The officer smiled at her warmth. “Wait here a little,” said he: “I will soon return and admit you, if I obtain permission; but State Prisoners are ordered to be guarded so closely, that I dare not take any step respecting them, without consulting the governor.”
“So then you’ll get in after all,” said Father Murphy, who had approached near enough to hear this last speech. “Well, well, what a world this is we live in! Here have been dukes and princes begging for admission unsuccessfully, and yet a little saucy girl, only because she happens to be half distracted, is let in at the very first word.”
Clara did not reply; but wrapping herself in her cloak, sat down on a large stone near the gates to wait the officer’s return. The solemn automaton was stopped for a moment to allow him to pass, but it had now resumed its slow measured step, and Clara’s heart sickened at the sound. The mist cleared away, and the night became fine though cold, whilst the moon having struggled through the clouds which rapidly scudded across the sky, shed her pale feeble light upon the scene. Clara shuddered as she looked at the dark heavy building behind her, and wrapping her cloak tighter round her, fixed her eyes anxiously upon the heavens, watching the varied shapes assumed by the clouds as they drifted along, and sighing heavily as they passed.
“Now tell me, dear,” said Father Murphy, seating himself beside her, “what ye mane to say to yere cousin when ye get in to see him. Spake freely, for the devil a word the spalpeens yonder shall hear of what ye’re going to say, by rason of their being all fast asleep.”
“My cousin!” exclaimed Clara. “Who! what!”
“Your cousin Edmund, that ye’re come so far to see,” resumed the father.
“My cousin!” replied Clara; “Oh! aye, true. It was my cousin who fought with him, you know. But I don’t want to see my cousin.”
“Not want to see your cousin!” reiterated Father Murphy, his eyes almost starting from his head in the excess of his astonishment. “Why did you come here, then?”
“To—to see Prince Ferdinand,” said Clara in a faltering voice, looking down, and blushing.
Father Murphy’s astonishment was now far too great for words, and he could only look at her in speechless horror, as he revolved some plan in his mind for getting her quietly back to her friends.
“How wild she looks!” thought he: “she must be put in confinement; there is no saying to what lengths so strange a delusion may carry her.”
Whilst the poor father was thus cogitating and repeating to himself divers coaxing forms of words, by the help of which he hoped to persuade her to return, the automaton again stopped, and, the prison door flying open, the officer beckoned Clara to advance. She flew towards him. “Clara! Clara dear!” said Father Murphy, “had you not betther go home again?” But Clara heard him not; she was already in the prison; the doors had closed, and the automaton sentinel had again resumed his measured, beaten track.
“Oh dear! oh dear!” cried the unhappy Father Murphy, “what will I do? How will I get her out? Poor Sir Ambrose—he will break his heart. I dare say he knows nothing about it. These kind of fits always come on suddenly.”
Thus lamenting, the worthy father walked up and down before the prison in a state of pitiable distress, till a bright thought flashed across his mind, and he set off as fast as his trembling limbs could carry him to put it in execution.
In the meantime, Clara had followed the officer into the prison, and her heart beat faster as she advanced, for her undertaking now appeared to her in a new light, and she trembled as she thought of the interpretation the Prince might put upon her boldness. It was, however, too late to repent; she had not even time for hesitation. The officer is already at the door, the bolts are withdrawn, and Clara finds herself in the presence of Ferdinand. Confused and horror-struck at what she had done, she scarcely knew where she was, everything seemed to swim before her eyes, and gasping for breath, she caught firm hold of the doorway for support.
For some moments, Ferdinand was not aware of her presence, as he sat gloomily resting his head upon his hand, his elbow supported by a table, upon which lay a variety of papers, whilst Hans, a favourite servant, who had followed him from Germany, stood beside him.
Awed by his abstraction, and abashed by the presumption she had been guilty of, in intruding, unsolicited, upon his presence, Clara still stood irresolute, fearing alike to advance or to recede, till the officer, impatient at her delay, cried, in a loud voice—
“Walk in, if you please, Ma’am, that I may relock the door. I shall return to let you out in an hour.”
The sound of the officer’s voice caught the attention of Ferdinand, and he looked towards the doorway, from the shade of which the trembling Clara was now forced to advance.
“Miss Montagu,” cried Prince Ferdinand, who had seen her at Elvira’s parties, and had thought her so pretty as to inquire her name—“this is an unhoped-for pleasure; I did not expect this.”
“I came—I came—” stammered Clara: and here she stopped short, for upon recollection she really could not tell why she had come.
“I am delighted to see you,” said the prince, smiling, and taking her hand, “whatever may be the cause that has procured me this honour.”
“I—I—I—had—rather—sit—down,” stammered Clara, without having the least idea what she was talking about.
“Well, then,
