Theodore then played a short symphony; after which, stretching his voice to its utmost extent, to facilitate its reaching the ear of Agnes, he sung the following stanzas:
T
HE
W
ATER
-K
ING
,
A Danish Ballad
.
With gentle murmur flowed the tide,
While by the fragrant flowery side
The lovely maid, with carols gay,
To Mary’s church pursued her way.
The water-fiend’s malignant eye
Along the banks beheld her hie;
Straight to his mother-witch he sped,
And thus in suppliant accents said:
“Oh! mother! mother! now advise,
How I may yonder maid surprise:
Oh! mother! mother! now explain,
How I may yonder maid obtain.”
The witch, she gave him armour white;
She formed him like a gallant knight;
Of water clear next made her hand
A steed, whose housings were of sand.
The water-king then swift he went;
To Mary’s church his steps he bent:
He bound his courser to the door,
And paced the church-yard three times four.
His courser to the door bound he,
And paced the church-yard four times three:
Then hastened up the aisle, where all
The people flocked, both great and small.
The priest said, as the knight drew near,
“And wherefore comes the white chief here?”
The lovely maid, she smiled aside;
“Oh! would I were the white chief’s bride!”
He stepped o’er benches one and two;
“Oh! lovely maid, I die for you!”
He stepped o’er benches two and three;
“Oh! lovely maiden, go with me!”
Then sweet she smiled, the lovely maid;
And while she gave her hand, she said,
“Betide me joy, betide me woe,
O’er hill, o’er dale, with thee I go.”
The priest their hands together joins:
They dance, while clear the moon-beam shines;
And little thinks the maiden bright,
Her partner is the water-spright.
Oh! had some spirit deigned to sing,
“Your partner is the water-king!”
The maid had fear and hate confessed,
And cursed the hand which then she pressed.
But nothing giving cause to think
How near she strayed to danger’s brink,
Still on she went, and hand in hand
The lovers reached the yellow sand.
“Ascend this steed with me, my dear!
We needs must cross the streamlet here:
Ride boldly in; it is not deep;
The winds are hushed, the billows sleep.”
Thus spoke the water-king. The maid
Her traitor bride-groom’s wish obeyed:
And soon she saw the courser lave
Delighted in his parent wave.
“Stop! stop! my love! The waters blue
E’en now my shrinking foot bedew.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop! stop! my love! For now I see
The waters rise above my knee.”
“Oh! lay aside your fears, sweet heart!
We now have reached the deepest part.”
“Stop! stop! for God’s sake, stop! For, oh!
The waters o’er my bosom flow!”—
Scarce was the word pronounced, when knight
And courser vanished from her sight.
She shrieks, but shrieks in vain; for high
The wild winds rising dull the cry;
The fiend exults; the billows dash,
And o’er their hapless victim wash.
Three times, while struggling with the stream,
The lovely maid was heard to scream;
But when the tempest’s rage was o’er,
The lovely maid was seen no more.
Warned by this tale, ye damsels fair,
To whom you give your love beware!
Believe not every handsome knight,
And dance not with the water-spright!
The youth ceased to sing. The nuns were delighted with the sweetness of his voice, and masterly manner of touching the instrument; but however acceptable this applause would have been at any other time, at present it was insipid to Theodore. His artifice had not succeeded. He paused in vain between the stanzas; no voice replied to his, and he abandoned the hope of equalling Blondel.
The convent-bell now warned the nuns that it was time to assemble in the refectory. They were obliged to quit the grate: they thanked the youth for the entertainment which his music had afforded them, and charged him to return the next day. This he promised. The nuns, to give him the greater inclination to keep his word, told him that he might always depend upon the convent for his meals, and each of them made him some little present. One gave him a box of sweetmeats; another, an agnus dei; some brought reliques of saints, waxen images, and consecrated crosses; and others presented him with pieces of those works in which the religious excel, such as embroidery, artificial flowers, lace, and needle-work. All these he was advised to sell, in order to put himself into better case; and he was assured that it would be easy to dispose of them, since the Spaniards hold the performances of the nuns in high estimation. Having received these gifts with seeming respect and gratitude, he remarked, that, having no basket, he knew not how to convey them away. Several of the nuns were hastening in search of one, when they were stopped by the return of an elderly woman, whom Theodore had not till then observed. Her mild countenance and respectable air prejudiced him immediately in her favour.
“Hah!” said the porteress, “here comes the mother St. Ursula with a basket.”
The nun approached the grate, and presented the basket to Theodore: it was of willow, lined with blue satin, and upon the four sides were painted scenes from the legend of St. Genevieve.
“Here is my gift,” said she, as she gave it into his hand: “Good youth, despise it not. Though its value seems insignificant, it has many hidden virtues.”
She accompanied these words with an expressive look. It was not lost upon Theodore. In receiving the present, he drew as near the grate as possible.
“Agnes!” she whispered in a voice scarcely intelligible.
Theodore, however, caught the sound. He concluded that some mystery was concealed in the basket, and his heart beat with impatience and joy. At this moment the domina returned. Her air was gloomy and frowning, and she looked if possible more stern than ever.
“Mother St. Ursula, I would speak with you in private.”
The nun changed colour, and was evidently disconcerted.
“With me?” she replied in a faltering voice.
The domina motioned that she must follow her, and retired. The mother St. Ursula obeyed her. Soon after, the refectory bell ringing a second time, the nuns quitted the grate, and Theodore was left at liberty to carry off his prize. Delighted that at length he had obtained some intelligence for the marquis, he flew rather than ran till he reached the hotel de las Cisternas. In a few minutes he stood by his master’s bed with the basket in his hand. Lorenzo was in the chamber, endeavouring to reconcile his friend to a misfortune which he felt himself but too severely. Theodore related his adventure, and the hopes which had been created by the mother St. Ursula’s gift. The marquis started from his pillow. That fire which since the death of Agnes had been extinguished, now revived in his bosom, and his eyes sparkled with the eagerness of expectation. The emotions which Lorenzo’s countenance betrayed were scarcely weaker, and he waited with inexpressible impatience for the solution of this mystery. Raymond caught the basket from the hands of his page: he emptied the contents upon the bed, and examined them with minute attention. He hoped that a letter would be found at the bottom. Nothing of the kind appeared. The search was resumed, and still with no better success. At length Don Raymond observed, that one corner of the blue satin lining was unripped: he tore it open hastily, and drew forth a small scrap of paper, neither folded nor sealed. It was addressed to the marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follow:
“Having recognised your page, I venture to send these few lines. Procure an order from the cardinal-duke for seizing my person, and that of the domina; but let it not be executed till Friday at midnight. It is the festival of St. Clare: there will be a procession of nuns by torchlight, and I shall be among them. Beware, not to let your intention be known. Should a syllable be dropped to excite the domina’s suspicions, you will never hear of me more. Be cautious, if you prize the memory of Agnes, and wish to punish her assassins. I have that to tell, will freeze your blood with horror.
S
T
. U
RSULA.”
No sooner had the marquis read the note, than he fell back upon his pillow deprived of sense or motion. The hope failed him which till now had supported his existence; and these lines convinced him but too positively that Agnes was indeed no more. Lorenzo felt this circumstance less forcibly, since it had always been his idea that his sister had perished by unfair means. When he found by the mother St. Ursula’s letter how true were his suspicions, the confirmation excited no other sentiment in his bosom than a wish to punish the murderers as they deserved. It was no easy task to recall the marquis to himself. As soon as he recovered his speech, he broke out into execrations against the assassins of his beloved, and vowed to take upon them a signal vengeance. He continued to rave and torment himself with impotent passion, till his constitution, enfeebled by grief and illness, could support itself no longer, and relapsed into insensibility. His melancholy situation sincerely affected Lorenzo, who would willingly have remained in the apartment of his friend; but other cares now demanded his presence. It was necessary to procure the order for seizing the prioress of St. Clare. For this purpose, having committed Raymond to the care of the best physicians in Madrid, he quitted the hotel de las Cisternas, and bent his course towards the palace of the cardinal-duke.
His disappointment was excessive, when he found that affairs of state had obliged the cardinal to set out for a distant province. It wanted but five days to Friday: yet, by travelling day and night, he hoped to return in time for the pilgrimage of St. Clare. In this he succeeded. He found the cardinal-duke, and represented to him the supposed culpability of the prioress, as also the violent effects which it had produced upon Don Raymond. He could have used no argument so forcible as this last. Of all his nephews the marquis was the only one to whom the cardinal-duke was sincerely attached: he perfectly doted upon him, and the prioress could have committed no greater crime in his eyes, than to have endangered the life of the marquis. Consequently, he granted the order of arrest without difficulty. He also gave Lorenzo a letter to a principal officer of the Inquisition, desiring him to see his mandate executed. Furnished with these papers, Medina hastened back to Madrid, which he reached on the Friday a few hours before dark. He found the marquis somewhat easier, but so weak and exhausted, that without great exertion he could neither speak nor move. Having passed an hour by his bed-side, Lorenzo left him to communicate his design to his uncle, as also to give Don Ramirez de Mello the cardinal’s letter. The first was petrified with horror, when he learned the fate of his unhappy niece. He encouraged Lorenzo to punish her assassins, and engaged to accompany him at night to St. Clare’s convent. Don Ramirez promised his firmest support, and selected a band of trusty archers to prevent opposition on the part of the populace.
But while Lorenzo was anxious to unmask one religious hypocrite, he was unconscious of the sorrows prepared for him by another. Aided by Matilda’s infernal agents, Ambrosio had resolved upon the innocent Antonia’s ruin. The moment destined to be so fatal to her arrived. She had taken leave of her mother for the night. As she kissed her, she felt an unusual despondency infuse itself into her bosom. She left her, and returned to her instantly, threw herself into her maternal arms, and bathed her cheek with tears. She felt uneasy at quitting her, and a secret presentiment assured her that never must they meet again. Elvira observed, and tried to laugh her out of this childish prejudice. She chid her mildly for encouraging such ungrounded sadness, and warned her how dangerous it was to encourage such ideas.
To all her remonstrances she received no other answer than——