The evening was dark and somewhat stormy; and, though the hour was the same as that in which Bernard de Rohan had met Isabel on the preceding day, so much less light was there now in the heavens that he could scarcely see the postern gate, while with a beating heart he watched it from the small clump of fir-trees of which we have already spoken. Although a hollow and whistling wind blew sharp and strong among the mountains, the heavy vapours hung unmoved around the peaks; and though there was a reddish glare upon the edges of some of the clouds in the western sky, no light was derived from any lingering rays of the sun. Everything was gloomy, and dark, and cheerless; and yet the heart of Bernard de Rohan beat high with love, with joy, with expectation.

She was to be his, the being whom he had so long, so deeply, so tenderly loved. Within one short hour she was to be his own, bound to him by that indissoluble bond, to which he looked forward all the more joyfully, because it was to be eternal. Whose heart would not beat high at the fulfilment of the dream of years?

At length he thought he saw the door move, and, darting forward, he opened it gently. Isabel was waiting within with the faithful Henriot and her silent maid; and though she trembled very much as Bernard threw his arms around her, it was agitation, not fear, which moved her. The Lord of Masseran was still absent: there was no one likely to interrupt them; and when her lover strove to sooth and to encourage her, telling her that his own men were within sound of his horn, and many more unseen, surrounding them on all sides, she replied by assuring him in a low voice that she had no apprehension, and was ready to follow him whithersoever he would. Still, however, he saw that she was agitated; and, as he led her forth, he poured many a soothing and a tender word into her ear, drawing her nearer to his heart, and seeming to assure her, by every action as well as by every word, that the love and the protection which he was about to vow was as tender, as unchangeable, as the brightest dream of hope and expectation could picture it.

"Do you know the chapel down in the valley, my Isabel?" he asked, as he led her onward down a narrow path that wound along the side of the hill, as close under the walls of the castle as might be. "We have obtained the keys, and the priest is waiting."

"But at this hour," demanded Isabel, eagerly; "can he perform the service at this hour?"

"He has procured full authority," replied Bernard, in the same low tone. "Nothing, dear girl, has been left undone."

"Hark!" said Isabel, stopping. "Did you not hear some voices above?"

He paused and listened, but no sound met his ear. "The echo of our own voices," he answered; "though we speak low, they catch the angles of the rock, and are given back again to our own ears. But let us hasten onward, dearest. Once thou art mine, such apprehensions will cease."

Nothing occurred to interrupt them. Step by step, over the rough and encumbered path, they pursued their way, till at length, in the lowest part of the valley, shut in between the small river and the rock on which the castle stood, appeared an old Gothic chapel. The pinnacles, the towers, the mouldings of the little building, in all their rich tracery, were fully visible; for, as the party descended, the chapel lay exactly between them and a clear part of the stream, so that the glistening surface of the water formed a background to the dark lines of the building, though none of the surrounding scenery, except the bold masses of some adjacent rocks, could be distinguished.

Thither, by another path, which, being cut through the rock, gave admission to the castle at once, had Isabel often come to attend the service on Sundays and on holydays; but all seemed changed as she now approached it; as much, indeed, in regard to the feelings with which she revisited it, as to the aspect of the place itself. Through the windows on the side which they approached, a small ray of light stole forth from the altar like a pure and holy religion in the midst of ages of darkness, and, guided onward by that, they were soon at the door of the chapel. It yielded easily to the hand, and Isabel, half led, half supported by Bernard de Rohan, found herself approaching that altar where the last vow of maiden love was to be spoken. On one side of that altar stood the good priest, Father Willand; but on the other, to the surprise both of Bernard de Rohan and of Isabel de Brienne, appeared the ordinary priest of the place, pale, somewhat agitated, and looking from time to time round the building with a wild and fearful glance.

"Quick!" cried Father Willand, as the party approached; "you have been very long, my children. Let us despatch this business speedily, and put out the lights."

"I am forced," said the other priest, "by commands that I dare not disobey, to be here this night; but I call you all to witness that it is against my will that I am here; and, in case the Lord of Masseran—"

"Pooh, pooh!" exclaimed Father Willand, "we don't want you to be here at all, my good friend. All we want is the chapel. I will read the service, brother. Approach, my children, approach;" and, taking up the book, he commenced at once, and in the most abridged form that the Church allowed, the marriage service between Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne.

The latter needed support not a little; but the quiet maid, who was the only woman that accompanied her, was far too inanimate and statue-like to afford her any. It was in no ordinary circumstances that poor Isabel was placed. True, indeed, she was not called upon to give her hand to one who was nearly a stranger to her, as is but too often the case; true, that with her all the sweet and delicate feelings which surround the heart of woman from her youth were not to be rudely plucked away without preparation, like flowers torn by a harsh and reckless hand, which, while it takes, injures the plant which bore them; true, that she was giving herself to one whom she had long known and deeply loved, and towards whom she had ever looked as to her promised husband; but still she was becoming his bride suddenly, secretly; she was flying with him in darkness and in concealment, with the presence of none of those bound to her by the ties of blood to sanction the new bonds that she was taking upon her.

The fear, too, of discovery and pursuit was superadded to all the other feelings which such circumstances might well produce. She knew that it might not, and probably would not, be long before her mother—who had been left evidently as a sort of spy upon her actions and a jailer of her person, rather than a friend, a protector, and an adviser—might send to make sure that the harsh commands of the Lord of Masseran were strictly observed, and that she did not quit the walls of the castle for a moment during his absence; and she was well aware that the discovery of her flight would produce instant pursuit. Thus, though generally she kept her eyes either bent down upon the ground, or raised with a look of confidence and affection towards Bernard de Rohan, yet from time to time she cast a hasty glance over her shoulder towards the door of the chapel; and, as she did so, she remarked that the same fears seemed also to possess the waiting woman, whose eyes were generally turned in the same direction.

No interruption took place, however. The words, the irrevocable words that bound her and Bernard de Rohan together, were spoken in a low but a firm voice. The ring was upon her finger. The benediction was pronounced, and for a moment, for one short moment, she was clasped as a bride in the arms of him she loved, when there came suddenly a noise as of something thrown down in the small vestry on the right-hand side of the altar.

The priest instantly put out the lights. Bernard de Rohan still held her close to his heart with his left arm, but, at the same time, laid his right hand upon his sword. Before he could draw it, however, three men sprang upon him, two from the vestry itself, and one from a window behind him, through which several had forced a way.

All was now darkness and confusion in the chapel; but it was evident that the number of persons it contained increased every moment. The young cavalier strove violently to free himself, and, by an exertion of his great strength, dragged his assailants hither and thither; but still they clung to him; still, twining round his arms, they prevented him from grasping either sword or dagger, and from reaching the small hunting-horn which he carried at his side, and which he knew, could he but blow it, would bring assistance speedily. Frustrated in his attempt to lift it to his lips, he raised his voice and shouted loudly; but fresh assailants poured upon him; a scarf was tied over his mouth; his hands were pinioned behind, and he found himself irretrievably a prisoner.

All was darkness, as I have said; not the least light appeared in the chapel, and no words were spoken aloud by any one; so that all Bernard de Rohan could hear was the moving of many feet; a low, murmuring whisper, as if of consultation or direction; and the sobbing of a bosom which he knew too well to be that of her he loved best on earth. At one time a voice was raised somewhat louder than the rest, and he thought he distinguished the tones of Adrian de Meyrand. The next moment another voice that he did not know replied, "No, not that way. Keep that door shut. There is another here which leads us thither more quickly."

Now completely overpowered—although his heart burned within him, and he longed for the strength of him who cast down the temple of Gaza to burst the bonds upon his hands—Bernard de Rohan strove no longer with those who held him, for he felt that to struggle was utterly vain. Nevertheless, it was not without rude violence that they dragged him along through the vestry, and from thence by a small door into the open air. The scarf was still over his mouth, so that he could not speak, and could scarcely breathe; but, as there was some slight increase of light, he looked eagerly around him. Isabel, however, was not to be seen. There were some dark, scattered groups here and there, but he could distinguish no one clearly, and was dragged on towards the rock on which the castle of Masseran stood.

Into whose power he had now fallen there was no doubt. The character of the man was well known; and, had Bernard de Rohan thought at that moment of his own probable fate, he could have anticipated nothing but the darkest and most atrocious termination of the act which had been just committed. At that moment, however, he thought alone of Isabel de Brienne; and he remembered, with grief and agony that will not bear description, what might be the consequences to her of falling into the hands of the Lord of Masseran under such circumstances, and beyond the pale of her native country.

They dragged him on, however, across the short space which lay between the rock on which the castle stood and the chapel, to a spot where a doorway presented itself, hewn in the solid stone, under the arch of which appeared a soldier with a light. Into his hands those who brought him thither consigned the young French gentleman, pushing him forward, and saying, "There, take him, and put him where my lord told you."

The man with the light replied nothing, but with another, who had been standing behind him, received the prisoner from the hands of his comrades, and, with somewhat more gentleness than they had shown, led him onward. The moment he had taken a step or two forward, a large, oblong mass of solid rock, which, turning upon a pivot, served the purpose of a door, and, when shut, blocked up the whole passage that led under ground to the castle, rolled slowly to behind him. He went on patiently, for it was clear that no effort of his own could effect anything towards his deliverance; and when he had gone on some way and ascended a small flight of steps, he found another armed man standing with a light at a door plated with iron. Those who followed told him to go in, and he found himself in a dungeon, of which he was evidently not the first tenant, for there was a crust of bread covered with long green mould upon the table, and a broken water-pitcher in one corner of the room. There was a bed, too, with some straw, at one side of the door, and a single chair; but besides these necessaries there appeared hanging from the wall, to which they were attached by a stanchion imbedded in the solid masonry, a large, heavy ring, and some strong linked fetters. At these Bernard de Rohan gazed for a moment fiercely, and then turned his eyes to one of his jailers, who had been removing the mouldy crust from the table and the broken water-cruise from the corner of the dungeon.

The man seemed to understand the look at once. "No!" he said, "no! They are not for you unless you are violent. But we may let you speak now as much as you like;" and he untied the scarf from Bernard de Rohan's lips. The young cavalier drew a deep breath, and then demanded, "What is this? Why am I here? Take notice, and remember that I am an officer of Henry the Second, king of France, now actually on his service; that I came hither from the MarÉchal de Brissac, with despatches and messages to the Lord of Masseran; and that bitter will be the punishment of all those who injure or detain me."

The man heard him to the end with the most perfect composure, and then replied, "We neither know nor care, young gentleman, who or what you are, or in whose service you are. We obey the commands of our own lord; and, if you are inclined to give up all resistance and be quiet, we will untie your arms, and let you have the free use of your limbs and tongue. There is only one thing necessary for you to tell us. Will you be quiet and peaceable, or will you not?"

"I have no choice," replied Bernard de Rohan, in a bitter tone. "As you have wrongfully and unjustly made me a prisoner, I have no power of resisting whatsoever you choose to do with me."

"That is talking sensibly," replied the man; "but, in the first place, if you please, we will take away all these pleasant little things from you, as I would rather have them in my hand than my throat." And he deliberately stripped the prisoner of all his weapons, to keep them, as he said, with a laugh, for his use at a future time. He then untied his arms, which were benumbed with the tight straining of the cords with which they had bound him, and saying, "I will bring you some food," he moved towards the door where his companions stood.

"I want no food," replied Bernard de Rohan, gloomily; and in his heart he asked himself if any human being could find appetite to eat in such an abode as that.

"You will come to it, young gentleman, you will come to it," replied the man; "before you get out, you will come to it well enough. I have seen many a one who thought of nothing else all the day long but the time for eating and drinking. Why, it was the only thing they had to do with life. They might as well have been a stone in the wall if it had not been for that."

With this awful sermon upon the imprisonment that awaited him, the jailer set down the lamp he held in his hand and went away. He returned in a minute or two, however, with some food, which he placed upon the table before which the young cavalier was still standing, exactly as the other had left him. The man gave him a cold look, as if merely to see how he bore it, and then once more quitted the dungeon, turning the key in the heavy lock.

Bernard de Rohan remained long in that same attitude, and filled with the same dark and melancholy thoughts. Still, still they pressed upon his brain, although he sought to banish them and to bear his condition with his usual equanimity and fortitude. He was not one ever to give way to despair where any opportunity existed for active exertion; but here he could do nothing. With his own hand he could not right himself. With his own voice he could not plead his cause. Talent or genius he might possess, but all in vain. Vigour and courage were useless. There was but one thing left—endurance; a species of courage which the very bravest do not always possess. Bernard de Rohan strove to summon it to his aid. It came but slowly, however; and, when he thought of Isabel of Brienne, his own sweet, beautiful bride, snatched from him in the very first moment that he could call her so, resolution forsook him, and in agony of heart he cast himself down upon the straw in his dungeon. Was that his bridal bed?