Sketches | Page 4

makes her heart tremble with a host of wild and
conflicting emotions.
Ah! through the air an arrow from a bow that never erred--an arrow
swifter than thy swiftest flight, Mignon, whizzes with fell intent. The
snake that darts upon its unconscious prey less fleet and fatal!
It touches thy form--it transfixes thy beautiful breast! Was there no
good spirit, then, to save thee, thou hope of the hopeless? Alas, alas!
the blood gushes from thy breast, and from thine azure beak! Thy
transcendent eye grows dim--all is over! The carrier-pigeon falls to the
earth!
CHAPTER V.
Another Message
A DAY without hearing from Lothair was madness; and, indeed, when
hour after heavy hour rolled away without the appearance of Mignon,
and the Lady Imogene found herself gazing upon the vanishing twilight,
she became nearly frantic with disappointment and terror. While light
remained, an indefinite hope maintained her; but when it was indeed
night, and nothing but the outline of the surrounding hills was
perceptible, she could no longer restrain herself; and, bursting into
hysteric tears, she threw herself upon the floor of her chamber. Were
they discovered? Had Lothair forgotten her? Wearied with fruitless
efforts, had he left her to her miserable, her solitary fate? There was a
slight sound--something seemed to have dropped. She looked up. At
her side she beheld a letter, which, wrapped round a stone, had been
thrown in at the window. She started up in an ecstasy of joy. She cursed

herself for doubting for an instant the fidelity of her lover! She tore
open the letter; but so great was her emotion that some minutes elapsed
before she could decipher its contents. At length she learned that, on
the ensuing eve, Lothair and Theodore, disguised as huntsmen of
Charolois, would contrive to meet in safety beneath her window, and
for the rest she must dare to descend. It was a bold, a very perilous plan.
It was the project of desperation. But there are moments in life when
desperation becomes success. Nor was the spirit of the Lady Imogene
one that would easily quail. Hers was a true woman's heart; and she
could venture everything for love. She examined the steep; she cast a
rapid glance at the means of making the descent: her shawls, her
clothes, the hangings of her bed--here were resources--here was hope!
Full of these thoughts, some time elapsed before she was struck at the
unusual mode in which the communication reached her. Where was
Mignon? But the handwriting was the handwriting of Lothair. That she
could not mistake. She might, however, have observed that the
characters were faint--that the paper had the appearance of being
stained or washed; but this she did not observe. She was sanguine--she
was confident in the wisdom of Lothair. She knelt before an image of
the Virgin, and poured forth her supplications for the success of their
enterprise. And then, exhausted by all the agitation of the day, the Lady
Imogene sunk into a deep repose.
CHAPTER VI.
Flight and Discovery
MORN came at length, but brought no Mignon. 'He has his reasons,'
answered the Lady Imogene: 'Lothair is never wrong. And soon, right
soon, I hope, we shall need no messenger.' Oh, what a long, long day
was this, the last of her captivity! Will the night never come--that night
she had once so much dreaded? Sun, wilt thou never set? There is no
longer gladness in thy beams. The shadows, indeed, grow longer, and
yet thine orb is as high in heaven as if it were an everlasting noon! The
unceasing cry of the birds, once so consoling, now only made her
restless. She listened, and she listened, until at length the rosy sky

called forth their last thrilling chant, and the star of evening summoned
them to roost.
It was twilight: pacing her chamber, and praying to the Virgin, the
hours at length stole away. The chimes of the sanctuary told her that it
wanted but a quarter of an hour to midnight. Already she had formed a
rope of shawls: now she fastened it to the-lattice with all her force. The
bell struck twelve, and the Lady Imogene delivered herself to her fate.
Slowly and fearfully she descended, long suspended in the air, until her
feet at length touched a ledge of rock. Cautiously feeling her footing,
she now rested, and looked around her. She had descended about
twenty feet. The moon shone bright on the rest of the descent, which
was more rugged. It seemed not impracticable--she clambered down.
'Hist! hist!' said a familiar voice, 'all is right, lady--but why did you not
answer us?'
'Ah! Theodore, where is my Lothair?'
'Lord Branchimont is shaded by the trees--give me thy hand, sweet lady.
Courage! all is right; but indeed you