Read Ebook: Feudal tyrants; or The Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans volume 4 (of 4) by Naubert Benedikte Lewis M G Matthew Gregory Translator

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--"And mutual too, as it seems!" replied the plump dowager, to whom this audible whisper had been addrest.

Ha! at those words how high swelled the proud bosom of Elizabeth! How fiery was the glance like lightning, which she threw upon Ida, as she turned away! How contemptuous was the look, with which she eyed young Montfort, in whom the care of his servants had just produced some faint signs of returning animation. Her impetuous spirit had always rendered her too susceptible of sudden and violent passion, and had already betrayed her into the commission of many a hasty and ill-judged action. Without waiting for further explanation she rushed out of the chapel, while her eyes flashed fire as she went. She was followed by all those, who envied the sisters; and who were now resolved to devote a day, long destined to happiness, to the nourishment of suspicion and resentment; and who were prepared to use their utmost arts to render the wounds lately given to love and friendship incurable.

I will not attempt to describe the state of Ida's mind. Constantia judged it prudent for them to withdraw as soon as possible from the curious gaze of the by-standers. Accordingly, she conducted the bewildered Ida to her apartment, and then hastened to that of the bride, in order that, she might at once offer explanations and receive them in return. She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her first astonishment to conceive, how strong an impression to her sister's prejudice the scene, which had just taken place, must have made upon Elizabeth: much less did she suppose it possible, that her friend could act so unjustly as to show resentment against herself for an action, which had at any rate been committed by another.

Her surprise therefore was great, when she was refused admittance to Elizabeth, with every mark of harshness and indignation.--She returned sorrowing from her fruitless embassy; and she had scarcely regained her own apartment, before a Chamberlain made his appearance there to inform the sisters in the name of the Lord of the Castle, that in consequence of Elizabeth's sudden indisposition, and of the late confusion it would be adviseable for them immediately to quit a house, in which certainly no bridal ceremony would be celebrated at present.

In the mean while, Henry on opening his eyes cast his first glances eagerly towards the spot, where he fancied, that the spirits of Tell's grand-daughters had appeared to him; they were no longer to be seen. He was now confirmed in his visionary notions, and implicitly believed, that he had really seen an apparition.--He inquired for Elizabeth: the answer was, that she had quitted the chapel evidently in displeasure; very little reflection was necessary to make him aware, that the singular part which he had just been playing, made it necessary for him to hasten to his bride without delay, and explain the cause of his mysterious behaviour. While approaching her chamber, he considered with himself, whether it would, or would not, be adviseable to inform her of the vision, which had just appeared to him, and to lay open to her the secret history of his early life! His deliberations, however, were quite superfluous; for he was denied admittance to Elizabeth with no less positiveness and contempt, than had been shown on Constantia's application.

He felt, that Elizabeth had some reason to think herself insulted; and instead of repaying her scorn with scorn, he lost no time in justifying himself in the eyes of his offended mistress.--A personal interview was denied him; the explanation therefore could only be conveyed in writing; but Henry was not sufficiently an adept in penmanship to permit his finishing so long an apology with as much expedition, as the nature of the case made desirable. He resolved therefore to employ a secretary; and as upon inquiry no ready writer was to be found in the whole Castle except the family Chaplain he requested his assistance. He might have chosen from among a thousand, and yet could not have confided his affairs to a more improper instrument. However, Henry dictated, and the Friar wrote as follows.

And yet, Elizabeth...! Mark, my beloved, and conceive my astonishment, my horror!--And yet, Elizabeth, I swear to you most solemnly, that this evening as you stood at the altar, I saw the form of the long-deceased Rosanna Tell approach, and place the myrtle wreath upon your forehead; while by her side stood a second apparition in a religious habit, the exact resemblance of Mary, Rosanna's sister, who is buried with her in the same tomb!

Beloved Elizabeth, admit me to your presence, and every point shall be explained most fully. At present I must break off, for the person has taken offence at an expression which accidentally escaped me, and refuses any longer to render me his services.

In truth, Henry's ecclesiastical secretary was greatly displeased at the words "monastic arts:" however, an apology and some pieces of gold not only brought the avaricious Monk into good-humour again, but even induced him to offer to be the bearer of his letter, in case the young Lord of Montfort should still think proper to send it, after hearing what he had to say upon the subject.

Henry gave him permission to speak, and promised to be attentive.

The crafty Friar rose, as if about to quit the apartment. It is superfluous to say, that Henry did not suffer him to depart.--Father Jacob possest the whole of Ida's history, except in so far as related to her adventure with Erwin Melthal: he refused to communicate any portion of his knowledge, till this hitherto unsuspected circumstance had been fully explained to him. This demand was complied with, every circumstance was confided to him; and with astonishing quickness he discerned in this narrative the means of attaining an object, which he and his honest ally, the keeper of Count Frederick's conscience, had very nearly at heart, but which they had found themselves compelled to abandon in despair.

Montfort had finished.--And now the Monk exerted all his eloquence to convince his auditor of that, which Henry's heart was already most anxious to believe; namely, that his first oaths of love ought to be the most binding; that it was no less necessary to keep his faith to Ida of Werdenberg than to Rosanna Tell; and that his giving that hand to Elizabeth, which he had sworn to give to another, would only serve to form an union unjust, sinful, abominable, and accursed.

Henry was quite of the Monk's opinion, long before his oration came to an end. Of much more consequence did it now appear to him to renew his vows to the long-lost late-found Ida, than to appease the indignation of the offended Elizabeth. Joy and anxiety almost bereft him of understanding. The Monk was commissioned to procure for him an immediate interview with Ida; and when Father Jacob returned to him with the information, that an hour had already elapsed, since the Damsels of Werdenberg departed from the Castle, he forgot so completely all ideas of propriety, of consideration for the feelings of his bride, and of the misconstructions to which he was making his conduct liable, that without farther deliberation he sprang upon his courser, and pursued the way, which the Monk pointed out to him as that, by which he might the most speedily overtake the sisters. In the hurry of his enthusiastic affection, he forgot every thing else; he left no apology for the Count of March; no explanation for Elizabeth; he even neglected to remind the Monk to deliver his letter, or to desire him to clear up the mystery of his conduct.

In fact, Father Jacob had other business upon his hands, than to extenuate Montfort's offence in the eyes of Elizabeth. Immediately on the youth's departure, he lost no time in transmitting the following letter to the family-priest of Torrenburg.

Before this letter can reach you, doubtless the occurrences of this evening will be already known to you: but learn from me some circumstances, which are as yet a secret to all but myself and the principal actors in them.--Erwin Melthal, that peasant youth on whose perfections and on whose attachment you have heard Ida dwell with such enthusiasm, proves to be no other than Henry of Montfort.--Elizabeth is still ignorant of this previous acquaintance, and must remain so: with the sisters she is likely to have no immediate intercourse, and by my management Henry has left the Castle of March in pursuit of Ida; though to gain time, I thought it prudent to give him a false direction, and he is now upon the road to the half-ruined Fortress, which the Count of Torrenburg possesses in Thuringia.

Let your patron lose no time in hastening hither--I will take care, that he shall find the family disposed to consider his renewed proposals as a most honourable and fortunate event; and I doubt not, in the first tumult of her passions, of disappointed love, violated friendship, and raging jealousy, Elizabeth may be easily persuaded to an union, which will make her mistress of that rival's fate, to whose pernicious beauty she ascribes the loss of her own promised happiness.

Be assured, it will be greatly both for your advantage and for mine, that Elizabeth should become Count Frederick's wife. He is advanced in years; it is highly improbable, that he should have children; and a rich bequest is already secured to our convent in the event of his dying without legitimate descendants. On the other hand, should he remain unmarried, there is every probability of his acknowledging the Damsels of Werdenberg as his heiresses; a step, which would ruin all our hopes for ever, but which he will never be suffered to take, if the jealous and incensed Elizabeth becomes Countess of Torrenburg.

With regard to these hated girls, whose intrusion is so greatly adverse to our interests, no means must be neglected for expelling them from their guardian's house and favour. As to Constantia, I look upon her as little dangerous, being entirely devoted to a religious life: it would therefore be unnecessary to molest her, were not her fate so closely connected with her sister's, that it is impossible to separate the one from the other. But it is against Ida that all your skill must be directed.--Doubtless, Elizabeth's letters are still in her possession--Seize them, either by art or violence, it matters not which: they must necessarily contain matter sufficient to convince Count Frederick, that it was by her advice, that her friend was persuaded to elope from him with young Montfort: he will look upon her as the traverser of his views upon Elizabeth, and that will be sufficient to banish her from his favour--this will be greatly confirmed by the appearance of the sisters at Elizabeth's wedding, which he cannot but consider as highly disrespectful to himself and his feelings; but you must carefully conceal from him, that Ida confined in the solitude of Torrenburg Castle, and Constantia buried in the silence of her Convent, were both ignorant of the rejected lover's name till after their arrival at the Castle of March. The Count is noble-minded; but he is proud, irascible, easily induced to believe the worst of those who surround him, and obstinate in retaining prejudices once received--these are the parts of his character, upon which it must be your care to work, till you have kindled a flame against Ida in his bosom, which all her tears will be unable to extinguish. On the other hand, you must assail Ida with terrors of her uncle's indignation, and with threats of an immediate union with her superannuated admirer, Count Egbert: and when you have terrified her sufficiently to prevent her conduct from being regulated by her understanding, assure her, that there is no way of avoiding Count Frederick's wrath and old Montfort's marriage-bed, except flight from the Castle of Torrenburg.--That step once taken, Ida is ruined; Constantia may easily be convicted of participation in her sister's actions; the ungrateful girls will be banished from their uncle's favour irrevocably, and then the game will be all our own.--Farewell, and let me hear from you with all diligence.

The unconscious subject of these abominable artifices was in the mean while journeying homewards with a heavy heart, doubly afflicted by the injustice of her friend, and the supposed perfidy of her lover. She had ascertained no more before her departure from the Castle of March, than that the man, whom she had so long believed to be a peasant's son, was Count Henry of Montfort; but it still remained unexplained, how Henry could have so totally forgotten his former vows, and have offered his hand to another. The more that she reflected, the less reason did there appear to doubt, that upon discovering his own noble origin he had abandoned all thoughts of an union with the low-born daughter of William Tell. In the opinion of love this fault was not to be excused; she in some degree obtained a forced tranquillity by resolving, that his conduct had rendered him totally unworthy of her; and that even should the inconstant Henry return to her chains, it would be beneath Ida of Werdenberg to accept that hand, which he had insolently withdrawn from the humble Rosanna Tell.

Constantia accompanied her sister for some part of her journey, but was at length unwillingly compelled to separate from her and return to her convent, attended by the vassals whom the Abbess of Zurich had sent for her protection. Ida reached her guardian's Castle without meeting any adventure; but a mistake of her attendants occasioned her to go considerably out of her road, and this delay gave time for Father Jacob's letter to precede her at the Castle of Torrenburg. Father Hilarius lost no time in searching for Elizabeth's letters; he found them, and found them also such, as he wished. Some, which would have exculpated Ida, and made against Elizabeth, he committed to the flames, and then lost no time in communicating the rest to his patron.

Count Frederick had returned home on Elizabeth's bridal day, which he intended to pass with his niece in silent melancholy. He had resolved to inquire into her character with more attention, than he had done hitherto; and as his late disappointment had made him give up all thoughts of marriage for himself, it was his intention to declare that the damsels of Werdenberg were his future heiresses, in case they should prove to deserve so great a distinction.

On his arrival he inquired for Ida; he was informed, that she was gone to the wedding of the young Countess of March.--He started in astonishment, and father Hilarius shook his head with a smile. Frederick enquired, how the girl could have ventured to take a step, which he could not but look upon as a marked token of disrespect? or if she were ignorant of his having payed his addresses to Elizabeth, why had not father Hilarius prevented her from unconsciously offering him this public affront? the worthy Chaplain shrugged his shoulders, and answered that--"Good-lack! he was too old and too simple to look after a young wanton girl with the devil in her head."--

Frederick heard every word with increasing amazement. In a voice of fury he demanded, that the proofs, of which the Monk had spoken, should be instantly produced.--Father Hilarius then gave Elizabeth's letters into his hand, accompanying them with some reflections on the danger of teaching women the art of writing; at the same time reminding the Count, how strenuously and how frequently he had represented to him, that in the hands of so forward a girl as Ida, there could not possibly be a more dangerous instrument than a pen; and that to leave her to the full as ignorant as he found her, was an object most desirable both for the Count and for herself.--But his remonstrances had been disregarded; Ida was taught to write; and now see the blessed effects of it!

Elizabeth's hand was not to be mistaken; and while the Count gazed upon the writing so well known to him, the malicious Priest inflamed his resentment still further by relating various passages of Ida's early life, to which he well knew how to give that colouring, which suited best with his designs; he related, how during the time that she was believed to be Tell's grand-daughter, Ida had greatly shocked her companions by her free and dissolute manners; he proceeded to state, that in consequence her guardians had been obliged to separate her from Constantia, lest the one should be perverted by the bad example of the other; that regret at finding all his efforts to reclaim her in vain, had broken the heart of her adopted father, and sent him with sorrow to his grave: that she had carried on an intrigue with a man of low birth, to whom she was still attached; and that in all probability it was her intention to enrich this peasant with the valuable inheritance, which she expected to derive from Count Frederick's bounty.

The Count bit his lip: yet after a long silence he answered, that Ida's parentage and claims admitted of no doubt; and that he wished most heartily, that she were any other person, in order that in pronouncing his judgement upon her conduct, she might have been entitled to less consideration and respect.

--"But in spite of all her faults," said he, "I cannot deal harshly with a person, who is the daughter of my deceased friend, and of the woman whom I once adored. Yet on the other hand, such mean artifices, such acts of interested baseness, of such flagrant ingratitude, ought not to escape without due punishment.--Ida has destroyed the happiness, which I promised myself in marriage; it will be no more than a just vengeance, if I destroy hers in return.--Should she fail to exculpate herself, she shall either be immured for life within the walls of a Cloister, or give her hand without delay to the old Count of Montfort, from whom I this morning received proposals for her hand."--

When he pronounced this sentence, the Count was standing in an open balcony: as the last words fell from his lips, he saw Ida with her attendants riding slowly towards the Castle. He hastily drew back; and feeling, that he was at that time too much incensed to give her cause an impartial hearing, he ordered Father Hilarius to fill his place--the Friar exulted at this command: he knew well the generosity of his patron's nature, and dreaded that irresistible conviction, which ever accompanies the pleading of injured innocence: he therefore heard with Great satisfaction, that the cause was not to be tried by a judge, the goodness of whose own heart would naturally incline him to the side of mercy, justice, and compassion.

Ida had scarcely divested herself of her bridal robes, when a procession entered her chamber composed of the chief officers of the Count's household, and headed by the reverend Father Hilarius. The formal manner of their entrance, and the gravity which reigned in every countenance, were alone sufficient to communicate to her mind some degree of confusion and alarm.--How greatly were these emotions increased, when the Chaplain began his examination, which was preceded by a terrible description of her guardian's anger, and which consisted of questions so artfully worded, that taken by surprize and bewildered as she was, she found herself constrained either to return no answers at all, or such as were apparently to her disadvantage.--Sensible of this at length, she entreated, that time might be allowed her for recollection: the greatest part of her auditors were well inclined to the poor suppliant, and felt for her the most sincere compassion. The Monk therefore did not dare to act towards her with all the harshness, to which his heart prompted him; the further examination of this affair was postponed to three hours after sunrise of the next day, and Ida was left alone.

Buried in these melancholy reflections, she heard not the door unlocked, by which her apartments communicated with the public gallery.--At length a hand gently removed the handkerchief, with which she had covered her face. She looked up, and beheld Father Hilarius.

--"And what then must be done?" cried Ida, wringing her hands in fear and agony.--"How can I escape so dreadful a destiny?"--

--"Escape?" repeated the Monk.--"Ha! right! right! my dear child, it was surely Heaven, that inspired you with the thought!--Yes! you must escape; you must fly from the Castle of Torrenburg!"--

--"Escape? fly?"--repeated the bewildered Ida; "and whither must I go?"--

"To a retreat," replied the Monk, "where you may wait in security, till your uncle's resentment is appeased, and your innocence can be made clear to him.--But you shall know more, as we go along. I know a secret passage, by which you may quit the Castle unobserved. Follow me, for you have not a moment to lose!--Nay, come, come! away!"--

Thus saying, he caught the lamp from the table with one hand, and grasping Ida's arm with the other, he drew her from the chamber.--Bewildered, terrified, she had not presence of mind sufficient to form a resolution; and her exhausted frame was unable to resist the force, with which he urged her forwards, as she followed him through the long galleries, rather passively submitting, than wilfully consenting to his design.

I formerly mentioned, that Count Frederick still resided on the spot, which had once been the habitation of the antient Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans. To this he had chiefly been induced by the beauty of the situation: perhaps too his pride was secretly gratified by the recollection, that his residence was the same with that, whence his ancestors were accustomed to extend the sceptre of command over the surrounding provinces, and to set at defiance the resentment of many a sovereign prince, who possest much more lofty-sounding titles but much less real power and strength.--Still the gloomy, half-ruined Castle of Sargans was by no means a mansion suited to the taste of its modern possessor. Accordingly he had levelled to the ground the remains of a wing of this gigantic pile, which had formerly been destroyed by fire, and had erected in its place a stately palace, at once noble in its external form, and convenient in its interior accommodations. This was called the Castle of Torrenburg; while the forsaken halls and towers of Sargans were still distinguished by the name of the "Donat-Fortress," the two buildings were separated by courts of considerable extent; the antient one was in a great measure suffered to go to ruin, except a few apartments which were kept up for the accommodation of domestics, when on solemn occasions the number of guests was too great to be received within the walls of the Count's own residence.

Superstition had not failed to extend her dominion over the Donat-Fortress.--Traditions respecting the former Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans, which had been handed down from father to son, and with which you, Elizabeth, are already well acquainted, furnished subjects sufficient for a thousand wonderful stories. In truth, the prejudice, in favour of the opinion that the ruins were haunted, was so prevalent, that not merely among the Count's domestics, but even among the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages numbers of ghost-seers were to be found, who had beheld at sundry times the spirits of Ethelbert and Urania, of Donat, Helen, and other traditionary personages, wandering among those abandoned halls and moss-grown towers; and they augured either favourable or inauspicious events to the reigning possessor, according as the vision represented a lady or a Monk, an innocent wife or her haughty tyrant husband.

Ida's character is naturally extremely timid, and she had not escaped the contagion of superstitious terrors. It was therefore with no slight emotion, that she found her conductor taking the way, which led to the ruins.

--"Whither are you leading me?" said she frequently, as she followed him with trembling steps.--"Whither are you leading me?" she again demanded almost with a shriek; and as she snatched her hand from the Friar's, her blood froze in her veins at perceiving, that she had now past the last of the separating courts, and stood before the massy walls and lofty round towers of the Donat-Fortress, whose colossal portal seemed to stretch wide its enormous jaws, as if for the purpose of devouring her.

Father Hilarius was now compelled to stop for a moment, and support his fainting companion. She reclined her head against his shoulder; and when she had in some degree recovered her spirits, she related to him, that happening once to be standing in her balcony at midnight, she had seen with her own eyes the apparitions of two Monks come out of the very gate, before which they were at that moment standing; that they went up to the old well in the corner, whose mouth is overgrown with moss and weeds, and there they seemed to vanish; and that upon relating what she had seen the next morning, the old portress had related to her a terrible history of two Monks belonging to the Abbey of Curwald, who were starved to death in a subterraneous dungeon by the order of one of the tyrant-counts of Carlsheim; that their bones were buried in that ruined well, in which Heaven's retribution had ordained, that the murderer himself should perish; and that ever since that time, the place had been haunted by the ghosts of the two unfortunate Friars.

Father Hilarius, who frequently made use of the deserted fortress, when he had any secret business to transact, could have easily removed the miraculous part of the appearances, which Ida had seen; but it did not suit his plans to quiet her anxiety by letting her into the truth. He contented himself with painting in the strongest colours the dangers, which awaited her on her return to the Count's abode; and with reminding her, that her only chance of avoiding those dangers was an instantaneous flight by means, whose terrors were merely imaginary.

The priest, in spite of all his seeming simplicity, was by no means deficient in eloquence. His descriptions were so lively, and his arguments came so home to her feelings, that Ida was soon convinced, that she could meet with no ghost more terrible or more hideous than the old Count of Montfort. She therefore resolved to follow her guide without further remonstrance, and only requested that she might shut her eyes, and clasp one of his hands with both of hers in the form of a cross, which holy sign would scare all evil spirits away. To this he consented, and promised to inform her when she should be arrived in a place of safety, and might relieve herself from this voluntary loss of sight.

As they proceeded, the Monk lighted several torches of yellow wax, which were fastened at intervals against the sides of a long passage, opening into a large hall; he took the same precaution, as he ascended a lofty marble staircase; and as soon as he entered a spacious saloon, he lost no time in illuminating twelve large chandeliers of brass, which were suspended from the roof.--He now desired Ida to open her eyes, and look round her.

He could not have pitched upon a better method for dissipating Ida's fears of ghosts and goblins. Darkness is the mother of causeless terror; with the return of light, courage and confidence return to the trembling heart. The lamp, with which the Friar was still busied in lighting the last chandelier, assured her, that there was nothing supernatural in the light, by which she found herself surrounded; and her heart expanded with the agreeable impression, produced upon her by this sudden and unexpected splendour.

She had always pictured to herself the Donat-Fortress, as the residence of crows, bats, and screech-owls, a gloomy chaos of dirt, and dust, and fragments of moth-eaten furniture. How greatly then was she surprized to find, that though everything in truth was faded and antiquated, yet nothing could be more magnificent than the saloon, which she was then examining. It was hung with tapestry richly wrought and adorned with pictures, on whose frames gold and carving had been lavished most profusely: and through the open door she looked out upon the illuminated marble staircase, and down the long gallery, whose vista of lights presented an object at once noble and agreeable. Father Hilarius advised her to repose herself for a few minutes, and conducted her to an elevated seat under a canopy, which seemed like a throne.

--"It was here," said he "that the antient lords of the ten jurisdictions were accustomed to receive the homage of their vassals, while that anti-chamber was thronged with their knights and retainers; and it was from yonder side-chambers, that crouds of the noblest dames and damsels of the country looked out, and admired the magnificence of the powerful Counts of Carlsheim and Sargans."--

Ida would not cast a single glance towards the side-chambers, where the dames and damsels of former days used to assemble, for in these there were no torches; and she could not help fearing, lest she should discover in them some inhabitant of the other world made visible by the light of his own burning brimstone. She therefore continued to look towards the illuminated gallery, and listened with pleased attention to Father Hilarius, while he dwelt upon the brighter parts of the family traditions, and by descriptions of splendid feasts and stately tournaments, contrived to beguile the trembling girl of her terrors.

--"But we forget ourselves," said the Monk at length, suddenly breaking off his narration, "we must not suffer day-light to surprise us in these untenanted apartments, where we should undoubtedly be sought after, and then if found what would be the consequence? you would be consigned to the arms of the decrepit Egbert, while I should be sent back to my Convent with indignation by your uncle. Come, lady, come! follow me, where peace and security await your arrival."--

--"Lead on, good father!" replied Ida; "be you but my guide, and I will not hesitate to follow."--

--"Good!" said Hilarius; and then extinguishing some of the lights, he took them from the chandeliers.--"Then take special care of these tapers; they will be necessary for us on the way, by which we must escape. Now then hasten onwards, and be alarmed at nothing, which you may encounter. Be assured, there is no real danger."--

Thus saying, he gave her a small basket, which already appeared to contain some provisions, and in which he now deposited the tapers. These preparations for a long journey through gloomy ways were by no means calculated to preserve in Ida's mind that temporary tranquillity, which it had so lately recovered. An involuntary shuddering seized her; and as he lighted her forwards, he assured her so often of his acting honestly by her, that she began to suspect, that it must be his intention to deceive her.

They at length reached the most remote quarter of the Donat-Fortress, which by no means corresponded with the magnificence of those apartments, by which she had approached it. Here nothing was to be seen but winding staircases, narrow passages, low roofs, and gloomy vaulted dungeons, without end or number, whose labyrinth bewildered her memory, and whose aspect appalled her imagination. Most of them bore the strongest marks of the ravages of time: and now they entered an immense chamber, which according to the Monk's account had at one period been the bedroom of the Countess Urania, and of many of the ladies, her successors.--A large vacant alcove still decorated with the remnants of silken curtains, appeared to have once been intended to contain a bed, and confirmed the assertion of Father Hilarius; an assertion, which the other ornaments of the room seemed calculated to contradict. Swords, spears, and coats of mail were fastened against the walls, and gave the apartment more the appearance of a well-furnished armoury, than of a lady's bed chamber. Ida was on the point of asking the meaning of such unusual decorations, when her conductor removed a part of the worm-eaten tapestry, and opened a concealed door, through which she descried a staircase descending to a far greater depth, than her eye could reach.

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