“I—I—I—believe—I must go,” said she.
“So soon,” cried Ferdinand, again smiling, for it was impossible to mistake the cause of her confusion. “I thought the jailer said he should not come for you again in less than an hour.”
“Did he!” repeated Clara, quite unconscious of what she said, and without daring to look at him.
“My dear Miss Montagu, will you not bestow one look upon me?” cried Ferdinand, in his most insinuating tone, sinking upon one knee before her, and gently encircling her slender waist with his arm, as he turned her towards him. Clara could not resist his imploring eyes; her heart beat, she blushed, she trembled, she looked upon the ground; when suddenly Ferdinand uttered a faint cry, and started upon his feet. Clara gazed at him with wonder, for that countenance, so lately beaming with love and tenderness, now seemed aghast with horror. She followed the direction of his eyes, and beheld in the doorway the giant form of Cheops; whilst the Mummy’s appalling laugh resounded in his ears. Involuntarily Clara shuddered, and hid her face in her hands.
“By the silver bow of Isis!” cried Cheops, tauntingly, “I admire your charity, Miss Montagu. Why do you hide your face? But so it is, true merit is always bashful, and the beneficial spirit that prompted Clara Montagu to visit the distressed, and even prefer a stranger to her own cousin, makes her blush to avow her goodness.”
“Mercy! mercy!” cried Clara, falling at his feet. “You know my heart, and I implore your assistance.”
“Then you shall have it,” returned Cheops. “As for you,” continued he, addressing the prince; “what is your wish?”
“Deliver me from this prison, and make Clara mine, and I will be your slave.”
“It is well,” said the Mummy. “Clara, you must retire with me; this is no place for you. As for you, prince, Lord Maysworth and Father Murphy will be admitted to your presence in the course of a few hours, to consult with you respecting your defence. Follow their advice, and fear nothing. Rely upon me, and you shall be safe. Come, Clara! you must return to the house of your uncle. Father Murphy wisely informed me of your folly, and invoked my aid. I come accordingly to relieve you from the dilemma in which your rashness had involved you. Let us retire, and your imprudence will be overlooked in consideration of your youth. Adieu, Prince! we shall meet again!”
Clara now withdrew, following her strange guide, whose dictum, indeed, few mortals could resist, and leaving the Prince’s mind much relieved, as his confidence in his new friend was unbounded; whilst the discovery he had made of the devoted love of Clara soothed his troubled spirit, and robbed his confinement of half its bitterness.
XXVIII
In the meantime, Lord Edmund’s mind was tortured by the bitterest anguish, and his agitation, added to the pain of his wounds, produced a considerable degree of fever. The conduct of Elvira, and the anxiety she had evinced respecting the prince, seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. “Oh God! Oh God!” cried he, as he paced his prison in agony; “I could have borne anything but this—it is too, too much. By Heaven! I could sell myself to everlasting perdition to be revenged.”
As he spoke, he heard the key of his dungeon door grate in the lock, and he shuddered, for he almost fancied some hideous spectre would appear in answer to his call, and he felt indescribably relieved when he heard the gentle, insinuating tones of Father Morris. Sweet is the voice of friendship to the disappointed spirit, and soft falls the balm of consolation from those we love, upon the wounded heart. Edmund’s bosom thus throbbed with transport when he saw the reverend father; and throwing his arms round his neck, he sobbed like a child.
“My dear Edmund,” said the priest, also excessively affected, for he really loved Edmund, “it breaks my heart to see you thus—cruel Elvira!”
“Oh, blame her not, father!” exclaimed Edmund; “I cannot bear that even you should blame her. She is deceived—she is under the influence of infatuation. We cannot control our hearts, you know, father.”
“But that she should be capable of loving another, when your services, your devoted affection—”
“Alas! alas! father, love is not to be bought by services. All she could give she has given; I possess her friendship and esteem.”
“And are you satisfied with those?”
“Satisfied! Oh heavens!”
“At any rate, I suppose you could bear to see her married to Prince Ferdinand, if you thought it would contribute to her happiness.”
“Married to him!” cried Edmund, gnashing his teeth in agony—“married to him! Oh anything but that: I will never live to see that.”
“You are not likely,” calmly returned the priest; “for, as the state requires a victim, and as Elvira will certainly not resign her Endymion, you will doubtless be sacrificed to save him.”
“Hold, hold!” cried Edmund, driven to madness by the thought; “do not dare to repeat those cursed words! I could die to serve her, but I will not be sacrificed. What! am I to be made a tool, a child, an idiot?—destined to labour for my rival, and denied even the poor satisfaction of showing the extent of my devotion? But I will not die so calmly; Elvira shall not forget me—I will see her—she shall at least know my sentiments; and if she treats me with scorn, I will die, it is true, but it shall be by my own hand, and at her feet. I will not be sacrificed—I will not steal out of life like a common criminal.—No; the world shall know my wrongs—I
