Sketches | Page 5

should have answered us.'
Imogene de Charolois is in the arms of Lothair de Branchimont.
'We have no time for embraces,' said Theodore; 'the horses are ready.
The Virgin be praised, all is right. I would not go through such an
eight-and-forty hours again to be dubbed a knight on the spot. Have
you Mignon?'
'Mignon, indeed! he has not visited me these two days.'
'But my letter,' said Lothair-'you received it?'
'It was thrown in at my window,' said the Lady Imogene.
'My heart misgives me,' said little Theodore. 'Away! there is no time to
lose. Hist! I hear footsteps. This way, dear friends. Hist! a shout! Fly!
fly! Lord Branchimont, we are betrayed!'

And indeed from all quarters simultaneous sounds now rose, and
torches seemed suddenly to wave in all quarters. Imogene clung to the
neck of Lothair.
'We will die together!' she exclaimed, as she hid her face in his breast.
Lord Branchimont placed himself against a tree, and drew his mighty
sword.
'Seize him!' shouted a voice, instantly recognised by Imogene; 'seize
the robber!' shouted her father.
'At your peril!' answered Lothair to his surrounding foes.
They stood at bay--an awful group! The father and his murdering
minions, alike fearful of encountering Branchimont and slaying their
chieftain's daughter; the red and streaming torches blending with the
silver moonlight that fell full upon the fixed countenance of their
entrapped victim and the distracted form of his devoted mistress.
There was a dead, still pause. It was broken by the denouncing tone of
the father, 'Cowards! do you fear a single arm? Strike him dead! spare
not the traitress!'
But still the vassals would not move; deep as was their feudal devotion,
they loved the Lady Imogene, and dared to disobey.
'Let me, then, teach you your duty!' exclaimed the exasperated father.
He advanced, but a wild shriek arrested his extended sword; and as thus
they stood, all alike prepared for combat, yet all motionless, an arrow
glanced over the shoulder of the Count and pierced Lord Branchimont
to the heart. His sword fell from his grasp, and he died without a groan.
Yes! the same bow that had for ever arrested the airy course of Mignon,
had now, as fatally and as suddenly, terminated the career of the master
of the carrier-pigeon. Vile Rufus, the huntsman, the murderous aim was
thine!

CHAPTER VII.
The Dove Returns to Imogene
THE bell of the shrine of Charolois is again sounding; but how
different its tone from the musical and inspiring chime that summoned
the weary vassals to their grateful vespers! The bell of the shrine of
Charolois is again sounding. Alas! it tolls a gloomy knell. Oh! valley of
sweet waters, still are thy skies as pure as when she wandered by thy
banks and mused over her beloved! Still sets thy glowing sun; and
quivering and bright, like the ascending soul of a hero, still Hesperus
rises from thy dying glory! But she, the maiden fairer than the fairest
eve--no more shall her light step trip among the fragrance of its flowers;
no more shall her lighter voice emulate the music of thy melodious
birds. Oh, yes! she is dead--the beautiful Imogene is dead! Three days
of misery heralded her decease. But comfort is there in all things; for
the good priest who had often administered consolation to his unhappy
mistress over her brother's tomb, and who knelt by the side of her dying
couch, assured many a sorrowful vassal, and many a sympathising
pilgrim who loved to listen to the mournful tale, that her death was
indeed a beatitude; for he did not doubt, from the distracted expressions
that occasionally caught his ear, that the Holy Spirit, in that material
form he most loves to honour, to wit, the semblance of a pure white
dove, often solaced by his presence the last hours of Imogene de
Charolois!

THE CONSUL'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I.
Henrietta
AT ONE of the most beautiful ports in the Mediterranean Major
Ponsonby held the office of British Consul. The Parliamentary interest
of the noble family with which he was connected had obtained for him
this office, after serving his country, with no slight distinction, during

the glorious war of the Peninsula. Major Ponsonby was a widower, and
his family consisted of an only daughter, Henrietta, who was a child of
very tender years when he first obtained his appointment, but who had
completed her eighteenth year at the period, memorable in her life,
which these pages attempt to commemorate. A girl of singular beauty
was Henrietta Ponsonby, but not remarkable merely for her beauty. Her
father, a very accomplished gentleman, had himself superintended her
education with equal care and interest. In their beautiful solitude, for
they enjoyed the advantage of very little society save that of