The Penny Dreadfuls MEGAPACK™ (271 page)

THE WATER-KING: 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 surprize:

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 time 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 stept o’er Benches one and two;

‘Oh! lovely Maid, I die for You!’

He stept 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 confest,

And cursed the hand which then She prest.

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 needlework. 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 or sealed. It was addressed to the Marquis de las Cisternas, and the contents were as follows.

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 torch-light, and I shall be among them. Beware not to let your intention be known: Should a syllable be dropt 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. St. Ursula.

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 He 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 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 doated 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 or more. Having past an hour by his Bedside, 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 learnt 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,

‘Mother! Dear Mother! Oh! would to God, it were Morning!’

Elvira, whose inquietude respecting her Daughter was a great obstacle to her perfect reestablishment, was still labouring under the effects of her late severe illness. She was this Evening more than usually indisposed, and retired to bed before her accustomed hour. Antonia withdrew from her Mother’s chamber with regret, and till the Door closed, kept her eyes fixed upon her with melancholy expression. She retired to her own apartment; Her heart was filled with bitterness: It seemed to her that all her prospects were blasted, and the world contained nothing for which it was worth existing. She sank into a Chair, reclined her head upon her arm, and gazed upon the floor with a vacant stare, while the most gloomy images floated before her fancy. She was still in this state of insensibility when She was disturbed by hearing a strain of soft Music breathed beneath her window. She rose, drew near the Casement, and opened it to hear it more distinctly. Having thrown her veil over her face, She ventured to look out. By the light of the Moon She perceived several Men below with Guitars and Lutes in their hands; and at a little distance from them stood Another wrapped in his cloak, whose stature and appearance bore a strong resemblance to Lorenzo’s. She was not deceived in this conjecture. It was indeed Lorenzo himself, who bound by his word not to present himself to Antonia without his Uncle’s consent, endeavoured by occasional Serenades, to convince his Mistress that his attachment still existed. His stratagem had not the desired effect. Antonia was far from supposing that this nightly music was intended as a compliment to her: She was too modest to think herself worthy such attentions; and concluding them to be addressed to some neighbouring Lady, She grieved to find that they were offered by Lorenzo.

The air which was played, was plaintive and melodious. It accorded with the state of Antonia’s mind, and She listened with pleasure. After a symphony of some length, it was succeeded by the sound of voices, and Antonia distinguished the following words.

SERENADE

Chorus

Oh! Breathe in gentle strain, my Lyre!

’Tis here that Beauty loves to rest:

Describe the pangs of fond desire,

Which rend a faithful Lover’s breast.

Song

In every heart to find a Slave,

In every Soul to fix his reign,

In bonds to lead the wise and brave,

And make the Captives kiss his chain,

Such is the power of Love, and Oh!

I grieve so well Love’s power to know.

In sighs to pass the live-long day,

To taste a short and broken sleep,

For one dear Object far away,

All others scorned, to watch and weep,

Such are the pains of Love, and Oh!

I grieve so well Love’s pains to know!

To read consent in virgin eyes,

To press the lip ne’er prest till then

To hear the sigh of transport rise,

And kiss, and kiss, and kiss again,

Such are thy pleasures, Love, But Oh!

When shall my heart thy pleasures know?

Chorus

Now hush, my Lyre! My voice be still!

Sleep, gentle Maid! May fond desire

With amorous thoughts thy visions fill,

Though still my voice, and hushed my Lyre.

The Music ceased: The Performers dispersed, and silence prevailed through the Street. Antonia quitted the window with regret: She as usual recommended herself to the protection of St. Rosolia, said her accustomed prayers, and retired to bed. Sleep was not long absent, and his presence relieved her from her terrors and inquietude.

It was almost two o’clock before the lustful Monk ventured to bend his steps towards Antonia’s dwelling. It has been already mentioned that the Abbey was at no great distance from the Strada di San Iago. He reached the House unobserved. Here He stopped, and hesitated for a moment. He reflected on the enormity of the crime, the consequences of a discovery, and the probability, after what had passed, of Elvira’s suspecting him to be her Daughter’s Ravisher: On the other hand it was suggested that She could do no more than suspect; that no proofs of his guilt could be produced; that it would seem impossible for the rape to have been committed without Antonia’s knowing when, where, or by whom; and finally, He believed that his fame was too firmly established to be shaken by the unsupported accusations of two unknown Women. This latter argument was perfectly false: He knew not how uncertain is the air of popular applause, and that a moment suffices to make him today the detestation of the world, who yesterday was its Idol. The result of the Monk’s deliberations was that He should proceed in his enterprize. He ascended the steps leading to the House. No sooner did He touch the door with the silver Myrtle, than it flew open, and presented him with a free passage. He entered, and the door closed after him of its own accord.

Guided by the moonbeams, He proceeded up the Staircase with slow and cautious steps. He looked round him every moment with apprehension and anxiety. He saw a Spy in every shadow, and heard a voice in every murmur of the night breeze. Consciousness of the guilty business on which He was employed appalled his heart, and rendered it more timid than a Woman’s. Yet still He proceeded. He reached the door of Antonia’s chamber. He stopped, and listened. All was hushed within. The total silence persuaded him that his intended Victim was retired to rest, and He ventured to lift up the Latch. The door was fastened, and resisted his efforts: But no sooner was it touched by the Talisman, than the Bolt flew back. The Ravisher stept on, and found himself in the chamber, where slept the innocent Girl, unconscious how dangerous a Visitor was drawing near her Couch. The door closed after him, and the Bolt shot again into its fastening.