WARBECK OF WOLFSTEÏN. CHAPTER I. "The ample proposition that Hope makes Shakspeare. VALLENSTEIN had now full leisure mfor reflection, and plenty of food for it: the strange reverse in the fortunes of his father, a man whom he had never known, nor could conceive, other than great and powerful:-to see him degraded from his high command, equalled with those who so lately trembled at his nod, or ripened in his smile-it was a transition so marvellous, as his thoughts could hardly consider steadily. On the other hand, A VOL. II. B Lawson, his conjectures were vainly employed in scrutinizing the probabilities which might have led to the changes even then taking place in Marchfeldt castle. He had heard the Friar assert that the event which had reached the eve of celebration would never be fulfilled. What might be the cause of this sudden frustration of Wolfstein's hopes? Had his dark, malicious, ferocious temper been too strong for his hypocrisy, and revealed itself prematurely? Such a notion was not ill founded; for, thought he, if the very babes of the hamlet shudder instinctively at the sight of Wolfsteïn, surely the penetrating eye of Wilhelm's sister must detect the fiend where he lurked. Vallenstein, soon after his arrival in the neighbourhood, had learned the absence of Conrade, as it had, of course, been one of his first objects to obtain a conference with that faithful and welltried domestic: now he had no suspicion of his return, or he would not have puzzled himself long on the probable cause of Wolfstein's discomfiture. The tomb where the ashes of Wilhelm and Blanche mingled in their last deep slumber attracted his footsteps; he hung over it in mournful meditation; he remembered how Wilhelm had envied the grim and ghastly sleepers who strewed the banks of the Sala the morning after his first battle. "Ay, Wilhelm," said he, "I could not then comprehend thy feelings; but events change the heart wonderously! Since that day I have seen life under different aspects!" Hour after hour did he employ in pacing the dark long aisles, or in leaning on the tomb which held all that was mortal of his friend. The hour of matins had long sounded, still Father Felix came not: what could detain him? At length, impatience and the restlessness of suspense, broke in on milder musings, and Vallenstein began to fear that his vigils were held in vain. He himself had repeatedly trimmed the lamps and the tapers which burned before the several shrines, or dimly illumined, at long intervals, the narrow vaulted cloisters; but the oil in many of the lamps had already failed, and it was plain that some unforeseen occurrence had detained the Friar far beyond his intentions. Fretful, and despairing to obtain the end of this weary night's watch, he began pondering uneasily on the length of time which was likely still to elapse ere the gates would be open, and he could escape from the murky damps and winking lights which surrounded him into the cool pure air. At that moment the slow approach of a footstep fell upon his ear; he concealed himself behind the tomb near which he was standing, when the private door which led from the castle opened, and the object of his long and eager expectation appeared. His first impulse was to reveal himself immediately; but the overwhelming affliction under which the Friar evidently laboured struck him |