appertaining to the Lordship of Weimar. Thus was the unhappy Arnold placed entirely in the hands of a cruel and vindictive father; whose heart, burning with injured pride, was fully purposed to make him feel the bitter effects of what he deemed unpardonable disobedience. To him it was indifferent whether a son or a vassal offended: the delinquent whoever he might be, was destined to chains and misery, and some had even expired under his accumulated barbarities.

PART VI.

"And sometimes from the rush of war,
Beneath the lovely evening-star,
They stole a quiet hour to share
The perfumed coolness of the air;
And she would take her lute and sing
Sweet songs of old remembering,
Breathing of home-talk of the fame
Gathering round her warrior's name,
And mix with future hope a sigh,
Given to mournful days gone by."

FOR nearly a year had Arnold now endured all the rigours of confinement; and during the whole of this melancholy interval, no tidings had reached him from any of his friends. His heart, elated with hope-hope that seldom forsakes the most wretched, had long supported him, and he had seen from morning to morning the dawning beam shine through his grated window, and from evening to evening the setting ray tinge the tall summit of the hill that overlooked the gloomy scene of his imprisonment, still expecting that some kind voice would proclaim his liberation-some compassionate hand unrivet the bars of his dungeon. But days, weeks, and months had held their course to eternity, and yet no aid arrived. In consequence dejection and despondency, for, oh! how ample a portion of that spirit, which was present with the captive prophet, and sustained him amidst his trials, must have rested upon him, had no repining thought escaped him under the inflictions of so inexorable a tyrant!-began to take possession of his mind; and he was on the point of abandoning himself to utter despair, when, as an evening in spring was closing over his solitude, and shedding its lingering radiance on the hill that towered above, he observed a strange figure muffled, but apparently in armour, sitting upon a projecting crag that overhung the chasm below.

In other circumstances such a form might have occasioned him alarm, but now his heart bounded at the sight: he gazed

intently gazed-anticipating perhaps, some signal from the stranger. At length, when the last beam had struck his burnished mail, he took a mirror, which had been concealed under his doublet, and directed the reflected ray to the dreary casement of Arnold's dungeon, as if thus to excite the attention of its unhappy inmate; he pointed to the setting orb, and then motioning with his hand perpendicularly downwards, gave him to understand, as he believed, that at the hour of midnight he might expect again to meet him. This done, the stranger immediately withdrew, leaving Arnold, as may be imagined, full of the deepest anxiety as to the meaning of what had occurred.

Evening had now shut in: his keeper had performed the last ceremony of the day: the rusty hinges had grated back again to their rest: the key had turned in the doors: and the step of the distant Cerberus was lost through the remotest vaults. Ten had struck-eleven—and now the toll of midnight was heard from the far watch-tower, echoing deeply amid the solemn silence of the hills around. Then was every insect of the night heard distinctly as it winged its way along. On the ear of Arnold every sound fell full: thought followed thought, like pursuing waves on the surface of a troubled sea. It was a moment that seemed to embrace after ages, and to bury in oblivion all that had elapsed.

"The mountain stream,

Which from the distant glen sent forth its sound,
Wafted upon the wind, was audible

In that deep hush of feeling-like the voice
Of waters in the stillness of the night."

At this instant a foot echoed through the far porch of the gloomy mansion. The keeper demanded the watch-word-a scuffle ensued and something sunk heavily upon the floor. Steps as of two was now heard approaching. The key turned-the door opened-and the captive, captive no longer, was locked in the arms of some one whom as yet he knew not. He would have asked her name -but she checked him: "Hush! Arnold, and delay not here: follow me; every moment is precious." He obeyed, and attended her. A horse and guide were waiting to receive him, and he was soon far from his late dreary dwelling. Having thus delivered our prisoner, we may here pause, for a little, and hastily acquaint our readers with the particulars of his escape.

Long and anxiously had the maternal heart of the Baroness yearned upon her suffering son. Every thing that could be done by entreaties and tears had been attempted, but de Weimar continued inflexible; and at length told her, that if ever after the subject crossed her lips, she should have a corner of the same comfortable abode. "This son," he vociferated, and he cursed her and the day she brought him forth," had dishonoured himself and his family, and should enjoy at leisure, (as in cruel irony he expressed himself,) the consequences of his disobedience." Thus every hope having failed of accomplishing her purpose by gentle means, she determined to rescue her child by any other

that seemed most feasible. In pursuance of this resolution, she got intelligence of her intention conveyed to Ellen, who undertook to provide a confidential person, as bold in action as he was prudent in counsel, who would effectuate his deliverance, or perish in the attempt. He had been a vassal of the late de Guiscald, and having heard that it was for his attachment to the daughter of his Chief that the unhappy son of de Wiemar was condemned to all the horrors he had endured; he immediately felt the most ardent interest in his fate, and vowed solemnly to release him or lay down his own life as a sacrifice to the love he had borne his unfortunate master.

It was on the evening of a festival held in that neighbourhood, that he designed to make the effort. An associate was engaged to attract the attention of the guards of the outer posts, while he himself undertook the more arduous enterprise of opening a way to the dungeon of the captive.

Every thing being thus concerted, and the carousings having already commenced, he had ascended the hill, and standing on the projecting crag, had endeavoured, as we have related, and not in vain to prepare the prisoner for the meditated attempt. As evening fell, the guards, who ceasing to apprehend danger, now began to relax their vigilance, were accosted, as it might be, casually by the individual who was to assist in the undertaking. His part being faithfulty executed, it only remained, as night approached, to make the necessary dispositions to prevent interruption and provide against surprise. This done, as the hour drew on, horses were prepared for the prisoner and his intended guide, and the person who had appeared on the hill was joined by the Baroness, for she it was in whose embraces Arnold had been locked, and who, overpowed by anxiety for her favourite boy, had ventured to leave the castle to aid in his liberation, and be the first to hail his rescue.

The outer posts were quickly secured, and Müller, so was named the person whom Ellen had selected for the arduous undertaking, attended by the Baroness, passed the moat, ascended the bastion, when being accosted by the keeper, after a short scuffle, by a well directed blow laid him senseless at his feet; and then hurrying on, unlocked the door which had so long been closed on the brave but unfortunate youth, and Arnold was at liberty. To him we now return.

Conducted by his faithful guide, he soon traversed the intervening parts and reached the limits of the Lordship of Weimar; but not venturing to stop, lest he should be overtaken by some messenger of wrath, he still pressed forward. Towards noon, however, he reposed; but time was precious, and again resuming his route, though much fatigued by the journey from long disuse of his once favourite exercise, he arrived as evening set in at a retired house, where they rested for the night. Next morning he again pursued his way, aud when the sun was sinking in the western horizon, reached the opening of a glen, that appeared at first sight inaccessible from the thick foliage that covered it. They were dismounted, and Arnold following his companion, who

had latterly conducted him through paths known only to himself and some few of the natives of his hills, soon gained a spot which seemed to rise like enchantment from the scene around. Here it was that Arnold was to end his toils-here, in the bosom of that calm retreat, was he destined to find, for a season at least, all that heart could desire. In a word, it was a spot where Fancy herself could rest. Here all had been prepared for his reception, while measures were taken for his security. The Baroness, in the prospect of his liberation, had arranged every thing with Ellen, who had in person superintended the various details of furnishing and fitting up the little mansion destined to be the scene of the wedded happiness of her child, But to be brief: not long after, he was seen at evening winding among the hills arm in arm with Margaret de Griscald, now the wife of his bosom, as she had long been the partner of his tenderest affections.

He had gone to Ellen's, and beneath her peaceful roof the nuptials were celebrated. The kind-hearted creature had made her will, and settled on her child, as she called Margaret, all she possessed, increased by frugality to an easy competence; and to her generosity were owing various conveniences, which were found in the mansion of that secluded glen.

As a

Ellen now saw the fulfilment of all her wishes: she attended the happy pair to their new abode, but refused to reside with them, though earnestly solicited to make that retreat her residence, as its inmates were so deeply indebted to her. visitor, however, thither often she came, never more than welcome; and many were the blessings, doubtless, which fell on that lowly abode from the prayers of one, whose hopes and wishes were so conversant with heaven.

In process of time she had the additional happiness of seeing the desires accomplished with which she had beheld the union, of her child-desires so warm in the hearts of a fond and wedded pair. She was beneath the roof when Margaret became a mother, and was the first to receive into her arms the tender pledge of love which had so long bound the lives of its parents in one-the first who clasped to her bosom Gertrude de Weimar.

PART VII.

"Thou cottage, gleaming near the tuft of trees,
Thou tell'st of joy more than I dare believe
Falls to the lot of man-where Fancy sees,

(For credulous Fancy still her dreams will weave,)
Him whose calm fate no restless cares deceive,

Blest by your smiles, pure as the mountain breeze,
Love, Peace, Humility, whose ministeries

Give all that happiest mortals can receive.
Yon sun-tipt groves embosomed harmony,
As fades the splendour of departing day,
Swells on my ear most like the minstrelsy,
Which from thy inmate's pipe can bear away
The soul of him who listens, till he hear

Sounds that awaken love's forgotten tear.”

OTHER thoughts and other feelings now occupied the minds, interested the feelings, and engaged the attention of Arnold and Margaret. Dear as was their quiet nook, it was now rendered doubly so by the little intruder, who had lately drawn within its walls the breath of life. Oh! there is a tenderness which'a' parent only can understand-an emotion only intelligible to that bosom, which, while the eye looks upon some object endued with existence, can exult in the thought that from it, that object drew' its being!

J

Margaret had now recovered from her confinement, and all its anguish had long since been forgotten in the joy of an infant born. From hour to hour, and from day to day, she nursedshe tended it; delighted with the gentle offices that had devolved on her. To her, at least the name of mother was new; and though each succeeding moment that rolled over her, detracted from its novelty, it seemed only to enhance her delight. Nor did Arnold not participate in these emotions-the emotions of her to whom affection had united him, and whose fondness" had been not reluctantly, but yet with a bashfulness that en deared the gift plighted to him, and ratified on the altar which received their vows. Each morning that gilded the hills that overlooked the glen, deep in whose bosom lay the peaceful mansion that shut him from the world, and every evening that hung her crimson curtain over the distant mountains that pointed