to her headstrong will, and flew along the narrow path, dragging her panting, reluctant nurse after her.
A pale, wasted boy sat at the door of the miserable hut, murmuring a wild song in broken accents, while his bony fingers played among the strings of a guitar, and drew forth a low wailing sound. Insanity was blazing in his haggard eyes as he raised them to the new comers. “You would see Walfrida,” he said, “the syren, the enchantress—you would listen to her spells? She will admit you. Oh, implore her to let me gaze on that vision once again—only, only once!”
Viola trembled as she tapped at the door, which was instantly opened; and a voice bade her enter. She obeyed, and the piteous tones of the maniac followed her, still petitioning for admittance once more.
“What would you with me, maiden?” said a tall woman, clad fantastically in black.
Viola was silent, between shame and fear.
“Speak boldly, and fear not. Would you know whether your lover is true or false? Do you wish to see him as he now is—or is it the bridegroom fate has in store for you that you would gaze on? Walfrida has power to show you all, any of these.”
“I would look on my future bridegroom,” murmured the trembling Viola.
The woman took her hand, and led her through a long range of chambers hewn from the solid rock, against which the house was built; and the affrighted girl almost closed her eyes to shut out the view of the skeletons, monsters, and strange forms which seemed to gibber and grin at her as she passed along. They reached a spacious chamber, and she was left alone in utter darkness for some moments. A silence like that of death prevailed; she dared not move, for fancy pictured a deep abyss at her feet, down which one step, nay a single breath, might plunge her. Suddenly, a sharp pain pierced her bosom, as if a dagger had been plunged therein, and she screamed in agony; the mocking, hollow laugh of Walfrida replied to her, as that mysterious being entered with a burning torch, which she fixed in the ground, and then loosening her hair and baring her arms, she drew a circle round Viola, chaunting meanwhile in a monotonous tone, which gradually arose or fell like the dreary sound of a stormy wind. Suddenly the maniac’s voice was heard above it—“That vision, Walfrida, once again—only once!” and as the witch grasped her magic staff, he rushed into the room and knelt before her. She touched him with it, and the wasted form dropped lifeless at her feet. The scream of horror was frozen on Viola’s lips, by the demoniac look and gesture with which Walfrida exclaimed—“Speak not—move not! The spell is wound up. Behold!”
Stunned, terrified, and half fainting, Viola gazed on a dim cloud, which gradually assumed form and substance; until it gave to view a noble, princely knight, clad in glittering armour. In his outstretched hand he held a broken minature, richly set in gold and diamonds. It was not Serini, and yet Viola gazed on him with admiration, with feelings such as her heart had never known before; it was as if his eyes were sunbeams which warmed and irradiated her whole being with a new and rapturous sensation. He knelt and lifted his hands towards her, and she saw that the one which held the picture was wounded and bleeding. The voice of Walfrida startled her from her rapt gaze—“’Tis your future bridegroom, maiden; and methinks you seem not ill pleased with him; but now dismiss him. Quick, touch the form. Dost hear me, girl? Life and death hangs on the moment. Touch him, I say, if not with your hand, with something else!”
Viola mechanically drew a diamond bodkin from her hair, and touched the hand of the form. It was gone.
“Was it then a dream,” she murmured.
“Look on the bodkin,” replied the witch.
She obeyed. The gem and setting were stained with blood.
“It is the blood of your future husband; keep it from his sight, as you value your life and his love!” were the last words she remembered, until she found herself lying on the forest turf, and Gertrude bending anxiously over her.
Chap. IV.
The day had arrived for Viola’s departure for the capital, and all her repugnance to go there seemed to have vanished; even the neglect of Serini, who had failed to reply to her letter, was unnoticed. The only tears she shed were those occasioned by her parting with her faithful nurse—her more than mother.
The Count Harras, who remembered his daughter but as a plain, sickly child, was astonished and delighted by the beautiful girl who called him father; and he now prepared, with redoubled splendour, for the period which was to celebrate the marriage of one child and the introduction of another.
The Count Nadasti had been absent some time in active service, and for many days had been hourly expected. Maria looked anxiously for him, and often felt somewhat vexed by such protracted delays. At length came the welcome sound of his trumpets; Viola descended with her sister to the hall, bounding with all the elasticity of health and joy; but scarcely had she entered than, with a faint cry, she sank lifeless to the ground. The Count, who was just entering at the opposite door, sprang forwards, but too late to save her from falling. Eagerly he inquired who this lovely stranger was, and most anxiously watched for returning animation; but with it came delirium and fever, and for many weeks Viola lay on the point of death. Nadasti proposed that his nuptials should be postponed until she recovered; and while the Count thanked him for this mark of regard to his feelings, Maria felt that indifference to her, if not admiration for her young sister,
