interior of the room,--

"Adieu, my mother!" she whispered. Many living creatures dwelt under
that roof. It seemed to Christine as if she left her only who was no
longer there. "Adieu, my mother!" she repeated.

Then she stepped out of the window: a trellis, twined with creepers,
covered the wall. With light foot and steady hand, Christine
descended, aiding herself by the branches, and pausing when they
cracked under her tread or grasp. The stillness was so complete that
the slightest sound assumed importance. Christine's heart beat
violently; at last she reached the ground, raised her head, and looked
at the house. Her father's window was still lighted. Again she
shuddered with apprehension; then, feeling more courage for a minute's
daring than for half an hour's precautions, she darted across the
meadow and arrived breathless at the clump of willows. Before plunging
into it, she again looked round. All was quiet and deserted; she
breathed more freely and disappeared amongst the branches. Leaning
upon the old tree, the witness of her former rendezvous, she
whispered, so softly that none but a lover could hear, "Herbert, are
you there?"

A cautious oar skimmed the water; a well known voice replied. The boat
approached the willow; the young student stood up and held out his
arms to Christine, who leaped lightly into the skiff. In an instant,
they were out of the willow-shaded inlet; in another, the sail--the
signal of their loves--was hoisted to the breeze; the bark sped
swiftly over the water, and Herbert, scarce daring to believe his
happiness, was seated at Christine's feet. His hand sought hers; he
heard her weep, and he wept for sympathy. Both were silent, agitated,
uneasy, and happy.

But the night was fine, the moon shed its softest light, the ripple of
the stream had a harmony of its own, the light breeze cooled their
cheeks, the sail bent over them like the wing of an invisible being;
they were young, they loved, it was impossible that joy should not
revive in their hearts.

"Thanks, Christine, thanks!" exclaimed Herbert, "thanks a thousand
times for so much devotedness, for such confidence and love! Oh how
beautiful will life now appear! We are united for ever!"

"For ever!" repeated Christine, her tears flowing afresh. For the
first time she felt that great happiness, like great grief, expresses
itself by tears. Her hand in Herbert's, her eyes raised to heaven, she
gazed upon bright stars and fleecy clouds, sole and silent witnesses
of her happiness. Presently she was roused from this sweet reverie.

"See there, Herbert!" she exclaimed; "the sail droops along the mast,
the wind has fallen, we do not advance."

Herbert took the oars, and the boat cut rapidly through the water.
Wrapped in her mantle, Christine sat opposite, and smiled upon him.
Onwards flew the boat, a track of foam in its wake. Day-light was
still distant; all things favoured the fugitives. Again Christine
broke silence.

"Herbert, dear Herbert, do you hear nothing?"

Herbert ceased to row, and listened. "I hear nothing," he said, "save
the plash of the river against its banks." He resumed the oars; again
the boat moved rapidly forward. Christine was pale; half risen from
her seat, her head turned back, she strove to see, but the darkness
was too great.

"Be tranquil, best beloved," said Herbert with a smile. "Fear creates
sounds. All is still."

"Herbert," cried Christine, this time starting up in the boat, "I am
not mistaken! I hear oars behind us ... pause not to listen ... row,
for Heaven's love, row!"

Her terror was so great, she seemed so sure of what she said, that
Herbert obeyed in silence, and a sensation of alarm chilled his heart.
Christine seated herself at his feet.

"We are pursued!" she said; "the noise of your own oars alone
prevented your hearing. A boat follows us."

"If it be so," Herbert cried, "what matter! That boat does not bear
Christine, is not guided by a man who defends his life, his happiness,
his love. My arm will weary his, his bark will not overtake mine." And
Herbert redoubled his efforts. The veins of his arms swelled to
bursting; his forehead was covered with sweat-drops. The skiff clove
the waters as though impelled by wings. Christine remained crouched at
the young man's feet, pressing herself against him, as to seek refuge.

Other oars, wielded by stalwart arms, now struck the water not far
from Herbert's boat. The young student heard the sound; he bent over
his oars and made desperate efforts. But he felt his strength failing;
as he rowed he looked with agony at Christine; no one spoke, only the
noise of the two boats interrupted the silence. Around, all was calm
and serene as when the fugitives set out. But the soul of the young
girl had passed from life to death; her eyes, gleaming with a wild
fire, followed with increasing terror each movement of Herbert's; she
saw by the suffering expression of his countenance, that little hope
of escape remained. Still he rowed with the energy of despair; but the
fatal bark drew nearer, its shadow was seen upon the water, it
followed hard in the foamy track of Herbert's boat. Christine stood up
and looked back; just then the moon shone out, casting its light full
upon the pale, passionless features of M. Van Amberg. Christine
uttered a piercing cry.

"My father!" she cried, "Herbert, 'tis my father!"

Herbert also had recognised his pursuer. The youth had lived too long
in Karl Van Amberg's house, not to have experienced the strange kind
of fascination which that man exercised over all around him. Darkness
had passed away to reveal to the fugitives the father, master, and
judge!

"Stop, Herbert!" cried Christine, "we are lost, escape is impossible!
Do you not see my father?"

"Let me row!" replied Herbert, disengaging himself from Christine, who
had seized his arm. He gave so violent a pull with the oars, that the
little boat bounded out of the water and seemed to gain a little on
its pursuer.

"Herbert," cried Christine, "I tell you we are lost! 'Tis my father,
and resistance is useless! God will not work a miracle in our favour!
Herbert, I will not return to my father's house! Let us die together,
dear Herbert!"

And Christine, threw herself into her lover's arms. The oars fell from
the young man's hands; with a cry of anguish he pressed Christine
convulsively on his heart. For a single instant he thought of obeying
her, and of plunging with her into the dark tide beneath; but Herbert
had a noble heart, and he repelled the temptation of despair. The next
moment a violent shock made the boat quiver, and M. Van Amberg stepped
into it. Instinctively, Herbert clasped Christine more tightly, and
retreated; as if his strength could withhold her from her father; as
if, in that little boat, he could retreat far enough not to be
overtaken. With a vigorous arm, M. Van Amberg seized Christine, whose
slender form bent like a reed over his shoulder.

"Have mercy on her!" cried the despairing Herbert; "I alone am guilty!
Punish her not, and I promise to depart, to renounce her! Pity, sir,
pity for Christine!"

He spoke to a deaf and silent statue. Wresting Christine's hand from
the student's grasp, M. Van Amberg stepped back into his boat and
pushed Herbert's violently with his foot. Yielding to the impulse, the
boats separated; one was pulled swiftly up the river, whilst the
other, abandoned to itself, was swept by the current in a contrary
direction. Erect on the prow of his bark, his head thrown back, his
arms folded on his breast, M. Van Amberg fixed a terrible look upon
Herbert and then disappeared in the darkness. All was over. The father
had taken his daughter, and no human power could henceforward tear her
from his arms.

Within eight days from this fatal night, the gates of a convent closed
upon Christine Van Amberg.

                         __________

On the frontier of Belgium, on the summit of a hill, stands a large
white building of irregular architecture, a confused mass of walls,
roofs, angles, and platforms. At the foot of the hill is a village,
whose inhabitants behold with a feeling of respect the edifice
towering above their humble dwellings. For there is seen the belfry of
a church, and thence is heard unceasingly the sound of pious bells,
proclaiming afar that on the mountain's summit a few devout souls pray
to God for all men. The building is a convent; the poor and the sick
well know the path leading to the hospitable threshold of the Sisters
of the Visitation.

To this convent was Christine sent. To this austere dwelling, the
abode of silence and self-denial, was she, the young, the beautiful,
the loving, pitilessly consigned. It was as though a gravestone had
suddenly closed over her head. With her, the superior of the convent
received the following letter:

"MADAME LA SUPERIEURE,--I send you your niece, Christine Van Amberg,
and beg you to oblige me by keeping her with you. I intend her to
embrace a religious life; employ the influence of your wise counsels
to predispose her to it. Her misconduct compels me to exclude her my
house; she requires restraint and watching, such as are only to be
found in a convent. Be pleased, dear and respected kinswoman, to
receive her under your roof; the best wish that can be formed for her
is that she may make up her mind to remain there for ever. Should she
inquire concerning a young man named Herbert, you may inform her that
he has sailed to Batavia, whence he will proceed to our most remote
establishments.

"I am with respect, _Madame la Supérieure_, your kinsman and friend,

                                               "KARL VAN AMBERG."

Five years had elapsed since the date of this letter, when one day the
convent-gate opened to admit a stranger, who craved to speak with the
superior. The stranger was an old man; a staff sustained his feeble
steps. Whilst waiting in the parlour, he looked about him with
surprise and emotion, and several times he passed his hand across his
eyes as if to brush away a tear. "Poor, poor child!" he muttered. When
the superior appeared behind the grating, he advanced quickly towards
her.

"I am William Van Amberg," he said, "the brother of Karl Van Amberg. I
come, madam, to fetch Christine, his daughter and my niece."

"You come very late!" replied the superior; "sister Martha-Mary is on
the eve of pronouncing her vows."

"Martha-Mary!--I do not know the name!"--said William Van Amberg; "I
seek Christine--my niece Christine."

"Christine Van Amberg, now sister Martha-Mary, is about to take the
veil."

"Christine a nun! Oh, impossible! Madam, they have broken the child's
heart; from despair only would she take the veil; they have been
cruel, they have tortured her; but I bring her liberty and the
certainty of happiness,--permission to marry him she loves. Let me
speak to her, and she will quickly follow."

"Speak to her then; and let her depart if such be her will."

"Thanks, madam,--a thousand thanks! Send me my child, send me my
Christine--with joy and impatience I await her."

The superior retired. Left alone, William again contemplated the
melancholy abode in which he found himself, and the more he gazed, the
sadder his heart became. He would fain have taken Christine in his
arms, as he did when she was little, and have fled with her from those
chilly walls and dismal gratings.

"Poor child!" he repeated, "what a retreat for the bright years of
your youth!... How you must have suffered! But console thyself,
dearest child, I am here to rescue thee!"

He remembered Christine as a wild young girl, delighting in liberty,
air, and motion; then as an impassioned woman, full of love and
independence. And a smile crossed the old man's lips as he thought of
her burst of joy, when he should say to her,--"You are free, and
Herbert waits to lead you to the altar!" His heart beat as it had
never beaten in the best days of his youth; he counted the minutes and
kept his eyes fixed upon the little door through which Christine was
to come. He could not fold her in his arms, the grating prevented it,
but at least he should see and hear her. Suddenly all his blood rushed
to his heart, for the hinges creaked and the door opened. A novice,
clothed in white, slowly advanced; he looked at her, started back,
hesitated, and exclaimed: "Oh God! is that Christine?"

William had cherished in his heart the memory of a bright-eyed,
sunburnt girl, alert and lively, quick and decided in her movements,
running more often than she walked, like the graceful roe that loves
the mountain steeps. He beheld a tall young woman, white and
colourless as the robes that shrouded her; her hair concealed under a
thick linen band, her slender form scarcely to be distinguished
beneath the heavy folds of her woollen vestments. Her movements were
slow, her black eyes veiled by an indescribable languor; a profound
calm was the characteristic of her whole being--a calm so great, that
it resembled absence of life. One might have thought her eyes looked
without seeing, that her lips could not open to speak, that her ears
listened without hearing. Sister Martha-Mary was beautiful, but her
beauty was not of the earth--it was the beauty of infinite repose,--of
a calm that nothing could disturb.

The old man was touched to the bottom of his soul; the words expired
on his lips, and he extended his hands towards Christine. On beholding
her uncle, Martha-Mary endeavoured to smile, but moved not, and said
nothing.

"Oh my child!" cried William at last, "how you must suffer here!"

Martha-Mary gently shook her head, and the tranquil look she fixed
upon her uncle, protested against his supposition.

"Is it possible that five years have thus changed my Christine! My
heart recognises you, my child, not my eyes! They have compelled you
to great austerities, severe privations?"

"No."

"A cruel bondage has weighed heavily upon you?

"No."

"You have been ill then?"

"No."

"Your poor heart has suffered too much, and has broken. You have shed
many tears?"

"I remember them no longer."

"Christine, Christine, do you live? or has the shade of Annunciata
risen from the grave? Oh my child! in seeing, you, I seem to see her
corpse, extended on the bed of death!"

Martha-Mary raised her large eyes to heaven; she joined her hands, and
murmured, "My mother!"

"Christine, speak to me! weep with me! you frighten me by your calm
and silence.... Ah! in my trouble and emotion, I have as yet explained
nothing.... Listen: my brother Karl, by the failure of a partner,
suddenly found his whole fortune compromised. To avoid total ruin he
was obliged to embark immediately for the colonies. He set sail
expecting to return in a few years; but his affairs prolong his
absence, and his return is indefinitely postponed. His two eldest
daughters are with him. To me, who am too old to follow him, too old
to remain alone, he has given Christine. I would not accept the
precious charge, my child, without the possibility of rendering you
happy. I implored permission to marry you to Herbert. You are no
longer a rich heiress: your father gone, you need protection, and that
of an old man cannot long avail you. In short, your father has agreed
to all I asked; he sends you, as a farewell gift, your liberty and his
consent to your marriage.... Christine! you are free, and Herbert
awaits his bride!"

The long drapery of the novice was slightly agitated, as if the limbs
it covered trembled; she remained some seconds without speaking, and
then replied, "It is too late! I am the affianced of the Lord!"

William uttered a cry of grief, and looked with alarm at the pale calm
girl, who stood immoveable before him.

"Christine!" he cried, "You no longer love Herbert?"

"I am the affianced of the Lord!" repeated the novice, her hands
crossed upon her breast, her eyes raised to heaven.

"Oh my God! my God!" cried William, weeping bitterly, "my brother has
killed his child! Her soul has been sad even unto death! Poor victim
of our severity, tell me, Christine, tell me, what has passed within
you, since your abode here?"

"I saw others pray, and I prayed also. There was a great stillness,
and I was silent; none wept, and I dried my tears; a something, at
first cold, then soothing, enveloped my soul. The voice of God made
itself heard to me, and I listened; I loved the Lord, and gave myself
to him."

Then, as if fatigued with speaking so much, Martha-Mary relapsed into
silence, and into that absorbing meditation which rendered her
insensible to surrounding things. Just then a bell tolled. The novice
started, and her eyes sparkled.

"God calls me!" she said, "I go to pray!"

"Christine! my daughter, will you leave me thus?"

"Hear you not the bell? It is the hour of prayer."

"But, Christine, dearest child, I came to take you hence."

"I shall never leave these walls!" said Martha-Mary, gliding slowly
away. As she opened the parlour door, she turned towards William; her
eyes fixed upon him with a sad and sweet expression; her lips moved,
as if to send him a kiss; then she disappeared. William made no
attempt to detain her; his head was pressed against the grating, and
big tears chased each other down his cheeks. How long he remained thus
plunged in mournful reflection, he noted not. He was roused by the
voice of the superior, who seated herself, wrapped in her black robes,
on the other side of the grating.

"I foresaw your grief," she said. "Our sister Martha-Mary refuses to
follow you."

With a despairing look, William answered the nun.

"Alas! alas!" he said, "the child I so dearly loved met me without
joy, and left me without regret."

"Listen, my son," resumed the superior; "listen to me.--Five years
ago, there came to this convent a young girl overwhelmed with grief
and sunk in terrible despair; her entrance here was to her a descent
into the tomb. During one entire year, none saw her but with tears on
her face. Only God knows how many tears the eyes must shed, before a
broken spirit regains calm and resignation; man cannot count them.
This young girl suffered much; in vain we implored pardon for her, in
vain we summoned her family to her relief. She might say, as is
written in the psalm,--'_I am weary with my groaning: mine eye is
consumed because of grief._' What could we do, save pray for her,
since none would receive her back!..."

"Alas!" cried William, "your letters never reached us. My brother was
beyond sea; and I, having then no hope of changing his determination,--
I had quitted his empty and melancholy house."

"Man abandoned her," continued the superior, "but God looked upon his
servant, and comforted her soul. If He does not see fit to restore
strength to her body, exhausted by suffering--His will be done!
Perhaps it would now be wise and generous to leave her to that love of
God which she has attained after so many tears; perhaps it would be
prudent to spare her fresh shocks."

"No! no!" interrupted William, "I cannot give up, even to God, this
last relic of my family, the sole prop of my old age. I will try every
means to bring back her heart to its early sentiments. Give me
Christine for a few days only! Let me conduct her to the place of her
birth, to the scenes where she loved. She is deaf to my entreaties,
but she will obey an order from you; bid her return for a while
beneath her father's roof! Should she still wish it, after this last
attempt, I will restore her hither."

"Take her with you, my son," replied the superior, "I will bid her
follow. If God has indeed spoken to her soul, no worldly voice will
move her. If it be otherwise, may she return no more to the cloister,
but be blessed wherever she goes! Adieu, my son; the peace of the Lord
be with you!"

Hope revived in the heart of William Van Amberg; it seemed to him as
if--the convent threshold once passed--Christine would revert to her
former character, her youth and love. He believed he was about to
remove his beloved child for ever from these gloomy walls, and with
painful impatience he awaited her coming. Soon a light step was heard
in the corridor; William threw open the door, Christine was there, and
no grating now separated her from her uncle.

"My beloved Christine!" exclaimed William, "at last, then, you are
restored to me; at last I can press you to my heart! Come, we will
return to our own country, and revisit the house where we all dwelt
together."

Sister Martha-Mary was still paler than at her first interview with
William. If any expression was discernible upon that calm countenance,
it was one of sadness. She allowed herself to be taken by the hand and
conducted to the convent gate; but when the gate was opened, and,
passing into the open air, she encountered the broad daylight and the
fresh breeze, she tottered and leaned for support against the wall.
Just then the sun rent the clouds, and threw its golden beams on plain
and mountain; the air was clear and transparent, and the flat and
monotonous horizon acquired beauty from the burst of light.

"See, my daughter!" said William, "see how lovely the earth looks! How
soft is the air we breathe! How good it is to be free, and to move
towards that immense horizon!"

"Oh, my dear uncle!" replied the novice, "how beautiful are the
heavens! See how the sun shines above our heads! It is in heaven that
his glory should be admired! His rays are already dim and feeble when
they touch the earth!"

William led Christine to a carriage; they got in, and the horses set
off. Long did the gaze of the novice remain fixed on her convent's
walls; when these were hidden from her by the windings of the road,
she closed her eyes and seemed to sleep. During the journey, William
endeavoured in vain to make her converse; she had forgotten how to
express her thoughts. When compelled to reply, fatigue overwhelmed
her; her whole existence was concentrated in her soul, and detached
entirely from the external world. At intervals, she would say to
herself: "How long the morning is! Nothing marks the hours; I have not
heard a single bell to-day!"

At last they reached the red house, and the carriage drove into the
court, where the grass grow between the stones. Gothon came out to
receive them, and Martha-Mary, leaning on her uncle's arm, entered the
parlour where the family of Van Amberg had so often assembled. The
room was deserted and cold; no books or work gave it the look of
habitation; abandoned by its last occupants, it awaited new ones.
Christine slowly traversed this well-known apartment, and sat down
upon a chair near the window. It was there her mother had sat for
twenty years; there had her childhood passed at the knees of
Annunciata.

William opened the window, showed her the meadow, the willows, and the
river. Christine looked at them in silence, her head resting on her
hand, her eyes fixed on the horizon. For a long while William stood
beside her, then he placed his hand on her shoulder and pronounced her
name. She rose and followed him. They ascended the stairs, traversed
the gallery, and William opened a door. "Your mother's room," said he
to Christine. The novice entered and stood still in the middle of the
chamber; tears flowed from her eyes, she clasped her hands and prayed.

"My daughter," said William, "_she_ ardently desired your happiness."

"She has obtained it!" replied the novice.

The old man felt a profound sadness come over him. It was like
pressing to his heart a corpse to which his love restored neither
breath nor warmth. Martha-Mary approached her mother's bed, knelt
down, and kissed the pillow that had supported the dying head of
Annunciata.

"Mother!" she murmured, "soon we shall meet again."

William shuddered. He took Christine's hand, and led her to the room
she had formerly occupied. The little white-curtained bed was still
there, the guitar hung against the wall, Christine's favourite volumes
filled the shelves of her modest bookcase; through the open window
were seen the willows and the river. Martha-Mary noticed none of these
things: the wooden crucifix was still upon the wall; she rapidly
approached it, knelt, bowed her head upon the feet of Christ, closed
her eyes and breathed deeply, like one finding repose after long
fatigue. Like the exile returning to his native land, like the
storm-tossed mariner regaining the port, she remained with her brow
resting upon her Saviour's feet.

Standing by her side, William looked on in tearful silence. Farther
off, Gothon wiped her eyes with her apron. Several hours elapsed. The
house-clock struck, the birds sang in the garden; the wind rustled
among the trees; in the lofty pigeon-house the doves cooed; the cock
crowed in the poultry-yard. None of these loved and familiar sounds
could divert Martha-Mary from her devout meditation. Sick at heart,
her uncle descended to the parlour. He remained there long, plunged in
gloomy reflections. Suddenly hasty steps were heard; a young man
rushed into the room and into William's arms.

"Christine! Christine!" cried Herbert; "where is Christine? Is it not
a dream? M. Van Amberg gives me Christine!... Once more in my native
land, and Christine mine!"

"Karl Van Amberg gives, but God refuses her to you!" replied William,
mournfully. Then he told Herbert what had passed at the convent, and
since their arrival at the house: he gave a thousand details,--he
repeated them a thousand times, but without convincing Herbert of the
melancholy truth.

"It is impossible!" cried the young man; "if Christine is alive, if
Christine is here, to the first word uttered by her lover, Christine
will reply."

"God grant it!" exclaimed William, "my last hope is in you."

Herbert sprang up the stairs, his heart too full of love to have room
for fear. Christine free, was for him Christine ready to become his
wife. He hastily opened her chamber door; but then he paused, as if
petrified, upon the threshold. The day was closing in, and its fading
light fell upon Martha-Mary, whose form stood out like a white shadow
from the gloom of the room. She was still on her knees, her head
resting on the feet of Christ, her fragile person lost in the
multiplied folds of her conventual robes. She heard not the opening of
the door, and Herbert stood gazing at her, till a flood of tears burst
from his eyes. William took his hand and silently pressed it.

"I am frightened!" said Herbert, in a low tone. "That is not my
Christine! A phantom risen from the earth, or an angel descended from
Heaven, has taken her place!"

"No, she is no longer Christine!" replied William, sadly.

For a few moments more Herbert stood in mournful contemplation. Then
he exclaimed:--"Christine, dear Christine!"

At the sound of his voice the novice started, rose to her feet, and
pronounced his name. As in former days, when her lover called
"Christine!" Martha-Mary had replied, "Herbert!"

The young man's heart beat violently; he stood beside the novice, he
took her hands. "It is I, it is Herbert!" he said, kneeling down
before her.

The novice fixed her large black eyes upon him with a long inquiring
gaze; a slight flush passed across her brow; then she became pale as
before, and said gently to Herbert:--"I thought not to see you again
upon earth."

"Dear Christine! tears and suffering have long been our portion; but
happy days at last dawn upon us! My love! my bride! we will never part
again!"

Martha-Mary extricated her hands from those of Herbert, and retreated
towards the image of Christ.

"I am the bride of the Lord" she said in trembling accents. "He
expects me."

Herbert uttered a cry of grief.

"Christine! dear Christine! remember our oft-repeated pledges, our
loves, our tears, our hopes. You left me vowing to love me always.
Christine, if you would not have me die of despair, remember the
past!"

Martha-Mary's eyes continued riveted on the crucifix; her hands,
convulsively clasped, were extended towards it.

"Gracious Lord!" she prayed, "speak to his heart as you have spoken to
mine! It is a noble heart, worthy to love you. Stronger than I,
Herbert may survive, even after much weeping! Console him, oh Lord!"

"Christine! my first and only love! sole hope and joy of my life! do
you thus abandon me? That heart, once entirely mine, is it closed to
me for ever?"

Her gaze upon the crucifix, her hands still joined, the novice, as if
able to speak only to her God, gently replied:--"Lord! he suffers as I
suffered! shed upon him the balm wherewith you healed my wounds!
Leaving him life, take his soul as you have taken mine. Give him that
ineffable peace which descends upon those thou lovest!"

"Oh Christine! my beloved!" cried Herbert, once more taking her hand,
"do but look at me! turn your eyes upon me and behold my tears!
Dearest treasure of my heart! you seem to slumber! Awake! Have you
forgotten our tender meetings? the willows bending over the stream,
the boat in which we sailed a whole night, dreaming the joy of eternal
union? See! the moon rises as it rose that night. We were near each
other as now; but then they tore us asunder, and now we are free to be
together! Christine, have you ceased to love? Is all forgotten?"

William took her other hand. "Dear child," he said, "we entreat you
not to leave us! To you we look for happiness; remain with us,
Christine."

One hand in the hands of Herbert, the other in those of William, the
novice slowly and solemnly replied:

"The corpse that reposes in the tomb does not lift the stone to
re-enter the world. The soul that has seen Heaven, does not leave it
to return to earth. The creature to whom God has said, 'Be thou the
spouse of Christ,' does not quit Christ to unite herself to a man; and
she who is about to die should turn her affections from mortal
things!"

"Herbert!" cried William, "be silent! Not another word! I can scarcely
feel the throbbing of her pulse! She is paler even than when I first
saw her behind the convent grating. We give her pain. Enough, Herbert,
enough! Better yield her to God upon earth, than send her to him in
Heaven!"

The old man placed the almost inanimate head of Martha-Mary upon his
shoulder, and pressed her to his heart as a mother embraces her child.
"Recover yourself, my daughter," he said; "I will restore you to the
house of God."

Martha-Mary turned her sad and gentle gaze upon her uncle, and her
hand feebly pressed his. Then addressing herself to Herbert:

"You, Herbert," she said, in a scarcely audible voice, "you, who will
live, do not abandon him!"

"Christine!" cried Herbert, on his knees before his betrothed.
"Christine! do we part for ever?"

The novice raised her eyes to heaven.

"Not for ever!" she replied.

Some days afterwards the convent gates opened to receive sister
Martha-Mary. They closed upon her for the last time. With feeble and
unsteady step the novice traversed the cloisters to prostrate herself
on the altar-steps. The superior came to her.

"Oh my mother!" exclaimed Christine, the fountain of whose tears was
opened, and who wept as in the days of her childhood, "I have seen him
and left him! To thee I return, oh Lord! faithful to my vows, I await
the crown that shall consecrate me thy spouse. Thy voice alone shall
henceforward reach my ears; I come to sing thy praises, to pray and
serve thee until the end of my life!--Holy mother, prepare the robe of
serge, the white crown, the silver cross; I am ready!"

"My daughter," replied the superior, "you are very ill, much exhausted
by so many shocks; will you not delay the ceremony of profession?"

"No, holy mother! no; delay it not! I would die the bride of the
Lord!... And I have little time!" replied sister Martha-Mary.

THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE.

The Massacre of Glencoe is an event which neither can nor ought to be
forgotten. It was one of the earliest fruits of the so-called glorious
Revolution Settlement, and exhibits in their foulest perfidy the true
characters of its authors.

After the battle of Killiecrankie the cause of the Scottish royalists
declined, rather from the want of a competent leader than from any
disinclination on the part of the people to vindicate the right of
King James. No person of adequate talents or authority was found to
supply the place of the great and gallant Lord Dundee, of whom it was
truly written,--

    "Te moriente, novos accepit Scotia cives,
    Accepitque novos, te moriente, deos."

General Cannon, who succeeded in command, was not only deficient in
military skill, but did not possess the confidence, nor understand the
character of the Highland chiefs, who, with their clansmen,
constituted by far the most important section of the army. Accordingly
no enterprise of any importance was attempted, and the disastrous
issue of the battle of the Boyne led to a negotiation which terminated
in the entire disbanding of the royal forces. By this treaty, which
was expressly sanctioned by William of Orange, a full and unreserved
indemnity and pardon was granted to all of the Highlanders who had
taken arms, with a proviso that they should first subscribe the oath
of allegiance to William and Mary, before the 1st of January 1692, in
presence of the Lords of the Scottish Council, "or of the sheriffs or
their deputies of the respective shires wherein they lived." The
letter of William addressed to the Privy Council, and ordering
proclamation to be made to the above effect, contained also the
following significant passage:--"That ye communicate our pleasure to
the Governor of Inverlochy and other commanders that they be exact and
diligent in their several posts; but that they show no more zeal
against the Highlanders after their submission, _than they have ever
done formerly when these were in open rebellion_."

This enigmatical sentence, which in reality was intended, as the
sequel will show, to be interpreted in the most cruel manner, appears
to have caused some perplexity in the Council, as that body deemed it
necessary to apply for more distinct and specific instructions, which,
however, were not then issued. It had been especially stipulated by
the chiefs as an indispensable preliminary to their treaty, that they
should have leave to communicate with King James, then residing at St
Germains, for the purpose of obtaining his permission and warrant
previous to submitting themselves to the existing government. That
article had been sanctioned by William before the proclamation was
issued, and a special messenger was despatched to France for that
purpose.

In the mean time, troops were gradually and cautiously advanced to the
confines of the Highlands, and, in some instances, actually quartered
on the inhabitants. The condition of the country was perfectly
tranquil. No disturbances whatever occurred in the north or west of
Scotland; Lochiel and the other chiefs were awaiting the communication
from St. Germains, and held themselves bound in honour to remain
inactive; whilst the remainder of the royalist forces (for whom
separate terms had been made) were left unmolested at Dunkeld.

But rumours, which are too clearly traceable to the emissaries of the
new government, asserting the preparation made for an immediate
landing of King James at the head of a large body of the French, were
industriously circulated, and by many were implicitly believed. The
infamous policy which dictated such a course is now apparent. The term
of the amnesty or truce granted by the proclamation expired with the
year 1691, and all who had not taken the oath of allegiance before
that term were to be proceeded against with the utmost severity. The
proclamation was issued upon the 29th of August, consequently, only
four months were allowed for the complete submission of the Highlands.

Not one of the chiefs subscribed until the mandate from King James
arrived. That document, which is dated from St Germains on the 12th of
December 1691, reached Dunkeld eleven days afterwards, and,
consequently, but a very short time before the indemnity expired. The
bearer, Major Menzies, was so fatigued that he could proceed no
farther on his journey, but forwarded the mandate by an express to the
commander of the royal forces, who was then at Glengarry. It was
therefore impossible that the document could be circulated through the
Highlands within the prescribed period. Lochiel, says Drummond of
Balhaldy, did not receive his copy till about thirty hours before the
time was out, and appeared before the sheriff at Inverara, where he
took the oaths upon the very day on which the indemnity expired.

That a general massacre throughout the Highlands was contemplated by
the Whig government, is a fact established by overwhelming evidence.
In the course of the subsequent investigations before the Scots
Parliament, letters were produced from Sir John Dalrymple, then Master
of Stair, one of the secretaries of state in attendance upon the
court, which too clearly indicate the intentions of William. In one of
these, dated 1st December 1691,--_a month_, be it observed, before the
amnesty expired--and addressed to Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, there
are the following words:--"The winter is the only season in which we
are sure the Highlanders cannot escape us, _nor carry their wives,
bairns_, and cattle to the mountains." And in another letter, written
only two days afterwards, he says,--"It is the only time that they
cannot escape you, for human constitution cannot endure to be long out
of houses. _This is the proper season to maule them in the cold long
nights._" And in January thereafter, he informed Sir Thomas Livingston
that the design was "to destroy entirely the country of Lochaber,
Lochiel's lands, Keppoch's, Glengarry's, Appin, and Glencoe. I assure
you," he continues, "your power shall be full enough, _and I hope the
soldiers will not trouble the Government with prisoners_."

Lochiel was more fortunate than others of his friends and neighbours.
According to Drummond,--"Major Menzies, who, upon his arrival, had
observed the whole forces of the kingdom ready to invade the
Highlands, as he wrote to General Buchan, foreseeing the unhappy
consequences, not only begged that general to send expresses to all
parts with orders immediately to submit, but also wrote to Sir Thomas
Livingston, praying him to supplicate the Council for a prorogation of
the time, in regard that he was so excessively fatigued, that he was
obliged to stop some days to repose a little; and that though he
should send expresses, yet it was impossible they could reach the
distant parts in such time as to allow the several persons concerned
the benefit of the indemnity within the space limited; besides, that
some persons having put the Highlanders in a bad temper, he was
confident to persuade them to submit, if a further time were allowed.
Sir Thomas presented this letter to the Council on the 5th of January
1692, but they refused to give any answer, and ordered him to transmit
the same to court."

The reply of William of Orange was a letter, countersigned by
Dalrymple, in which, upon the recital that "several of the chieftains
and many of their clans have not taken the benefit of our gracious
indemnity," he gave orders for a general massacre. "To that end, we
have given Sir Thomas Livingston orders to employ our troops (which we
have already conveniently posted,) to cut off these obstinate rebels
_by all manner of hostility_; and we do require you to give him your
assistance and concurrence in all other things that may conduce to
that service; and because these rebels, to avoid our forces, may draw
themselves, _their families_, goods, or cattle, to lurk or be
concealed among their neighbours: therefore, we require and authorise
you to emit a proclamation to be published at the market-crosses of
these or the adjacent shires where the rebels reside, discharging upon
the highest penalties the law allows, any reset, correspondence, or
intercommuning with these rebels." This monstrous mandate, which was
in fact the death-warrant of many thousand innocent people, no
distinction being made of age or sex, would, in all human probability,
have been put into execution, but for the remonstrance of one
high-minded nobleman. Lord Carmarthen, afterwards Duke of Leeds,
accidentally became aware of the purposed massacre, and personally
remonstrated with the monarch against a measure which he denounced as
at once cruel and impolitic. After much discussion, William,
influenced rather by an apprehension that so savage and sweeping an
act might prove fatal to his new authority, than by any compunction or
impulse of humanity, agreed to recall the general order, and to limit
himself, in the first instance, to a single deed of butchery, by way
of testing the temper of the nation. Some difficulty seems to have
arisen in the selection of the fittest victim. Both Keppoch and
Glencoe were named, but the personal rancour of Secretary Dalrymple
decided the doom of the latter. The Secretary wrote thus:--"Argyle
tells me that Glencoe hath not taken the oath, at which I rejoice. It
is a great work of charity to be exact in rooting out that damnable
set." The final instructions regarding Glencoe, which were issued on
16th January 1692, are as follows:--

     "WILLIAM R.--As for M'Ian of Glencoe and that tribe, if they
     can be well distinguished from the rest of the Highlanders,
     it will be proper for public justice to extirpate that set
     of thieves."

                                                          "W. R."

This letter is remarkable as being signed and countersigned by William
alone, contrary to the usual practice. The secretary was no doubt
desirous to screen himself from after responsibility, and was further
aware that the royal signature would ensure a rigorous execution of
the sentence.

Macdonald, or as he was more commonly designed, M'Ian of Glencoe, was
the head of a considerable sept or branch of the great Clan-Coila, and
was lineally descended from the ancient Lords of the Isles, and from
the royal family of Scotland, the common ancestor of the Macdonalds
having espoused a daughter of Robert II. He was, according to a
contemporary testimony, "a person of great integrity, honour, good
nature, and courage, and his loyalty to his old master, King James,
was such, that he continued in arms from Dundee's first appearing in
the Highlands, till the fatal treaty that brought on his ruin." In
common with the other chiefs, he had omitted taking the benefit of the
indemnity until he received the sanction of King James; but the copy
of that document which was forwarded to him, unfortunately arrived too
late. The weather was so excessively stormy at the time that there was
no possibility of penetrating from Glencoe to Inverara, the place
where the sheriff resided, before the expiry of the stated period; and
M'Ian accordingly adopted the only practicable mode of signifying his
submission, by making his way with great difficulty to Fort-William,
then called Inverlochy, and tendering his signature to the military
governor there. That officer was not authorised to receive it, but at
the earnest entreaty of the chief, he gave him a certificate of his
appearance and tender, and on New-year's day, 1692, M'Ian reached
Inverara, where he produced that paper as evidence of his intentions,
and prevailed upon the sheriff, Sir James Campbell of Ardkinglass, to
administer the oaths required. After that ceremony, which was
immediately intimated to the Privy Council, had been performed, the
unfortunate gentleman returned home, in the full conviction that he
had thereby made peace with government for himself and for his clan.
But his doom was already sealed.

A company of the Earl of Argyle's regiment had been previously
quartered in Glencoe. These men, though Campbells, and hereditarily
obnoxious to the Macdonalds, Camerons, and other of the loyal clans,
were yet countrymen, and were kindly and hospitably received. Their
captain, Robert Campbell of Glenlyon, was connected with the family of
Glencoe through the marriage of a niece, and was resident under the
roof of the chief. And yet this was the very troop selected for the
horrid service.

Special instructions were sent to the major of the regiment, one
Duncanson, then quartered at Ballachulish, a morose, brutal, and
savage man, who accordingly wrote to Campbell of Glenlyon in the
following terms:--

                             "_Ballacholis, 12 February, 1692._

     "SIR,--You are hereby ordered to fall upon the rebels, the
     M'Donalds of Glencoe, and putt all to the sword under
     seventy. You are to have special care that the old fox and
     his sons doe upon no account escape your hands. You are to
     secure all the avenues that no man escape. This you are to
     put in execution att five o'clock in the morning precisely,
     and by that time or very shortly after it I'll strive to be
     att you with a stronger party. If I doe not come to you at
     five, you are not to tarry for me but to fall on. This is by
     the king's speciall command, for the good and safety of the
     country, that these miscreants be cutt off root and branch.
     See that this be putt in execution without feud or favour,
     else you may expect to be treated as not true to the king's
     government, nor a man fitt to carry a commission in the
     king's service. Expecting you will not faill in the
     fulfilling hereof as you love yourself, I subscrive these
     with my hand.

                                               "ROBERT DUNCANSON.

    "For their Majesty's service. To Captain
          Robert Campbell of Glenlyon."

This order was too literally obeyed. At the appointed hour, when the
whole inhabitants of the glen were asleep, the work of murder began.
M'Ian was one of the first who fell. Drummond's narrative fills up the
remainder of the dreadful story.

"They then served all within the family in the same manner, without
distinction of age or person. In a word, for the horror of that
execrable butchery must give pain to the reader, they left none alive
but a young child, who being frighted with the noise of the guns, and
the dismal shrieks and cries of its dying parents, whom they were
a-murdering, got hold of Captain Campbell's knees and wrapt itself
within his cloak; by which, chancing to move compassion, the captain
inclined to have saved it, but one Drummond, an officer, arriving
about the break of day with more troops, commanded it to be shot by a
file of musqueteers. Nothing could be more shocking and horrible than
the prospect of these houses bestrewed with mangled bodies of the
dead, covered with blood, and resounding with the groans of wretches
in the last agonies of life.

"Two sons of Glencoe's were the only persons that escaped in that
quarter of the country; for, growing jealous of some ill designs from
the behaviour of the soldiers, they stole from their beds a few
minutes before the tragedy began, and chancing to overhear two of them
discoursing plainly of the matter, they endeavoured to have advertised
their father, but finding that impracticable, they ran to the other
end of the country and alarmed the inhabitants. There was another
accident that contributed much to their safety; for the night was so
excessively stormy and tempestuous, that four hundred soldiers, who
were appointed to murder these people, were stopped in their march
from Inverlochy, and could not get up till they had time to save
themselves. To cover the deformity of so dreadful a sight, the
soldiers burned all the houses to the ground, after having rifled
them, carried away nine hundred cows, two hundred horses, numberless
herds of sheep and goats, and every thing else that belonged to these
miserable people. Lamentable was the case of the women and children
that escaped the butchery. The mountains were covered with a deep
snow, the rivers impassable, storm and tempest filled the air, and