advantage of this accidental circumstance to remedy that inconvenience. Over the summit of the fissure, and on the margin of the castle terrace, a little building had been erected, projecting over the edge of the precipice, and furnished with a windlass and pulley. The floor had in its centre an opening like that of a well and in truth, this building was made to serve the purpose of a well, by the help of two buckets, and a rope some hundred feet in length, by which water was slowly raised from the reservoir in the plain, when the supply from the hills was insufficient for the wants of the castle.

But for many years this slow and laborious mode of supply had been superceded by the discovery of a spring in the side of the rock which shelters the fortress. Herrmann's father, on giving up the well, took it into his head to convert the building which covered it into an oratory. A strong floor was laid down over the opening of the former well; and on the spot was erected an altar, before which a lamp, suspended from the roof, was kept burning. Such was the chapel of Lueg, which exists to this day, although now devoted to profane purposes.

The knight and Belgarbo, having performed their devotions, quitted the chapel. The brow of the former, though sad, had recovered all its serenity. They spoke together like friends of many years, and Herrmann pointed out to the doctor the singular situation, and explained the peculiarities of the castle. At this moment they had reached the grand terrace. A parapet, of no great elevation, separated them from the edge of the precipice. From the platform on which they stood they could perceive, at a fearful depth, the lights of the besiegers in the valley, and the watch-fires of their outpost on the distant heights. To their left was the difficult path which led upward to the platform, with its numerous windings. At their backs the buildings of the dwelling, reared against the rock, seemed to form a portion of it. The air was sharp, and the night dark, although the sky was studded with stars.

Suddenly the knight paused, as if startled by an unexpected sound, and leaned over the parapet, in an attitude of attention. "Who can it be," he said, "that disturbs at this hour the watch of my sentinels? Some one is ascending the path. Come-let us meet him!"

They approached the gate, which was guarded, as usual, by four soldiers, under the orders of the warden. In a few minutes, a breathless man presented himself outside, gave the pass-word, was admitted, and stood before them. It was the major-domo!

"Whence come you at this hour ?" abruptly inquired his master. "I was going-I thought-" stammered out the terrified servant - "I fancied I heard give me time to breathe, and I will explain to you."

the

Bring a light!" exclaimed the doctor; "let me look once more upon the face of that man! His voice seems parched and husky to me truth will have great difficulty in making its way out of his throat!"

The doctor's examination was unfavourable to the major-domo. In vain the latter, having gained time to recover from his surprise, endeavoured to persuade his hearers that he had merely left the castle to discover the cause of some sounds which he asserted he had heard. Belgarbo interrupted his explanation. "Thou liest!" he said. "God knows what has been the motive of thy sally! But I am prepared to swear, by the principles of the science which I profess, that thou art hatching some treason. Lord Herrmann ! -I have said it before, and I say it again- beware of that man!" "By my faith, and I intend to follow your counsel!" said the knight, who had been an attentive spectator of the scene. "His nocturnal ramble, without any plausible motive, is quite enough to confirm your suspicions, and to justify the precautions which I design to adopt. Frank!" continued he, addressing the warden, "this man is henceforth a prisoner within

the precincts of the castle; and you will not allow him, on any pretext, to pass beyond them. And thou!"—to the major-domo, "go and fulfil thy functions within; and remember that thy conduct will from this moment be strictly watched. If thou attemptest to pass the limits of this terrace, I will have thee thrown over the precipice!"

On the evening of the following day, the knight and the doctor seated by the fire, occupied themselves in arranging for their departure on the morrow. The three trusty servants of the cavern, admitted secretly into the saloon, received orders to prepare a covered litter, adapted for passing easily along the various defiles of the subterranean route, and warmly lined with skins, for the conveyance of the youthful invalid. A darker cloud than usual rested upon the brow of Herrmann; there was a look of deep melancholy in his eyes, and an almost imperceptible motion about the mus cles of his mouth, which told of some gentler feeling, whose influence redeemed and controlled his sterner thoughts, and perhaps prevented some wild outbreak of his rash and fiery spirit. In truth, Herrmann had cause enough for all these emotions, the ruder of which were awakened by the thought that he was about to abandon for ever the castle of his ancestors, and his place in the land; and the gentler by fears for his child, who seemed altogether unable to endure the fatigue of removal, and whose farewell to him that night had been spoken in words and darkened by forebodings which had almost broken his strong heart.

The doctor saw and understood all that was passing in the breast of his companion, and strove to lead him into the discussion of projects for the future with some success. The two friends sat long together; and it was not till the turret-clock struck eleven that Herrmann rose to proceed to his accustomed devotions; and, pressing the hand of the doctor, intreated him to visit the couch of the invalid once more before he retired to rest.

As he left the hall, the knight found the major-domo waiting at his accustomed post with his lighted torch. For a moment he hesitated how to act towards this man, whose presence had become odious to him; and he almost resolved to take the light from him and proceed alone. But, after an instant's reflection, he determined to let him discharge his ordinary service for that night, and motioned to him to lead the way.

When he reached the gate of the chapel, the Lord of Lueg turned suddenly round to look upon the face of his servant. The sinister expression of the man's features struck him more forcibly than it had ever done before. All the doctor's suspicions flashed strongly through his mind, and he came to the resolution of having them cleared up on the spot. Whilst he was meditating on the means to be pursued for this purpose, the major-domo had left him as usual; and, imagining that his master would at once commence his devotions, he proceeded stealthily to place his flambeau on the edge of the parapet. The knight, having repassed the door of the chapel, followed the man's steps, and seized him by the arm as he turned to leave the wall on which he had left the light.

"Listen!" said he, as he dragged him forcibly back towards the chapel, and compelled him to kneel before the altar; "listen! I have somewhat to say to thee. Here, in the presence of the God who hears and sees all things, will I be satisfied from thine own lips as to the designs of which thou art accused. I will trust thee again if thou wilt swear to me here, by thy hopes of eternal salvation, that thou art not a traitor!"

"Here!-oh! not here!" screamed the wretched man, in a voice shrill with terror. "Fly!-fly!-take me from this spot, and you shall know all!"

"Ah! villain !" exclaimed the knight, as with a strong arm he held down the struggling wretch, "thou wert then about to betray me! -Go on! Confess all-here, before God, who is listening to thee!"

The screams of the major-domo rose wilder and shriller, and the hair stood straight up on his head. "I am guilty!" he cried: "but, oh! fly!fly! -or we are both lost! -the abyss is about to open beneath us!" But his desperate efforts were vain. The knight, attributing the terrors of the writhing villain to religious horror, held him forcibly down on the fearful spot in front of the altar. At this moment a loud explosion arose from the foot of the rock. The lamp of the shrine was extinguished, and a deep silence succeeded the shrieks of agony which terrified the warders. The nearest sentinel on parade fancied he heard after some moments the sound of groans, and at length gave the alarm. The chapel was entered; and a frightful spectacle presented itself.

Herrmann had died instantly. A ball from a falconet, guided by a line and lead, descending through a hole bored for the purpose in the floor to the foot of the rock, had passed through his lungs. A splinter from one ot the beams, broken off by the murderous projectile, had pierced the entrails of the major-domo, and mangled them frightfully. Some gold pieces, the fruits of his treachery, which he carried concealed beneath his garments, were buried in the dreadful wound. He lingered for an hour in hideous torments; and confessed, before he expired, the horrible means which he had concerted with the besiegers for the destruction of his master, and to which he had himself become the victim.

The Lord of Lueg was spared, by his own dreadful fate, the bitter pang of learning that his daughter was dead. The young and beautiful Ida had expired in the arms of the Doctor Belgarbo at the very same moment that her father was so suddenly cut off.

The Lordship of Lueg, on the extinction of the family of its ancient owners, devolved to that of Cobentzel, in whose possession it still remains. The ball which terminated the life of Herrmann of Lueg is still shown to the curious who visit the castle. It is half buried in the vaulted roof of the old chapel; and the traces of its progress have never been effaced. The peasants of the neighbourhood yet tell many a tale, which tradition has handed down to them, besides this fatal one, of THE BEAR OF CARNIOLA.

JANE.

BY THE HON. MRS. NORTON.

[From "The Gem," for 1835.]

"DRIVE on, postillion; my master intends to walk-he knows his way about here." Such, one sweet evening in July, 1813, were the words uttered by an important gentleman's gentleman, and caught eagerly by the villagers of Marsden-idlers, who watched the rapid course of Sir Arnold Stepney's travelling carriage, with much eagerness and admiration.

The scenes around him were indeed familiar to Sir Arnold's heart. Years had passed away, circumstances had changed with him; but fortune's favoured son forgot not the friends of his infancy. It was to visit the relative who had watched over those early days, that he now sought the obscure village of Marsden. Mistress Phoebe Allen was one of two sisters, daughters to a farmer in the neighbourhood: the beauty of both was so remarkable, that strangers were in the habit of visiting the farm on different

pretexts, merely to obtain a glimpse of these roses in the desert. Sir Henry Stepney, (then a widower,) saw, admired, and finally proposed for the younger; but Minny Allen, though her beauty might have done honour to a court, was not fitted, by education and circumstances, to be the wife of a proud baronet: their union was not happy; and, after five or six years, she died-Sir Henry said, of a decline-Mistress Phœbe Allen thought, of a

broken heart.

The offspring of this marriage was consigned to the care of his aunt when his father went abroad; and was allowed to remain there, neglected, if not forgotten, till the death of Sir Henry's son, by his first wife, reminded him he had still the right of a father over the young Arnold. From this time Mistress Phoebe Allen saw but little of him, and for the last eleven years merely knew that he lived-was clever and handsome-and still remembered her, as his short but affectionate letters proved. As Sir Arnold now strolled through the well-known fields; as he paused at the church-yard gate, and looked up at the old spire, while a sudden rush of many feelings, crowding into his heart, produced a sensation almost of pain-he remembered the quiet piety of his instructress, the pure and passionate enthusiasm for holy things, even for trivial forms and ceremonies connected with them, that burned in his soul, when his home was with her; and though, had he been called upon, he could eloquently have explained many changes in his feelings and opinions since that time—though years had altered his entire and unreasoning confidence in the correctness of his kind relative's views on all subjects, into pity for some of her prejudices, and contempt for others; yet, as Sir Arnold Stepney looked on that spire, and remembered that mental confidence, he heaved a short bitter sigh.

His attention was, however, speedily riveted on another object. As he turned to pass on, he saw, on one of the mounds of turf which cover the graves of the poorer classes, a girl sleeping. He started, advanced cautiously a few steps, and was confirmed in his opinion, that, in all the countries he had visited, he had never seen any thing so incomparably lovely. A quantity of pale brown hair fell back from her forehead; and the sunshine, beaming full upon a very brilliant complexion, gave a sort of glory to her features. Confused recollections of his favourite pictures, groups by Raphael, angels by Guido, flashed across Arnold's imagination: something else, less poetical, apparently flashed across it, for he suddenly knelt and imprinted a fervent kiss on the brow of the object before him. Don't," said the waking beauty, passing her hand across her eyes; "don't, Wallace!" Arnold Stepney's sword was already, in imagination, through Wallace's body, when the girl rose, and turned her full dark eyes upon

him.

There is, generally speaking, a striking difference in the expression of the same features, in slumber and awake. Arnold expected to be startled by the flashing beauty of those eyes, but, though his admiration of her did not abate, he was struck by the want of change in her face. There was little timidity — little animation in her countenance; but, for an instant, an expression of earnest and intense fondness beamed from it, while she still expected to behold the object of her dream. She saw Arnoid, coloured, and sat down again on the grave. Sir Arnold smiled, and addressed a few words to her, spoken lightly and in jest; to which her confusion prevented her giving very satisfactory replies.

He would, perhaps, have said more; but, at this moment, the expression of fondness returned to the features he was gazing upon his eye followed her's to the gate of the church-yard, and beheld a very handsome, bold-looking young man, in whose countenance surprise contended with extreme displeasure. As she advanced a step to meet him, he came forward hastily, took off his hat to Sir Arnold, and then, holding her hand, murmured

*Jane, do you know you are doing very wrong?"—"Do not say so," said Sir Arnold; "I have been asking her some questions it was only courteous to answer;" and he left them. When he had proceeded a few steps, an irresistible impulse prompted him to pause and look round. The young pair still stood at the churchyard gate; Jane's waist was encircled by Wallace's arm- her head leaned against his shoulder; but her eyes those eyes her lover was watching -- followed her new acquaintance across the meadow, and Sir Arnold Stepney was contented.

"And so," thought Arnold, as he laid his head on his pillow, after a day of inquiry-"this beautiful being, educated beyond her rank, not from charity, but caprice, with all the poetry of love written in her face, is now a servant at the mill! an orphan from her birth; dependent for support on the charity of strangers; subservient to the control of harsh and coarse minds; and so unaccustomed to the words of kindness that" — and here the handsome form of her young and eloquent comforter intruded on his memory. As the outward world closed upon his drowsy senses, a bright world of his own opened before him: -the eternal sunshine gilding that beautiful brow; the look of fondness in those eyes, for ever beaming on himself; and her young mind expanded and improved under his careful instructions, till every thought and feeling should be interwoven with his image. When Sir Arnold Stepney rose in the morning, and the fresh breeze blew through the open casement, he smiled to think of the intense happiness it had given him, while dreaming, to suppose himself necessary to the existence of Jane, the servant at the mill. Three months, however, passed away, and Sir Arnold was still at Marsden. At the close of a red autumn day, in October, he stood leaning his back against the low churchyard wall; and on the opposite mound of turf sat the object of his solicitude, her hands clasped in her lap, and her eyes fixed on his, as he delivered his parting words, in tones where affection and command were strangely blended: "You will read the books I have given you, Jane; and you will think of me while you read them: the passages I have marked must be read with the greatest attention; and all that you do not comprehend, you ean note down, and when I come again, I will explain it to you." There was a pause, and the tears gathered in her eyes. I shall be here probably in April, certainly not later than May; and, by that time, I expect my sweet Jane will have thoroughly mastered the subjects I have left for her consideration; and amongst them, Jane," continued he, while his voice slightly altered, "you will consider of your future situation. Now, good bye, my poor girl: mind all I have said, and especially don't allow Wallace to kiss you till I return." A faint smile answered his own, as she looked up from the shelter of his arms: it lingered till his form was lost in the distance; and then she sat down, and wept bitterly.

As Sir Arnold's travelling carriage rolled swiftly through the village, he thought over all that had passed since he came to Marsden: -the changes in things and people-the kindness and simplicity of Mistress Phoebe Allen -and lastly, that he might dwell on it the longer, he thought of Jane: the perfect symmetry of her round full figure-the unrivalled brilliancy of her complexion-the intense tenderness of her large dark eyes—the eagerness and aptitude she showed for instruction- the purity of her uncontaminated mind-the fascination of her gentle manner- the music of her happy laugh—the timid worship she paid him as to some superior beingand the wild charm thrown round her by the struggling of a naturally clear and ardent mind, out of the darkness which surrounded it. "Yes, my sweet Jane; yes, we shall be very happy," murmured Sir Arnold, as he kissed the glossy braid of pale brown hair he had drawn from his pocketbook. He closed the book, and raised his eyes: the carriage was turning the corner of the street of low white houses, which formed the village of