Lord Gustavus made no reply, and the party proceeded to their several homes. The following day was appointed for the trial of Lord Edmund, and the court was, if possible, yet more crowded than before; for the singular termination of Prince Ferdinand’s trial, had created the most intense anxiety upon the part of the mob to know what would be the result of that of Lord Edmund. It has been already stated that he was the idol of the people, and now thousands of human voices shouted his praises to the sky, and heaped curses and execrations upon his enemies.
The tumult, however, was hushed to breathless expectation when it was announced that the officers of justice were gone in search of the prisoner; and innumerable human beings stood craning their necks over the lane made for his approach through the crowd, all eager to catch the first glimpse of him. But what language can express their disappointment and surprise when they saw the officers return, pale and trembling, fear painted upon their countenances, and their teeth chattering in their heads!
“He is gone,” they cried: “the prison door was locked, and the windows fast, but he is gone; and doubtless some evil spirit has carried him off.”
Great was the consternation excited by this unexpected news; everyone rushed to the prison, and each in turn was struck with horror on finding it exactly in the state the officers had described.—“It is the Mummy that has done this,” said the people, whispering amongst themselves: “some horrible event certainly hangs over us; and it is in vain to attempt to resist our destiny! All is supernatural, and we are merely blind instruments in the hands of Fate.”
The disappearance of Lord Edmund had, however, nothing supernatural in it; and, indeed was effected by very simple means, and mere mortal agents. The agitation of his mind after his interview with Cheops became excessive, and every hour seemed stretched to an unnatural length as he anxiously awaited Father Morris’s return; but the monk came not. Lord Edmund’s impatience increased every instant, till it became absolute agony; yet still he was alone. He paced his chamber with uncertain steps—his brain burning with incipient madness, till, no longer knowing what he did, he dashed his head against the walls, and tore of his hair by handfuls. In this state the jailer found him; and reporting his condition, his trial, which was to have taken place previously to that of Ferdinand, was postponed a few days to allow time for his recovery.
Bleeding and blistering reduced Lord Edmund’s fever; but his soul was still on fire. In the paroxysms of his disorder, no less than in his lucid intervals, one sole idea seemed to have taken possession of his fancy; and he inquired incessantly if Father Morris were returned. No, no, was the continual answer to his queries; till the heart of the poor prisoner sickened within him at the sound. At length he appeared well enough to take his trial, and the day was fixed, as we have already stated. The mind of Edmund now seemed tolerably composed; but it was the stillness of apathy, rather than that of resignation; and on the night preceding the day fixed for his trial, some of his former anxious and tormenting fantasies returned.
“I will shake off this weakness,” said he; “I will read;” and drawing his chair near the fire, he took up a book: it was in vain, however; for though he read over the same page repeatedly, he could not compose his mind sufficiently to comprehend its meaning. He threw his book aside, and, fixing his eyes upon the fire, was soon lost in gloomy meditations: when a slight noise attracted his attention; and, looking round, he saw a panel in the wall slowly detach itself, and Father Morris appear in the aperture, followed by another figure, closely wrapped in a large black cloak.
“Father Morris!” cried Edmund; “is it indeed Father Morris; or some kind spirit that has assumed his shape?”
“It is indeed I, my son!” returned the priest; “and I come to rescue and console you.”
“Methinks you come somewhat late, father,” said Edmund rather coldly; “for I have suffered much since I saw you!”
“Others have suffered also,” resumed the monk, “and for your sake! Notwithstanding you have fancied yourself neglected and forgotten by all the world, there is one human being who has never ceased to watch over you; who thinks only of you; who makes your happiness her only care; and who would sacrifice her life to preserve yours!”
Edmund’s heart beat, and his cheeks glowed as he exclaimed! “And this kind friend is—”
“Now before you!” interrupted the monk; tearing aside the cloak which shrouded his companion, and discovering—Rosabella!
“Rosabella;” exclaimed Edmund; a slight shade of disappointment passing over his features.
“Oh Edmund!” cried Rosabella, throwing herself at his feet, “can you forget that I have overstepped the bounds prescribed to my sex: will you not hate me?”
“I do not blame you. I were unworthy of the name of man if I could. But father, what says Elvira? Have you delivered the chain?”
“She refuses either to see or hear from you.”
“Cruel woman! But perhaps she dreads to see me?”
“I know not; but she treated your petition with contempt. ‘Tell him,’ said she, ‘it is not possible he can have aught to say that can interest me. I will not hear his suit.’ ”
“Proud, haughty princess! But was this all?”
“No: I again entreated her to see you when she turned from me in scorn, and bade me leave her. ‘Talk not to me of Edmund,’ cried she, with a look of ineffable contempt. ‘Has he not wounded Ferdinand, and would you have me forgive him?—a thousand deaths are not sufficient to punish such a crime!’ ”
“What strange infatuation!”
“Strange, indeed—for she has interrupted his trial and set him free; besides which, they say
