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- Herausgeber: e-artnow Collections
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
In 'Psychic Sorcery – 4 Classic Paranormal Tales,' readers are transported to the mesmerizing world of the supernatural, as curated by visionary authors of the 19th and early 20th centuries. This anthology elegantly intertwines themes of mysticism, existential dread, and the allure of the unknown, creating a narrative tapestry that is both unsettling and thought-provoking. Through its diverse range of stories, readers will encounter a fascinating array of literary styles, from the romantic and lyrical to the macabre and ominous, offering a comprehensive glimpse into the literature of the paranormal. Standout pieces delve into the shadows, probing the human psyche and the ethereal realms that linger just beyond our perception, fully utilizing the era's fascination with the mystical. The compendium features notable contributions from writers such as Percy Bysshe Shelley, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Marie Corelli, and Algernon Blackwood, each renowned for their unique engagement with the supernatural. The authors' collective works explore intersections of Romanticism, Gothic fiction, and early speculative narratives, weaving personal and cultural anxieties of their time into their storytelling. As these pioneering voices converge, they build a rich dialogue that transcends typical genre boundaries, providing a timeless reflection on humanity's enduring intrigue with spiritual and otherworldly forces. This collection is an indispensable resource for readers keen on exploring the multifaceted world of paranormal literature through a curated selection of seminal works. 'Psychic Sorcery' not only offers Historical and literary insights but also invites readers into an expansive discourse on human fears, beliefs, and the unquenchable curiosity about the metaphysical. By engaging with this dynamic collection, readers can experience an evocative journey through time, enriched by diverse insights and the enduring artistry of its illustrious contributors.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Psychic Sorcery – 4 Classic Paranormal Tales
Table of Contents
Introduction
Psychic Sorcery – 4 Classic Paranormal Tales gathers four landmark visions of the occult by Percy Bysshe Shelley, Edward Bulwer-Lytton, Marie Corelli, and Algernon Blackwood. Their shared thread is an inquiry into extraordinary power—psychic, spiritual, or magical—as it tests human resolve and unsettles everyday experience. Each work treats the supernatural not as ornament but as the central pressure that reshapes conscience, desire, and fate. The collection’s unity lies in its commitment to the unseen as a field of knowledge and risk, where inner crises mirror outer marvels and the pursuit of mastery confronts the limits of perception and will.
These texts speak to one another through complementary designs. St. Irvyne (Horror Classic) channels Gothic dread, staging the supernatural as a source of fear and fascination. Zanoni meditates on esoteric wisdom and worldly entanglements, letting romance and philosophy intersect with the occult. The Secret Power contemplates latent energies and the ethical stakes of awakening them. The Supernatural Mysteries of Dr. John Silence frames the uncanny as a series of investigations, balancing curiosity with caution. Together they trace a spectrum from terror to wonder to analytical scrutiny, showing how paranormal experience can be dreadful, aspirational, or methodically examined.
Recurring motifs thread throughout: hidden knowledge, tests of initiation, perilous vows, and the ambiguous figure of the adept or guide. Again and again, characters find themselves drawn toward thresholds—spiritual, intellectual, or moral—where choices recalibrate identity. Settings shift from shadowed spaces that intensify foreboding to social environments where extraordinary forces intrude upon seemingly ordinary lives. The tension between isolation and community is pronounced, as private awakenings ripple into public consequences. Across all four works, the supernatural becomes a mirror for human ambition and vulnerability, magnifying desire, fear, and conscience until they assume the stature of fate.
Productive contrasts sharpen the conversation. Shelley's Gothic orientation heightens atmosphere and existential anxiety, while Bulwer-Lytton’s narrative gives occult aspiration a dramatic, expansive canvas. Corelli’s title signals a focus on interior forces and their moral charge, linking psychic potency to responsibility. Blackwood’s cycle of mysteries presents the paranormal as a pattern of cases, inviting calm observation and disciplined response. The tonal range—terror, rapture, speculation, and clinical inquiry—prevents any single doctrine from dominating. Instead, the collection triangulates the elusive, asking how belief, perception, and method alter what counts as real when extraordinary phenomena press upon the ordinary.
These works remain resonant because contemporary culture continues to grapple with unseen influences—psychological, technological, and social—that shape behavior while evading easy proof. They model imaginative ways of thinking about uncertainty without collapsing it into mere superstition or mere skepticism. In them, the desire for transcendence meets the demand for accountability, and private visions collide with public norms. Artists, readers, and thinkers can find here a language for negotiating blurred boundaries: spiritual yearnings that resist materialist reduction, and empirical habits that resist credulous surrender. The collection thus illuminates enduring debates about knowledge, authority, and the ethics of belief.
A further value lies in craft and form. These texts refine multiple narrative engines for the uncanny: the brooding confession, the visionary romance, the speculative meditation, and the investigative dossier. Atmosphere is not inert backdrop but a pressure system that registers moral weather. Symbolic patterns recur—light and shadow, thresholds and veils—yet each author orchestrates them toward distinct ends. Suspense arises as much from inner conflict as from external threat, and revelation often means reinterpreting familiar scenes rather than unveiling mere spectacle. By juxtaposing these modes, the collection demonstrates how style becomes theory, and tone becomes an argument about reality.
Presented together, these tales map an arc from dread through aspiration to disciplined wonder. They show that the paranormal is not a retreat from the human but a concentrated lens for it, where freedom is tested against destiny and curiosity against caution. Shelley's intensity, Bulwer-Lytton’s breadth, Corelli’s focus on latent potency, and Blackwood’s investigative poise form a composite portrait of psychic sorcery’s possibilities and perils. Their dialogue invites fresh reflection on the costs of power, the allure of mystery, and the continuing need for forms—artistic and ethical—capable of holding the unknown without either denying or worshiping it.
Historical Context
Socio-Political Landscape
Composed at the close of the Napoleonic era, St. Irvyne emerges from a Britain riven by anxiety over revolution, religious authority, and the policing of radical ideas. Percy Bysshe Shelley, himself associated with dissent, stages a Gothic pursuit whose abbeys, banditti, and alchemical enclaves refract arguments about tyranny and personal liberty. The novel’s clandestine experiments and secret vows echo contemporary fears of conspiratorial cells and freethinking societies. While not overtly programmatic, its obsession with transgression, oath, and punishment mirrors the period’s punitive legal regime and the struggle between inherited hierarchy and self-willed emancipation, with the supernatural serving as a charged metaphor for forbidden power.
Zanoni situates its drama against the convulsions of the 1790s, juxtaposing Neapolitan court culture with the French Revolution’s volatile claims to popular sovereignty. Edward Bulwer-Lytton explores how secret fraternities, surveillance, and ideological fervor reshape public and private life. The novel’s nearness to the Reign of Terror allows debates about virtue, mob justice, and the legitimacy of sacrifice to unfold through occult motifs, while royalist salons and revolutionary tribunals stage clashing conceptions of citizenship. Its esoteric brotherhoods double anxieties over state power and clandestine networks, asking whether hidden wisdom can ethically intervene when law, religion, and custom are seized by extremity.
Moving into the Edwardian and postwar decades, The Secret Power and The Supernatural Mysteries of Dr. John Silence register new alignments of knowledge, class, and empire. Marie Corelli dramatizes the militarization of invention and the media spectacle of national prestige, interrogating how charismatic authority and technological wonder can be mobilized for coercion. Algernon Blackwood, by contrast, places an occult physician within metropolitan households and colonial margins, where professional expertise, philanthropy, and policing intersect. Both writers exploit anxieties over urban crowding, borderlands, and scientific bureaucracy, treating psychic agency as a contested resource amid imperial rivalries and the expanding reach of the modern state.
Intellectual & Aesthetic Currents
St. Irvyne participates in Romantic-era experiments with the Gothic as a vehicle for metaphysical inquiry. Shelley adapts alchemical lore, demonological temptation, and ruined landscapes to probe the limits of reason inherited from Enlightenment rationalism. The novel’s volatile shifts in setting and mood reflect a youthful poetics of excess, where the sublime and the uncanny unsettle polite moral didacticism. Its fascination with forbidden knowledge aligns with debates about vitalism, atheism, and the autonomy of imagination. Though uneven, the work alternates lyrical rhapsody with sensational menace, shaping a template in which psychological restlessness and esoteric speculation drive narrative propulsion.
Bulwer-Lytton’s Zanoni fuses philosophical romance with occult initiation narrative, filtering Renaissance Neoplatonism and Rosicrucian myth through a Victorian taste for melodrama. Mesmeric influence, harmony of the spheres, and musical allegory structure its vision of spiritual ascent against temporal upheaval. The text leverages omniscient narration, interpolated discourse, and symbolic tableaux to fold speculative metaphysics into a socially panoramic novel. It treats love and art as conduits to higher perception, while preserving secrecy as both ethical discipline and narrative suspense. This hybrid aesthetic mediates between public reforms and inward illumination, proposing the paranormal as a rigorous, if perilous, pedagogy.
Marie Corelli and Algernon Blackwood extend fin-de-siècle and early modern currents that sought a synthesis of science and mysticism. The Secret Power channels popular fascination with wireless transmission, radiant energy, and psychic vibrations into a romance of invention, warning that technical genius without spiritual conscience corrodes society. The Supernatural Mysteries of Dr. John Silence refines the occult-detective mode, importing clinical case history, comparative religion, and nature mysticism into episodic investigations. Blackwood’s restrained prose and environmental attentiveness counterbalance Corelli’s rhetorical extravagance, yet both posit invisible forces as morally legible. Their innovations helped normalize speculative parascience as credible narrative architecture.
Legacy & Reassessment Across Time
Critical fortunes have oscillated across the anthology’s authors. St. Irvyne, long treated as juvenilia, has been revalued for mapping Shelley’s early dialectic of desire, skepticism, and rebellion. Zanoni’s once-fashionable esotericism later drew charges of bombast, yet scholars now mine its political theology and cultural syncretism. Marie Corelli, a bestseller who fell from academic favor, increasingly anchors studies of popular spirituality, media celebrity, and technological enchantment. Algernon Blackwood’s Dr. John Silence stories, intermittently overshadowed within his oeuvre, are recognized as foundational to modern occult detection. Together, these works illustrate shifting criteria of taste, canonicity, and disciplinary interest.
Reassessment has also tracked material forms and ethical debates. New editions and digitized archives have clarified textual variants, publication contexts, and illustrations that shape readers’ responses. Interpretive disputes cluster around the propriety of secret knowledge, the aesthetics of sensationalism, and the morality of sacrifice or intervention—questions especially acute in Zanoni and The Secret Power. Blackwood’s case-study framing invites comparison with medical and legal discourses, while St. Irvyne’s Gothic machinery prompts reconsideration of early-nineteenth-century experimental fiction. Contemporary scholars situate these paranormal tales at intersections of science communication, religion, and popular entertainment, opening pathways for interdisciplinary teaching and cautious, creative adaptation.
Psychic Sorcery – 4 Classic Paranormal Tales
Occult Knowledge and Transcendence
Psychic Phenomena, Investigation, and the Everyday Supernatural
Horror Classic) (Percy Bysshe Shelley
St. Irvyne
Chapter 1.
Red thunder-clouds, borne on the wings of the midnight whirlwind, floated, at fits, athwart the crimson-coloured orbit of the moon; the rising fierceness of the blast sighed through the stunted shrubs, which, bending before its violence, inclined towards the rocks whereon they grew: over the blackened expanse of heaven, at intervals, was spread the blue lightning’s flash; it played upon the granite heights, and, with momentary brilliancy, disclosed the terrific scenery of the Alps, whose gigantic and mishapen summits, reddened by the transitory moon-beam, were crossed by black fleeting fragments of the tempest-clouds. The rain, in big drops, began to descend, and the thunder-peals, with louder and more deafening crash, to shake the zenith, till the long-protracted war, echoing from cavern to cavern, died, in indistinct murmurs, amidst the far-extended chain of mountains. In this scene, then, at this horrible and tempestuous hour, without one existent earthy being whom he might claim as friend, without one resource to which he might fly as an asylum from the horrors of neglect and poverty, stood Wolfstein;--he gazed upon the conflicting elements; his youthful figure reclined against a jutting granite rock; he cursed his wayward destiny, and implored the Almighty of Heaven to permit the thunderbolt, with crash terrific and exterminating, to descend upon his head, that a being useless to himself and to society might no longer, by his existence, mock Him whone’er made aught in vain. “And what so horrible crimes have I committed,” exclaimed Wolfstein, driven to impiety by desperation, “what crimes which merit punishment like this? What, what is death?--Ah, dissolution! thy pang is blunted by the hard hand of long-protracted suffering--suffering unspeakable, indescribable!” As thus he spoke, a more terrific paroxysm of excessive despair revelled through every vein; his brain swam around in wild confusion, and, rendered delirious by excess of misery, he started from his flinty seat, and swiftly hastened towards the precipice, which yawned widely beneath his feet. “For what then should I longer drag on the galling chain of existence?” cried Wolfstein; and his impious expression was borne onwards by the hot and sulphurous thunder-blast.
The midnight meteors danced above the gulf upon which Wolfstein wistfully gazed. Palpable, impenetrable darkness seemed to hang upon it; impenetrable even by the flaming thunderbolt. “Into this then shall I plunge myself?” soliloquized the wretched outcast, “and by one rash act endanger, perhaps, eternal happiness;--deliver myself up, perhaps, to the anticipation and experience of never-ending torments? Art thou the God then, the Creator of the universe, whom canting monks call the God of mercy and forgiveness, and sufferest thou thy creatures to become the victims of tortures such as fate has inflicted on me?--Oh! God, take my soul; why should I longer live?” Thus having spoken, he sank on the rocky bosom of the mountains. Yet, unheeding the exclamations of the maddened Wolfstein, fiercer raged the tempest. The battling elements, in wild confusion, seemed to threaten nature’s dissolution; the ferocious thunderbolt, with impetuous violence, danced upon the mountains, and, collecting more terrific strength, severed gigantic rocks from their else eternal basements; the masses, with sound more frightful than the bursting thunder-peal, dashed towards the valley below. Horror and desolation marked their track. The mountain-rills, swoln by the waters of the sky, dashed with direr impetuosity from the Alpine summits; their foaming waters were hidden in the darkness of midnight, or only became visible when the momentary scintillations of the lightning rested on their whitened waves. Fiercer still than nature’s wildest uproar were the feelings of Wolfstein’s bosom; his frame, at last, conquered by the conflicting passions of his soul, no longer was adequate to sustain the unequal contest, but sank to the earth. His brain swam wildly, and he lay entranced in total insensibility.
What torches are those that dispel the distant darkness of midnight, and gleam, like meteors, athwart the blackness of the tempest? They throw a wavering light over the thickness of the storm: they wind along the mountains: they pass the hollow vallies. Hark! the howling of the blast has ceased,--the thunderbolts have dispersed, but yet reigns darkness. Distant sounds of song are borne on the breeze: the sounds approach. A low bier holds the remains of one whose soul is floating in the regions of eternity: a black pall covers him. Monks support the lifeless clay: others precede, bearing torches, and chanting a requiem for the salvation of the departed one. They hasten towards the convent of the valley, there to deposit the lifeless limbs of one who has explored the frightful path of eternity before them. And now they had arrived where lay Wolfstein: “Alas!” said one of the monks, “there reclines a wretched traveller. He is dead; murdered, doubtlessly, by the fell bandits who infest these wild recesses.”
They raised from the earth his form: yet his bosom throbbed with the tide of life: returning animation once more illumed his eye: he started on his feet, and wildly inquired why they had awakened him from that slumber which he had hoped to have been eternal. Unconnected were his expressions, strange and impetuous the fire darting from his restless eyeballs. At length, the monks succeeded in calming the desperate tumultuousness of his bosom, calming at least in some degree; for he accepted their proffered tenders of a lodging, and essayed to lull to sleep, for a while, the horrible idea of dereliction which pressed upon his loaded brain.
While thus they stood, loud shouts rent the air, and, before Wolfstein and the monks could well collect their scattered faculties, they found that a troop of Alpine bandits had surrounded them. Trembling, from apprehension, the monks fled every way. None, however, could escape. “What! old greybeards,” cried one of the robbers, “do you suppose that we will permit you to evade us: you who feed upon the strength of the country, in idleness and luxury, and have compelled many of our noble fellows, who otherwise would have been ornaments to their country in peace, thunderbolts to their enemies in war, to seek precarious subsistence as Alpine bandits? If you wish for mercy, therefore, deliver unhesitatingly your joint riches.” The robbers then despoiled the monks of whatever they might adventitiously have taken with them, and, turning to Wolfstein, the apparent chieftain told him to yield his money likewise. Unappalled, Wolfstein advanced towards him. The chief held a torch; its red beams disclosed the expression of stern severity and unyielding loftiness which sate upon the brow of Wolfstein. “Bandit!” he answered fearlessly, “I have none,--no money--no hope--no friends; nor do I care for existence! Now judge if such a man be a fit victim for fear! No! I never trembled!”
A ray of pleasure gleamed in the countenance of the bandit as Wolfstein spoke. Grief, in inerasible traces, sate deeply implanted on the front of the outcast. At last, the chief, advancing to Wolfstein, who stood at some little distance, said, “My companions think that so noble a fellow as you appear to be, would be no unworthy member of our society; and, by Heaven, I am of their opinion. Are you willing to become one of us?”
Wolfstein’s dark gaze was fixed upon the grounds his contracted eyebrow evinced deep thought: he started from his reverie, and, without hesitation, consented to their proposal.
Long was it past the hour of midnight when the banditti troop, with their newly-acquired associate, advanced along the pathless Alps. The red glare of the torches which each held, tinged the rocks and pine-trees, through woods of which they occasionally passed, and alone dissipated the darkness of night. Now had they arrived at the summit of a wild and rocky precipice, but the base indeed of another which mingled its far-seen and gigantic outline with the clouds of heaven. A door, which before had appeared part of the solid rock, flew open at the chieftain’s touch, and the whole party advanced into the spacious cavern. Over the walls of the lengthened passages putrefaction had spread a bluish clamminess; damps hung around, and, at intervals, almost extinguished the torches, whose glare was scarcely sufficient to dissipate the impenetrable obscurity. After many devious windings they advanced into the body of the cavern: it was spacious and lofty. A blazing wood fire threw its dubious rays upon the mishapen and ill-carved walls. Lamps suspended from the roof, dispersed the subterranean gloom, not so completely however, but that ill-defined shades lurked in the arched distances, whose hollow recesses led to different apartments.
The gang had sate down in the midst of the cavern to supper, which a female, whose former loveliness had left scarce any traces on her cheek, had prepared. The most exquisite and expensive wines apologized for the rusticity of the rest of the entertainment, and induced freedom of conversation, and wild boisterous merriment, which reigned until the bandits, overcome by the fumes of the wine which they had drank, sank to sleep. Wolfstein, left again to solitude and silence, reclining on his mat in a corner of the cavern, retraced, in mental, sorrowing review, the past events of his life: ah! that eventful existence whose fate had dragged the heir of a wealthy potentate in Germany from the lap of luxury and indulgence, to become a vile associate of viler bandits, in the wild and trackless deserts of the Alps. Around their dwelling, lofty inaccessible acclivities reared their barren summits; they echoed to no sound save the wild hoot of the night-raven, or the impatient yelling of the vulture, which hovered on the blast in quest of scanty sustenance. These were the scenes without: noisy revelry and tumultuous riot reigned within. The mirth of the bandits appeared to arise independently of themselves: their hearts were void and dreary. Wolfstein’s limbs pillowed on the flinty bosom of the earth: those limbs which had been wont to recline on the softest, the most luxurious sofas. Driven from his native country by an event which imposed upon him an insuperable barrier to ever again returning thither, possessing no friends, not having one single resource from which he might obtain support, where could the wretch, the exile, seek for an asylum but with those whose fortunes, expectations, and characters were desperate, and marked as darkly, by fate, as his own?
Time fled, and each succeeding day inured Wolfstein more and more to the idea of depriving his fellow-creatures of their possessions. In a short space of time the high-souled and noble Wolfstein, though still high-souled and noble, became an experienced bandit. His magnanimity and courage, even whilst surrounded by the most threatening dangers, and the unappalled expression of countenance with which he defied the dart of death, endeared him to the robbers: whilst with him they all asserted that they felt, as it were, instinctively impelled to deeds of horror and danger, which, otherwise, must have remained unattempted even by the boldest. His was every daring expedition, his the scheme which demanded depth of judgment and promptness of execution. Often, whilst at midnight the band lurked perhaps beneath the overhanging rocks, which were gloomily impended above them, in the midst, perhaps, of one of those horrible tempests whereby the air, in those Alpine regions, is so frequently convulsed, would the countenance of the bandits betray some slight shade of alarm and awe; but that of Wolfstein was fixed, unchanged, by any variation of scenery or action. One day it was when the chief communicated to the banditti, notice which he had received by means of spies, that an Italian Count of immense wealth was journeying from Paris to his native country, and, at a late hour the following evening, would pass the Alps near this place; “They have but few attendants,” added he, “and those few will not come this way; the postillion is in our interest, and the horses are to be overcome with fatigue when they approach the destined spot: you understand.”
The evening came. “I,” said Wolfstein, “will roam into the country, but will return before the arrival of our wealthy victim.” Thus saying, he left the cavern, and wandered out amidst the mountains.
It was autumn. The mountain-tops, the scattered oaks which occasionally waved their lightning-blasted heads on the summits of the far-seen piles of rock, were gilded by the setting glory of the sun; the trees, yellowed by the waning year, reflected a glowing teint from their thick foliage; and the dark pine-groves which were stretched half way up the mountain sides, added a more deepened gloom to the shades of evening, which already began to gather rapidly above the scenery.
It was at this dark and silent hour, that Wolfstein, unheeding the surrounding objects,--objects which might have touched with awe, or heightened to devotion, any other breast,--wandered alone--pensively he wandered--dark images for futurity possessed his soul: he shuddered when he reflected upon what had passed; nor was his present situation calculated to satisfy a mind eagerly panting for liberty and independence. Conscience too, awakened conscience, upbraided him for the life which he had selected, and, with silent whisperings, stung his soul to madness. Oppressed by thoughts such as these, Wolfstein yet proceeded, forgetful that he was to return before the arrival of their destined victim--forgetful indeed was he of every external existence; and absorbed in himself, with arms folded, and eyes fixed upon the earth, he yet advanced. At last he sank on a mossy bank, and, guided by the impulse of the moment, inscribed on a tablet the following lines; for the inaccuracy of which, the perturbation of him who wrote them, may account; he thought of past times while he marked the paper with--
“’T was dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling. Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,-- They bodingly presag’d destruction and woe. ’T was then that I started!--the wild storm was howling. Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danc’d in the sky; Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling. And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by. My heart sank within me--unheeded the war Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;-- Unheeded the thunder-peal crash’d in mine ear-- This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke. ’T was then that her form on the whirlwind upholding. The ghost of the murder’d Victoria strode; In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding. She swiftly advanc’d to my lonesome abode. I wildly then call’d on the tempest to bear me--”
Overcome by the wild retrospection of ideal horror, which these swiftly-written lines excited in his soul, Wolfstein tore the paper, on which he had written them, to pieces, and scattered them about him. He arose from his recumbent posture, and again advanced through the forest. Not far had he proceeded, ere a mingled murmur broke upon the silence of night--it was the sound of human voices. An event so unusual in these solitudes, excited Wolfstein’s momentary surprise; he started, and looking around him, essayed to discover whence those sounds proceeded.--What was the astonishment of Wolfstein, when he found that a detached party, who had been sent in pursuit of the Count, had actually overtaken him, and, at this instant, were dragging from the carriage the almost lifeless form of a female, whose light symmetrical figure, as it leant on the muscular frame of the robber who supported it, afforded a most striking contrast.--They had, before his arrival, plundered the Count of all his riches, and, enraged at the spirited defence which he had made, had inhumanly murdered him, and cast his lifeless body adown the yawning precipice. Transfixed by a jutting point of granite rock, it remained there to be devoured by the ravens. Wolfstein joined the banditti: and, although he could not recall the deed, lamented the wanton cruelty which had been practised upon the Count. As for the female, whose grace and loveliness made so strong an impression upon him, he demanded that every soothing attention should be paid to her, and his desire was enforced by the commands of the chief, whose dark eye wandered wildly over the beauties of the lovely Megalena de Metastasio, as if he had secretly destined them for himself.
At last they arrived at the cavern; every resource which the cavern of a gang of lawless and desperate villains might afford, was brought forward to restore the fainted Megalena to life: she soon recovered--she slowly opened her eyes, and started with surprise to behold herself surrounded by a rough set of desperadoes, and the gloomy walls of the cavern, upon which darkness hung, awfully visible. Near her sate a female, whose darkened expression of countenance seemed perfectly to correspond with the horror prevalent throughout the cavern; her face, though bearing the marks of an undeniable expression of familiarity with wretchedness, had some slight remains of beauty.
It was long past midnight when each of the robbers withdrew to repose. But his mind was too much occupied by the events of the evening to allow the unhappy Wolfstein to find quiet;--at an early hour he arose from his sleepless couch, to inhale the morning breeze. The sun had but just risen; the scene was beautiful; every thing was still, and seemed to favour that reflection, which even propinquity to his abandoned associates imposed no indefinably insuperable bar to. In spite of his attempts to think upon other subjects, the image of the fair Megalena floated in his mind. Her loveliness had made too deep an impression on it to be easily removed; and the hapless Wolfstein, ever the victim of impulsive feeling, found himself bound to her by ties, more lasting than he had now conceived the transitory tyranny of woe could have imposed. For never had Wolfstein beheld so singularly beautiful a form;--her figure cast in the mould of most exact symmetry; her blue and love-beaming eyes, from which occasionally emanated a wild expression, seemingly almost superhuman; and the auburn hair which hung in unconfined tresses down her damask cheek--formed a resistless tout ensemble.
Heedless of every external object, Wolfstein long wandered.--The protracted sound of the bandits’ horn struck at last upon his ear, and aroused him from his reverie. On his return to the cavern, the robbers were assembled at their meal; the chief regarded him with marked and jealous surprise as he entered, but made no remark. They then discussed their uninteresting and monotonous topics, and the meal being ended, each villain departed on his different business.
Megalena, finding herself alone with Agnes (the only woman, save herself, who was in the cavern, and who served as an attendant on the robbers), essayed, by the most humble entreaties and supplications, to excite pity in her breast: she conjured her to explain the cause for which she was thus imprisoned, and wildly inquired for her father. The guilt-bronzed brow of Agnes was contracted by a sullen and malicious frown: it was the only reply which the inhuman female deigned to return. After a pause, however, she said, “Thou thinkest thyself my superior, proud girl; but time may render us equals.--Submit to that, and you may live on the same terms as I do.”
There appeared to lurk a meaning in these words, which Megalena found herself incompetent to develope; she answered not, therefore, and suffered Agnes to depart unquestioned. The wretched Megalena, a prey to despair and terror, endeavoured to revolve in her mind the events which had brought her to this spot, but an unconnected stream of ideas pressed upon her brain. The sole light in her cell was that of a dismal lamp, which, by its uncertain flickering, only dissipated the almost palpable obscurity, in a sufficient degree more assuredly to point out the circumambient horrors. She gazed wistfully around, to see if there were any outlet; none there was, save the door whereby Agnes had entered, which was strongly barred on the outside. In despair she threw herself on the wretched pallet.--“For what cause, then, am I thus entombed alive?” soliloquized the hapless Megalena; “would it not be preferable at once to annihilate the spark of life which burns but faintly within my bosom?--O my father! where art thou? Thy tombless corse, perhaps, is torn into a thousand pieces by the fury of the mountain cataract.--Little didst thou presage misfortunes such as these!--little didst thou suppose that our last journey would have caused thy immature dissolution--my infamy and misery, not to end but with my hapless existence!--Here there is none to comfort me, none to participate my miseries!” Thus speaking, overcome by a paroxysm of emotion, she sank on the bed, and bedewed her fair face with tears.
Whilst, oppressed by painful retrospection, the outcast orphan was yet kneeling, Agnes entered, and, not evén noticing her distress, bade her prepare to come to the banquet where the troop of bandits was assembled. In silence, along the vaulted and gloomy passages, she followed her conductress, from whose stern and forbidding gaze her nature shrunk back enhorrored, till they reached that apartment of the cavern where the revelry waited but for her arrival to commence. On her entering, Cavigni, the chief, led her to a seat on his right hand, and paid her every attention which his froward nature could stoop to exercise towards a female: she received his civilities with apparent complacency; but her eye was frequently fascinated, as it were, towards the youthful Wolfstein, who had caught her attention the evening before. His countenance, spite of the shade of woe with which the hard hand of suffering had marked it, was engaging and beautiful; not that beauty which may be freely acknowledged, but inwardly confessed by every beholder with sensations penetrating and resistless; his figure majestic and lofty, and the fire which flashed from his expressive eye, indefinably to herself, penetrated the inmost soul of the isolated Megalena. Wolfstein regarded Cavigni with indignation and envy; and, though almost ignorant himself of the dreadful purpose of his soul, resolved in his own mind an horrible deed. Cavigni was enraptured with the beauty of Megalena, and secretly vowed that no paius should be spared to gain to himself the possession of an object so lovely. The anticipated delight of gratified voluptuousness revelled in every vein, as he gazed upon her; his eye flashed with a triumphant expression of lawless love, yet he determined to defer the hour of his happiness till he might enjoy more free, unrestrained delight, with his adored fair one. She gazed on the chief, however, with an ill-concealed aversion; his dark expression of countenance, the haughty severity, and contemptuous frown, which habitually sate on his brow, invited not, but rather repelled a reciprocality of affection, which the haughty chief, after his own attachment, entertained not the most distant doubt of. He was, notwithstanding, conscious of her coldness, but attributing it to virgin modesty, or to the novel situation into which she had suddenly been thrown, paid her every attention; nor did he omit to promise her every little comfort which might induce her to regard him with esteem. Still, though veiled beneath the most artful dissimulation, did the fair Megalena pant ardently for liberty--for, oh! liberty is sweet, sweeter even than all the other pleasures of life, to full satiety, without it.
Cavigni essayed, by every art, to gain her over to his desires; but Megalena, regarding him with aversion, answered with an haughtiness which she was unable to conceal, and which his proud spirit might ill brook. Cavigni could not disguise the vexation which he felt, when, increased by resistance, Megalena’s dislike towards him remained no longer a secret: “Megalena,” said he, at last, “fair girl, thou shalt be mine--we will be wedded tomorrow, if you think the bands of love not sufficiently forcible to unite us.”
“No bands shall ever unite me to you!” exclaimed Megalena. “Even though the grave were to yawn beneath my feet, I would willingly precipitate myself into its gulf, if the alternative of that, or an union with you, were proposed to me.”
Rage swelled Cavigni’s bosom almost to bursting--the conflicting passions of his soul were too tumultuous for utterance;--in an hurried tone, he commanded Agnes to show Megalena to her cell: she obeyed, and they both quitted the apartment.
Wolfstein’s soul, sublimed by the most infuriate paroxysms of contending emotions, battled wildly. His countenance retained, however, but one expression,--it was of dark and deliberate revenge. His stern eye was fixed upon Cavigni;--he decided at this instant to perpetrate the deed he had resolved on. Leaving his seat, he intimated his intention of quitting the cavern for an instant.
Cavigni had just filled his goblet--Wolfstein, as he passed, dexterously threw a little white powder into the wine of the chief.
When Wolfstein returned, Cavigni had not yet quaffed the deadly draught: rising, therefore, he exclaimed aloud, “Fill your goblets, all.” Every one obeyed, and sat in expectation of the toast which he was about to propose.
“Let us drink,” he exclaimed, “to the health of the chieftain’s bride--let us drink to their mutual happiness.” A smile of pleasure irradiated the countenance of the chief:--that he whom he had supposed to be a dangerous rival, should thus publicly forego any claim to the affections of Megalena, was indeed pleasure.
“Health and mutual happiness to the chieftain and his bride!” re-echoed from every part of the table.
Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips: he was about to quaff the tide of death, when Ginotti, one of the robbers, who sat next to him, upreared his arm, and dashed the cup of destruction to the earth. A silence, as if in expectation of some terrible event, reigned throughout the cavern.
Wolfstein turned his eyes towards the chief;--the dark and mysterious gaze of Ginotti arrested his wandering eyeball; its expression was too marked to be misunderstood;--he trembled in his inmost soul, but his countenance yet retained its unchangeable expression. Ginotti spoke not, nor willed he to assign any reason for his extraordinary conduct; the circumstance was shortly forgotten, and the revelry went on undisturbed by any other event.
Ginotti was one of the boldest of the robbers; he was the distinguished favourite of the chief, and, although mysterious and reserved, his society was courted with more eagerness, than such qualities might, abstractedly considered, appear to deserve. None knew his history--that he concealed within the deepest recesses of his bosom; nor could the most suppliant entreaties, or threats of the most horrible punishments, have wrested from him one particular concerning it. Never had he once thrown off the mysterious mask, beneath which his character was veiled, since he had become an associate of the band. In vain the chief required him to assign some reason for his late extravagant conduct; he said it was mere accident, but with an air, which more than convinced every one, that something lurked behind which yet remained unknown. Such, however, was their respect for Ginotti, that the occurrence passed almost without a comment.
Long now had the hour of midnight gone by, and the bandits had retired to repose. Wolfstein retired too to his couch, but sleep closed not his eyelids; his bosom was a scene of the wildest anarchy; the conflicting passions revelled dreadfully in his burning brain:--love, maddening, excessive, unaccountable idolatry, as it were, which possessed him for Megalena, urged him on to the commission of deeds which conscience represented as beyond measure wicked, and which Ginotti’s glance convinced him were by no means unsuspected. Still so unbounded was his love for Megalena (madness rather than love), that it overbalanced every other consideration, and his unappalled soul resolved to persevere in its determination even to destruction!
Cavigni’s commands respecting Megalena had been obeyed:--the door of her cell was fastened, and the ferocious chief resolved to let her lie there till the suffering and confinement might subdue her to his will. Megalena endeavoured, by every means, to soften the obdurate heart of her attendant; at length, her mildness of manner induced Agnes to regard her with pity; and before she quitted the cell, they were so far reconciled to each other, that they entered into a comparison of their mutual situations; and Agnes was about to relate to Megalena the circumstances which had brought her to the cavern, when the fierce Cavigni entered, and, commanding Agnes to withdraw, said, “Well, proud girl, are you now in a better humour to return the favour with which your superior regards you?”
“No!” heroically answered Megalena.
“Then,” rejoined the chief, “if within four-and-twenty hours you hold yourself not in readiness to return my love, force shall wrest the jewel from its casket.” Thus having said, he abruptly quitted the cell.
So far had Wolfstein’s proposed toast, at the banquet, gained on the unsuspecting ferociousness of Cavigni, that he accepted the former’s artful tender of service, in the way of persuasion with Megalena, supposing, by Wolfstein’s manner, that they had been cursorily acquainted before. Wolfstein, therefore, entered the apartment of Megalena.
At the sight of him Megalena arose from her recumbent posture, and hastened joyfully to meet him; for she remembered that Wolfstein had rescued her from the insults of the banditti, on the eventful evening which had subjected her to their control.
“Lovely, adored girl,” he exclaimed, “short is my time: pardon, therefore, the abruptness of my address. The chief has sent me to persuade you to become united to him; but I love you, I adore you to madness. I am not what I seem. Answer me!--time is short.”
An indefinable sensation, unfelt before, swelled through the passion-quivering frame of Megalena. “Yes, yes,” she cried, “I will--I love you--” At this instant the voice of Cavigni was heard in the passage. Wolfstein started from his knees, and pressing the fair hand presented to his lips with exulting ardour, departed hastily to give an account of his mission to the anxious Cavigni; who restrained himself in the passage without, and, slightly mistrusting Wolfstein, was about to advance to the door of the cell to listen to their conversation, when Wolfstein quitted Megalena.
Megalena, again in solitude, began to reflect upon the scenes which had been lately acted. She thought upon the words of Wolfstein, unconscious wherefore they were a balm to her mind: she reclined upon her wretched pallet. It was now night: her thoughts took a different turn; the melancholy wind sighing along the crevices of the cavern, and the dismal sound of rain which pattered fast, inspired mournful reflection. She thought of her father,--her beloved father;--a solitary wanderer on the face of the earth; or, most probably, thought she, his soul rests in death. Horrible idea If the latter, she envied his fate; if the former, she even supposed it preferable to her present abode. She again thought of Wolfstein; she pondered on his last words:--an escape from the cavern: oh delightful idea! Again her thoughts recurred to her father: tears bedewed her cheeks; she took a pencil, and, actuated by the feelings of the moment, inscribed on the wall of her prison these lines:
Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast. When o’er the dark ether the tempest is swelling. And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past? For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura. Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I brav’d the chill night-tempest’s fury. Whilst around me, I thought, echo’d murmurs of death. And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling. O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling. It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar. On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead; On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain.
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. Here she paused, and, ashamed of the exuberance of her imagination, obliterated from the wall the characters which she had traced: the wind still howled dreadfully: in fearful anticipation of the morrow, she threw herself on the bed, and, in sleep, forgot the misfortunes which impended over her.
Meantime, the soul of Wolfstein was disturbed by ten thousand conflicting passions; revenge and disappointed love agonized his soul to madness; and he resolved to quench the rude feelings of his bosom in the blood of his rival. But, again he thought of Ginotti; he thought of the mysterious intervention which his dark glances proved not to be accidental. To him it was an inexplicable mystery; which the more he reflected upon, the less able was he to unravel. He had mixed the poison, unseen, as he thought, by any one; certainly unseen by Ginotti, whose back was unconcernedly turned at the time. He planned, therefore, a second attempt, unawed by what had happened before, for the destruction of Cavigni, which he resolved to put into execution this night.
Before he had become an associate with the band of robbers, the conscience of Wolfstein was clear; clear, at least, from the commission of any wilful and deliberate crime: for, alas! an event almost too dreadful for narration, had compelled him to quit his native country, in indigence and disgrace. His courage was equal to his wickedness; his mind was unalienable from its purpose; and whatever his will might determine, his boldness would fearlessly execute, even though hell and destruction were to yawn beneath his feet, and essay to turn his unappalled soul from the accomplishment of his design. Such was the guilty Wolfstein; a disgraceful fugitive from his country, a vile associate of a band of robbers, and a murderer, at least in intent, if not in deed. He shrunk not at the commission of crimes; he was now the hardened villain; eternal damnation, tortures inconceivable on earth, awaited him. “Foolish, degrading idea!” he exclaimed, as it momentarily glanced through his mind; “am I worthy of the celestial Megalena, if I shrink at the price which it is necessary I should pay for her possession?” This idea banished every other feeling from his heart; and, smothering the stings of conscience, a decided resolve of murder took possession of him--the determining, within himself, to destroy the very man who had given him an asylum, when driven to madness by the horrors of neglect and poverty. He stood in the night-storm on the mountains; he cursed the intervention of Ginotti, and secretly swore that nor heaven nor hell again should dash the goblet of destruction from the mouth of the detested Cavigni. The soul of Wolfstein too, insatiable in its desires, and panting for liberty, ill could brook the confinement of idea, which the cavern of the bandits must necessarily induce. He longed again to try his fortune; he longed to re-enter that world which he had never tried but once, and that indeed for a short time; sufficiently long, however, to blast his blooming hopes, and to graft on the stock, which otherwise might have produeed virtue, the fatal seeds of vice.
Chapter 2.
The fiends of fate are heard to rave. And the death-angel flaps his broad wing o’er the wave.
It was midnight; and all the robbers were assembled in the banquet-hall, amongst whom, bearing in his bosom a weight of premeditated crime, was Wolfstein; he sat by the chief. They discoursed on indifferent subjects; the sparkling goblet went round; loud laughter succeeded. The ruffians were rejoicing over some plunder which they had taken from a traveller, whom they had robbed of immense wealth; they had left his body a prey to the vultures of the mountains. The table groaned with the pressure of the feast. Hilarity reigned around: reiterated were the shouts of merriment and joy; if such could exist in a cavern of robbers.
It was long past midnight: another hour, and Megalena must be Cavigni’s. This idea rendered Wolfstein callous to every sting of conscience; and he eagerly awaited an opportunity when he might, unperceived, infuse poison into the goblet of one who confided in him. Ginotti sat opposite to Wolfstein: his arms were folded, and his gaze rested fixedly upon the fearless countenance of the murderer. Wolfstein shuddered when he beheld the brow of the mysterious Ginotti contracted, his marked features wrapped in inexplicable mystery.
All were now heated by wine, save the wily villain who destined murder; and the awe-inspiring Ginotti, whose reservedness and mystery, not even the hilarity of the present hour could dispel.
Conversation appearing to flag, Cavigni exclaimed, “Steindolph, you know some old German stories; cannot you tell one, to deceive the lagging hours?”
Steindolph was famed for his knowledge of metrical spectre tales, and the gang were frequently wont to hang delighted on the ghostly wonders which he related.
“Excuse, then, the mode of my telling it,” said Steindolph, “and I will with pleasure. I learnt it whilst in Germany; my old grandmother taught it me, and I can repeat it as a ballad.”--“Do, do,” re-echoed from every part of the cavern.--Steindolph thus began:
Ballad.
I.
The death-bell beats!-- The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell; And the dark monk now Wraps the cowl round his brow. As he sits in his lonely cell.
II.
And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath. As he lists to the fearful lay Which the ghosts of the sky. As they sweep wildly by. Sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay.
III.
But that hour is past; And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark monk’s brain. Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush’d silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain.
IV.
Then his fair cross of gold he dash’d on the floor. When the death-knell struck on his ear. Delight is in store For her evermore; But for me is fate, horror, and fear.
V.
Then his eyes wildly roll’d. When the death-bell toll’d. And he rag’d in terrific woe. And he stamp’d on the ground,-- But when ceas’d the sound. Tears again began to flow.
VI.
And the ice of despair Chill’d the wild throb of care. And he sate in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air. And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill.
VII.
Then he knelt in his cell:-- And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agoniz’d pain. And he pray’d to God to dissolve the spell. Which else must for ever remain.
VIII.
And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground. Till the abbey bell struck One: His feverish blood ran chill at the sound: A voice hollow and horrible murmur’d around-- “The term of thy penance is done!”
IX.
Grew dark the night; The moon-beam bright Wax’d faint on the mountain high; And, from the black hill. Went a voice cold and still,-- “Monk! thou art free to die.”
X.
Then he rose on his feet. And his heart loud did beat. And his limbs they were palsied with dread; Whilst the grave’s clammy dew O’er his pale forehead grew; And he shudder’d to sleep with the dead.
XI.
And the wild midnight storm Rav’d around his tall form. As he sought the chapel’s gloom: And the sunk grass did sigh To the wind, bleak and high. As he search’d for the new-made tomb.
XII.
And forms, dark and high. Seem’d around him to fly. And mingle their yells with the blast: And on the dark wall Half-seen shadows did fall. As enhorror’d he onward pass’d.
XIII.
And the storm-fiend’s wild rave O’er the new-made grave. And dread shadows, linger around. The Monk call’d on God his soul to save. And, in horror, sank on the ground.
XIV.
Then despair nerv’d his arm To dispel the charm. And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder. And the fierce storm did swell More terrific and fell. And louder peal’d the thunder.
XV.
And laugh’d, in joy, the fiendish throng. Mix’d with ghosts of the mouldering dead: And their grisly wings, as they floated along. Whistled in murmurs dread.
XVI.
And her skeleton form the dead Nun rear’d. Which dripp’d with the chill dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appear’d. And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glar’d. As he stood within the cell.
XVII.
And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain; But each power was nerv’d by fear.-- “I never, henceforth, may breathe again; Death now ends mine anguish’d pain.-- The grave yawns,--we meet there.”
XVIII.
And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound. So deadly, so lone, and so fell. That in long vibrations shudder’d the ground; And as the stern notes floated around. A deep groan was answer’d from hell.
As Steindolph concluded, an universal shout of applause echoed through the cavern. Every one had been so attentive to the recitation of the robber, that no opportunity of perpetrating his resolve had appeared to Wolfstein. Now all again was revelry and riot, and the wily designer eagerly watched for the instant when universal confusion might favour his attempt to drop, unobserved, the powder into the goblet of the chief. With a gaze of insidious and malignant revenge was the eye of Wolfstein fixed upon the chieftain’s countenance. Cavigni perceived it not; for he was heated with wine, or the unusual expression of his associate’s face must have awakened suspicion, or excited remark. Yet was Ginotti’s gaze fixed upon Wolfstein, who, like a sanguinary and remorseless ruffian, sat expectantly waiting the instant of death. The goblet passed round:--at the moment when Wolfstein mingled the poison with Cavigni’s wine, the eyes of Ginotti, which before had regarded him with the most dazzling scrutiny, were intentionally turned away: he then arose from the table, and, complaining of sudden indisposition, retired. Cavigni raised the goblet to his lips--
“Now, my brave fellows,” he exclaimed, “the hour is late; but before we retire, I here drink success and health to every one of you.”
Wolfstein involuntarily shuddered.--Cavigni quaffed the liquor to the dregs!--the cup fell from his trembling hand. The chill dew of death sat upon his forehead: in terrific convulsion he fell headlong; and, inarticulately uttering “I am poisoned,” sank seemingly lifeless on the earth. Sixty robbers at once rushed forward to raise him; and, reclining in their arms, with an horrible and harrowing shriek, the spark of life fled from his body for ever. A robber, skilled in surgery, opened a vein; but no blood followed the touch of the lancet.--Wolfstein advanced to the body, unappalled by the crime which he had committed, and tore aside the vest from its bosom: that bosom was discoloured by large spots of livid purple, which, by their premature appearance, declared the poison which had been used to destroy him, to be excessively powerful.
Every one regretted the death of the brave Cavigni; every one was surprised at the mode of his death: and, by his abruptly quitting the apartment, the suspicion fell upon Ginotti, who was consequently sent for by Ardolph, a robber whom they had chosen chieftain, Wolfstein having declined the proffered distinction.
Ginotti arrived.--His stern countenance was changed not by the execrations showered on him by every one. He yet remained unmoved, and apparently careless what sentiments others might entertain of him: he deigned not even to deny the charge. This coolness seemed to have convinced every one, the new chief in particular, of his innocence.
“Let every one,” said Ardolph, “be searched; and if his pockets contain poison which could have effected this, let him die.” This method was universally applauded. As soon as the acclamations were stilled, Wolfstein advanced forwards, and spoke thus:
“Any longer to conceal that it was I who perpetrated the deed, were useless. Megalena’s loveliness inflamed me:--I envied one who was about to possess it.--I have murdered him!”
Here he was interrupted by the shouts of the bandits; and he was about to be delivered to death, when Ginotti advanced. His superior and towering figure inspired awe even in the hearts of the bandits. They were silent.
“Suffer Wolfstein,” he exclaimed, “to depart unhurt. I will answer for his never publishing our retreat: I will promise that never more shall you behold him.”
Every one submitted to Ginotti: for who could resist the superior Ginotti? From the gaze of Ginotti Wolfstein’s soul shrank, enhorrored, in confessed inferiority: he who had shrunk not at death, had shrunk not to avow himself guilty of murder, and had prepared to meet its reward, started from Ginotti’s eye-beam as from the emanation of some superior and preter-human being.
“Quit the cavern!” said Ginotti.--“May I not remain here until the morrow?” inquired Wolfstein.--“If tomorrow’s rising sun finds you in this cavern,” returned Ginotti, “I must deliver you up to the vengeance of those whom you have injured.”
Wolfstein retired to his solitary cell, to retrace, in his mind, the occurrences of this eventful night. What was he now?--an isolated wicked wanderer; not a being on earth whom he could call a friend, and carrying with him that never-dying tormentor--conscience. In half-waking dreams passed the night: the ghost of him whom he had so inhumanly destroyed, seemed to cry for justice at the throne of God; bleeding, pale, and ghastly, it pressed on his agonized brain; and confused, inexplicable visions flitted in his imagination, until the freshness of the morning breeze warned him to depart. He collected together all those valuables which had fallen to his share as plunder, during his stay in the cavern: they amounted to a large sum. He rushed from the cavern; he hesitated,--he knew not whither to fly. He walked fast, and essayed, by exercise, to smother the feelings of his soul; but the attempt was fruitless. Not far had he proceeded, ere, stretched on the earth apparently lifeless, he beheld a female form. He advanced towards it--it was Megalena!
A tumult of exulting and inconceivable transport rushed through his veins as he beheld her--her for whom he had plunged into the abyss of crime. She slept, and, apparently overcome by the fatigues which she had sustained, her slumber was profound. Her head reclined upon the jutting root of a tree: the tint of health and loveliness sat upon her cheek.
When the fair Megalena awakened, and found herself in the arms of Wolfstein, she started; yet, turning her eyes, she beheld it was no enemy, and the expression of terror gave way to pleasure. In the general confusion had Megalena escaped from the abode of the bandits. The destinies of Wolfstein and Megalena were assimilated by similarity of situations; and, before they quitted the spot, so far had this reciprocal feeling prevailed, that they swore mutual affection. Megalena then related her escape from the cavern, and showed Wolfstein jewels, to an immense amount, which she had secreted.
“At all events, then,” said Wolfstein, “we may defy poverty; for I have about me jewels to the value of ten thousand zechins.”
“We will go to Genoa,” said Megalena. “We will, my fair one. There, entirely devoted to each other, we will defy the darts of misery.”
Megalena returned no answer, save a look of else inexpressible love.
It was now the middle of the day; neither Wolfstein nor Megalena had tasted food since the preceding night; and faint, from fatigue, Megalena scarce could move onwards. “Courage, my love,” said Wolfstein; “yet a little way, and we shall arrive at a cottage, a sort of inn, where we may wait until the morrow, and hire mules to carry us to Placenza, whence we can easily proceed to the goal of our destination.”
Megalena collected her strength: in a short time they arrived at the cottage, and passed the remainder of the day in plans respecting the future. Wearied with unusual exertions, Megalena early retired to an inconvenient bed, which, however, was the best the cottage could afford; and Wolfstein, lying along the bench by the fireplace, resigned himself to meditation; for his mind was too much disturbed to let him sleep.
Although Wolfstein had every reason to rejoice at the success which had crowned his schemes; although the very event had occurred which his soul had so much and so eagerly panted for; yet, even now, in possession of all he held valuable on earth, was he ill at ease. Remorse for his crimes, tortured him: yet, steeling his conscience, he essayed to smother the fire which burned within his bosom; to change the tenour of his thoughts--in vain! he could not. Restless passed the night, and the middle of the day beheld Wolfstein and Megalena far from the habitation of the bandits.
