glorious young life of his Grecian mythology to the settled calm repose of his Christ and the Apostles. A more appropriate tomb could hardly be found for one whose life was art, than to lie among his offspring. Can a man give a better account of his life than by pointing to his labours? They are connected with him now after his death, as he was with them in his life, and from the first work of manhood to the unfinished idea of age, you may trace him as it were through life to the tomb. He rests from his labours, and his works follow him.
“WHERE ARE HER FATHER’S BONES?”
CHAPTER I. TREATS OF THE INTRODUCTION.
’Twas a wild, dark night, and the wind howled tempestuously round the ivied turrets of the old Castle of Ghostenstein, and swept through the thick, gloomy forests of pine and fir, which encircled it, while the trees bent and rustled with a mighty sound as the wild blast came full upon them.
I will not tell you where Ghostenstein is, or rather was, for I do not choose to be convicted of geographical errors, or of ignorance of the proper forms and customs appertaining to such and such countries, nor will I mention the exact season at which the occurrences I am about to relate took place; suffice it to say, that it was some part of the period in which the chivalry of nearly all European nations thought that true religion consisted in knocking infidels on the head, burning Jews, torturing heretics, and then praying that eternal destruction might befal all who did not think precisely as they did. Of course we know that storms in the good old times were very shocking things, particularly near old castles; but never was a storm more awful than the one of which I now write, and so thought Sir Alphonso Albert Ferdinand, Comte de St. Ernancourt, as he rode through the narrow forest path leading up towards the castle, ever and anon bending his brow till the dark purple plumes of his steel casque almost tickled his nose, in the vain hope that he might somewhat shield his person from the wild deluge of rain which the storm king shed around in such weird profusion.
“By Saint Derby of Epsom,” muttered the bewildered and half-drowned knight, “this beats all the storms in Palestine, and if thou, my trusty Deerfoot, dost not soon bear me on thy gallant back to yon haven of rest, I fear I shall be washed away; as it is, I shall not beseem me as a gallant knight should, when ushered in the presence of the fair and highly-dowered Lady Amandamine, for I have brought back no changes of raiment with me from Palestine, and only one clean shirt. I am only now freed from the vows I have kept for two years past to live in the odour of sanctity, abjure washing, shaving, clean linen, and matrimony, and thus my wardrobe is in a very poor condition, and I did not reckon on this storm spoiling the few things that are. Ten thousand plagues on Ephraim Manasses, for not giving me that maroon velvet suit, which would have just done for me at this critical juncture. Ah! let me once get Amandamine and this castle for mine own, and I will pledge my word that the old scurvy rascal’s thumbs and toes shall well pay for his daring to doubt my knightly honour.”
As he spoke the knight clenched his fists, and dug his spurs with renewed vigour into the bleeding sides of his jaded steed.
While he is hurrying on towards the castle, we will leave him to obtain admittance there, while we penetrate at once into the sanctum sanctorum of Ghostenstein, even into the bower chamber of the Lady Amandamine de Valentin.
CHAPTER II. TREATS OF THE HEROINE.
She sat moodily near a window looking out on the storm; and her maidens finding their mistress disinclined for their society, and having, like all serving women of all times, a nervous horror of the lightning, had huddled together at the farther end of the apartment.
Our heroine, of course, was handsome, but now an expression of deep sadness sate on her brow. At times she muttered low, then sighed, and again whispered such words as these:
“Must I always be alone? Ah, Alphonso! I have not forgotten thee, though two weary years have sped their course since I beheld thee last; and now, though I am my own mistress, thy love is as impossible to me as ever. Oh, my father’s bones! my father’s bones! woe! woe!”
And thus she wailed on, while the storm rattled round the castle’s turrets, and waved her long hair in the breeze as, regardless of influenza, she bent her lovely form towards the open casement.
She was here interrupted by her page who, bowing low, informed her that a knight of noble mien craved the shelter of the castle for that night.
“Most willingly,” responded the lady. “Bid them prepare all in readiness for one guest, and let the supper be served forthwith in the great hall. Did he tell thee his name and condition, my pretty page?”
“No, my lady, the knight regretted having left his cardcase at home, but bade me bring up his gauntlet, saying that thou wouldst know to whom it belonged.”
She languidly gazed on the gauntlet, and when she beheld engraved on it the device of two Turkey cocks rampant and a donkey couchant, the blessed truth broke on her mind, and she started up, ecstatically exclaiming:
“’Tis he, my Alphonso! oh, joy! joy! Here Beatrice, Mary, Elfleda, all of ye, haste hither, bring me my gayest robe, and deck me as for a festival.”
All traces of sorrow fled from her speaking countenance, and she was once more the bright, the sparkling Amandamine.
Shall I describe their meeting? No, there is something too sacred in such things for me to tell, or for you to hear. All was “love! joy! rapture! bliss! &c., &c.,” and the young people were most uncommonly tender.
Old Father Eustace, who enacted the part of guardian to the youthful heiress, felt his old eyes water with tears of sympathy as he gazed on their happiness. At last they sat down to supper, a most cosy little party.
