While these events were agitating the dissipated circle at the castle, the simple family on the opposite shore were engaged in far different scenes.—Its Pastor opened his pious views to the noble-minded Santa Cruz; and the young people obeyed the venerable man's commands, to enjoy the vernal hour of day, with all the zest of their as vernal years.

Cornelia conducted Don Ferdinand under the ivy-crowned wall which sheltered her uncle's flower-garden. He admired the disposition of its parterres, and wondered how such beautiful chinasters, balsams, and holly-hocks, could bloom in so northern a climate. Alice led him to the aromatic spot where she had stationed her bees, and shewed him the beds of thyme, lavender, and other sweet herbs she had planted for their food. A little onward, raised on a low mound, stood an old sun-dial. Its bank was covered with mignonette; and many of Alice's industrious favorites were loading their wings with its extracted honey. She gathered a cluster of the flowers, and gave it to Ferdinand. Cornelia stooped to pluck a piece of sweetbriar, but the prickles prevented her: "I want my cousin's dextrous fingers here," said she with a smile.

"Rather his bold ones," cried Alice as she saw Ferdinand break off the bough, and present it to her sister, leaving the thorns in his hand.

"If he be as happy as I am, in being wounded in so sweet a cause," rejoined Ferdinand, "Mr. de Montemar is more to be envied than any man on earth."

"How so?" enquired Alice, with an incredulous laugh, "I see no pleasure in being pricked and scratched for the prettiest flower in the world!"

"But I do, sweet Alice!" said he with a gallant smile, as he presented another branch of the shrub to her. With a faint blush, she glanced at her sister, but Cornelia, thinking at the moment of the truant Louis, had not heard what was said; and Alice, seeing no surprise in her sister at the familiarity of the term, supposed it was a foreign custom; and unlatching a wicket which led to the pasture-land, bounded with the lightness of a fawn to the top of an adjacent hillock. She stood in the midst of its heathy grass, calling on her sister to follow her, for that was the spot whence they might shew Don Ferdinand the objects of the island to best advantage. Cornelia and her companion were soon by her side; and as the young Spaniard's excursive eye shot at once across the island's self, to the surrounding ocean, he perceived a cluster of rocks to the north, which shone in the noonday sun like gems on the belt of the horizon.

"I have heard," said he, smiling, "that in days of yore, a band of wandering sages, sailing in these seas, discovered certain islands encompassed with floods of light, and inhabited by blissful souls. These fortunate adventurers called them the Islands of Blessedness. Since that time no traveller has been able to find them. But, as I am a countryman of the great Columbus, I venture to hope the happy discovery was reserved for me; and that there they are!"

Both sisters remarked the direction of his eyes; and laughing heartily at the compliment his fancy had paid to the most barren of their rocks, told him, they were the Ferne Islands. "And so far from being blessed places," said Alice, "my uncle would never allow Cornelia or me to go near them, the landing is so dangerous." "But Louis often visits them with the kelp-gatherers," rejoined Cornelia, "and while their fires reduce the weed to ashes, he generally throws himself on a jutting rock over the sea, to command the view, and sketch the group. Were you to walk these shores on a fine evening at that season of the year, you would admire the picturesque vapour from the kelp-fires, as its wreathing volumes sail away, and mingle with the clouds."

"But you would not mistake the kelp-gatherers for blessed spirits!" returned the gay Alice, "nor run the risque of your life to draw their portraits! But Louis loves roaming about amongst odd places, as much as you may love a quiet walk, and a bunch of sweet flowers;" added she, observing the delight with which Ferdinand continued to smell at the mignonette, "and so, we must forgive him."

Ferdinand was gratified at her playful reference to her fragrant gift, and answered, "I do not believe that he can love rock or quicksand better than I could love and cherish some of the sweet flowers of this island, which he seems content to cast away!—and, pardon me, if I a little doubt the taste of your adventurous cousin?"

The sisters did not quite understand this speech, which seemed to begin in sport, but certainly ended with a serious tone.

"You mistake my cousin," said Cornelia, "if you suppose he chuses perilous excursions, from a vanity to shew his courage.—Courage is so natural to him, that he never thinks about it.—The activity of his mind makes exercise necessary to him; and the fearlessness of his temper renders that easy to him, which might be difficult, if not impossible to timid characters.—But indeed, his affection for us has been the most frequent cause of risquing his safety; for he deems no attempt too hazardous, by which he can gratify a wish of my mother, or a desire of my sister or myself."

"My uncle will tell you, such have been his ways from a child," cried Alice, "and from the first of my recollection, I remember these frightful tokens of his love! Coming in with curious aquatic plants he had torn from some hardly accessible rock, for my uncle's herbal; or making his appearance with shells for me, which he had swam for, and sought in the sand bank at the point-head. I am sure I have often admired their beauties through my tears; but he never would believe we could be frightened."

"Indeed," rejoined Cornelia, "after old fisher-John's two sons were drowned, I have known Louis absent for hours on the open sea in the poor man's boat, helping him to draw his nets. For nothing is troublesome, or dangerous to him, that is connected with affection or benevolence."

"Ah, those daring expeditions suit your taste, Cornelia!" said Alice, with a shudder; "You, like Louis, love to ride in the whirlwind and direct the storm! I can never forget his absence one whole night during a frightful tempest, when we did not know but that each horrid blast we listened to, was that which was sinking him to a watery grave. My terrors cost me a fit of illness,—and then my uncle made him see the cruelty, and even wickedness, of being rashly brave; for ever since, he has been careful not to put himself in any needless danger."

Ferdinand sighed heavily, as both sisters separately spoke. He felt a sense of feebleness in his own character, which made him envy the enterprising spirit of Louis. "Here," murmured he to himself, "is indeed the fire of youth, the animating principle of future greatness; while that which burns in my veins, withers my very vitals, and consumes every nobler element within me. Wretch that I am,—reprobate, and accursed!" His lips moved almost audibly, as his accusing spirit uttered the last words; and unconsciously turning from the sisters, he walked hastily down the hill towards the cliff.

Cornelia and Alice gazed, on each other, astonished; "That is very odd!" cried the latter, "Did you observe his countenance?"

"Yes, he suddenly knit his brows; and I thought looked quite strange!"

"Let us follow him," rejoined Alice, "if he go on at that rate, and not being aware, he may slip down some of the fissures into the sea."

Alice hastened forward as she spoke; and not merely walking, but running, joined him as he had gained the top of the cliff. Cornelia came up soon after; and seeking to divert Ferdinand from whatever painful thoughts possessed him, she uttered the first idea that presented itself, and exclaimed as she approached, "You two stand there, your garments waving in the breeze, like Adam and the angel overlooking the earth and its waters."

"To me," answered Ferdinand, "it might well be called the hill of paradise; if you and your sweet Alice, would indeed be to me what the sister-angels were to the erring father of mankind!"

Alice looked from him to her sister, with a tender pity that did not escape its object. Again he found a balmy warmth encircle his heart. The freezing hand of despair, which a moment before had obliterated all other impressions, was again withdrawn. "Have I," said he to himself, "indeed interested this innocent creature? I, so unworthy, so self-despised!" He drew towards her, as she followed Cornelia, who turned through some broken craggs, and crossing a ravine, brought them forth on a ridge that faced the west. At their feet lay the strait which divides the two shores. The tide was retreating, and rapidly discovering the sands and sunken rocks which form the foundation of the stupendous cliff on which stand the towers of Bamborough.

"What princely fortress is that?" demanded Ferdinand, surprised into exclamation by the commanding line of coast; and the magnitude of the warlike structure which crowned its summit.

"It is the castle of my mother's ancestors," replied Cornelia; "under that parental roof, when my dear grandfather lived, she passed many a happy day; and there my sister Alice was born."

Ferdinand could not forbear looking from its regal grandeur, to the two lovely beings by his side: the offspring of the barons bold, who in former ages had poured the storm of sovereignty from those embattled walls! and they were content to pass their lives in an obscure parsonage, on an almost deserted island!—Their garments were simple as their lot; but the air of the one still demanded the coronet of her ancestors; while the other, fair, tender, and unaspiring, seemed ready to shrink from the threatening front of what had once been the stronghold of her fathers. "Bright Cornelia!" said he to himself, as he looked on the castle, and listened to her observations; "your lover may be he who courts the wonderful, the wild, on the dizzy steep or the wide ocean!—But my heart—had it not engendered the vulture which preys upon its vitals!—would cleave to seclusion and peace, in the bosom of your timid Alice."

Cornelia described the extent of ground which the fortress occupied; enumerated its towers, and assigned to each the era of its erection. She pointed with particular complacency to the white walls of the formidable dungeon; and quoted Archives in Durham Abbey, to prove that its foundation was the work of a Roman Emperor. She named the Saxon Kings, from Ida to Egbert, who had raised their standard on its roof; and made Ferdinand distinguish a high-grated window, which yet went by the name of Queen Bebba's chamber.

"But what is that in the sea yonder?" asked her auditor; who had accidentally looked down to the dashing surges at the foot of the rock, while she was directing his attention along its summit. The eyes of the sisters followed his.

"It seems to be somebody swimming," said Cornelia.

"To me," cried Alice, "it appears to be a man on horseback."

"Hardly possible!" exclaimed Ferdinand, "what human being would be so mad? Or rather, how can any man and horse live on such a sea as that!"

"It is, indeed, rashness, in the present state of the tide;" returned Cornelia, "the sands are so shifting, and the sea so rough. But when it is quite at ebb, or before it be amply full, persons, acquainted with the track, may find safe opportunities of passing on foot or on horseback from the mainland. We have it on record, that in the persecuting reign of William the Conqueror, a little army of monks brought the relics of Saint Cuthbert from Durham to the opposite shore, and crossed with them, dry-shod, to Holy Island."

"Our cockle gatherers do the same continually," cried Alice, "but certainly never with the tide in the state it is now; and so, most likely, that is some poor smuggler flying from the revenue officers."

While Cornelia gently rebuked her, for bestowing an epithet of pity on such desperate violators of the law, the sisters descended to the beach, to gratify the curiosity of Ferdinand, who wished to see the hardy cavalier come to land. As they hastened along the cliffs, they saw the roaring waves, bright in the sun beams, break over the horse and the rider; and as the noble animal rose from the abyss, and resolutely breasted the surge, the lashing waters whitened his sides with their foam. In one of these fearful moments, a huge wave, rolling towards the island, raised the man and horse upon its immense bosom, to a height almost level with the rock; and then plunged with them into a depth that seemed to cover them for ever.

"Merciful Heaven, it is Louis!" cried Alice—in that fatal instant she had recognised him, and with frantic shrieks ran forward, as if to meet him in the ocean.

Finding that the extraordinary swell of the last wave, had not merely torn the footing of his stout hunter from the ground, but had exhausted his strength, Louis slid from his back while he was yet overwhelmed by the weight of the surge; and grasping the bridle, swam with him through the deep water. Coming to the breakers, he waded the rest; and having drawn his faithful horse on the shelving rocks, was patting his heaving sides, when he perceived the terrified party rushing down the nearest path to his assistance. Ferdinand had beheld the whole with wonder. And now that he stood apart, and saw him, with dripping garments, and uncovered head, reining and soothing the alarmed animal, that he might not injure the sisters; the astonished Spaniard could not help exclaiming to himself:

"Louis! Louis!" exclaimed both sisters at once. Alice clasped her hands and sobbed aloud.

"Why, my dearest cousin, encounter all this danger?" cried Cornelia.

"I had no other way of getting to you." "Hear him!" cried Alice, running back to Ferdinand, and grasping his arm; "I knew it was not his own will that detained him from us. Dear, dear, Louis!" and weeping again with the excess of her joy, she unconsciously allowed Ferdinand to support her with his arm.

Louis called to a fisherman he descried among the rocks; and giving him his horse to lead to the Parsonage stables, proceeded with Cornelia to join the trembling Alice and the young Spaniard, who, his cousin had told him, was their uncle's guest.

"My sweetest Alice!" said Louis, as he approached her. The moment she heard his footstep and the salutation, she took her hands from her streaming eyes, and threw herself upon his breast.

Cornelia put her hand upon Ferdinand's arm, and impelling him gently forward; "pardon me, Don Ferdinand," said she, "but Alice is so weak in her nerves! Or rather, her tender nature is so alive to any danger threatening those she loves, that at such times she is hardly herself. She will recover soonest when left alone with our dear, but still rash cousin."

"What could impel Mr. de Montemar to so extraordinary an act?"

"His word, given to my uncle, not to be a willing inmate with Duke Wharton. His Grace is at the castle; and he and Sir Anthony, finding Louis determined to return to Lindisfarne, would have made him their prisoner, had he not effected his escape by this terrible expedient."

"But why did Mr. Athelstone require such a promise from your cousin?" asked Ferdinand; "has the gay Duke offended your uncle?"

"As he has offended all virtuous men," replied Cornelia with severity. Ferdinand regretted his inconsiderate question. Fearing the impression it might leave on the sister of Alice, he sighed deeply, and exclaimed; "happy De Montemar! to be in this blessed seclusion so strange to vice, that its first aspect causes you to fly with horror! In the wide, worthless world, Miss Coningsby, vice meets us at every turning; and, to our shame, familiarity with the object soon makes us indifferent to its deformity."

The young Spaniard again lost his self-possession; and with an almost convulsed countenance and waiving his hand for her not to follow him, he darted through a chasm into the craggs; and by their intervening projections instantly disappeared. Cornelia joined Alice and her cousin; then turned with them into the direct path to the Parsonage, that Louis might be released from his wet garments; and her uncle relieved from any alarm the arrival of the horse might have occasioned. As they walked homeward, she gave her cousin a brief account of the visit of the Marquis and his son; and he much surprised her, when he declared this to be the first intimation he had received of their arrival. Alice was not sparing of her invectives against Sir Anthony for his dishonourable concealment of her uncle's messenger; and then enquired how Louis had at last broken away from his detainers.

"That you shall hear by and by," said he, "but I don't know what Cornelia will say; for, indeed, I had a run for it!" Cornelia smiled; and he added in a graver tone; "but if Mr. Athelstone knew the Duke of Wharton was at Bamborough, what must he have thought of my apparent neglect of his summons? Of my shameless contempt of my promise."

"No circumstance could have made him believe that any neglect came from you," cried Alice, "but we never heard of that frightful Duke being there; and so my uncle thought nothing about your stay, only as he regretted your losing so much of the society of these noble Spaniards." On the first intimation of their being Spaniards, Louis had eagerly enquired whether they came from his father; and Cornelia having answered no; that their errand was the young man's health; he listened with benevolent interest to Alice's questions, of what was become of Don Ferdinand. Cornelia shook her head; and describing how he had left her, had just finished her account of his strange behaviour, when they arrived at the garden wicket. Louis entered the house by a side-door, that he might rid himself of his disordered cloaths before he saw the family; and Cornelia went to communicate his arrival to her mother and uncle.

Being satisfied of the safety of her cousin, Alice felt her anxiety re-awaken for another object. She lingered in the garden behind her sister; she returned to the wicket, and stood gazing through it; then stepping up the sun dial mound, looked from side to side over the boundaries of the garden. Ferdinand was no where to be descried. The treacherous footing among the rocks, the perpendicular cliffs, his abstracted eye, and hurrying step, again presented themselves to her thoughts; and alarmed and agitated, she turned wistfully towards the hill beyond the little gate. "From that spot, I might certainly see him.—But if he were to see me, how strange he would think it! And Cornelia too, that I should absent myself from dear Louis, after such danger!"

Just as with blush succeeding blush, she made these comments, the object of her anxiety appeared from the opposite side on the top of the hill, leaning on his father's arm. Joy, confusion, a sense of shame she had never felt before, overwhelmed her; and springing from the mound, she ran hastily across the garden. She darted into the house, as if fearful of pursuit; and stopped, panting, before the door of her uncle's library. Supposing it vacant, and glad to recover breath unobserved, she opened the door, and found herself in the presence of her uncle. He was bending before a table, and leaning his head upon his clasped hands. On hearing a step, he looked up. Alice stood confounded.

"My child," cried he, "come hither, and with me thank the giver of all good for the virtuous firmness of your cousin! He has not only preserved that bloom Of truth unimpaired, which, if once lost never is regained; but he has risqued his life this morning, to avoid a man who, I know, he loves, but whose society he relinquishes because he believes him to be as full of vices as of charms. Come Alice, and bow with me before his Almighty guardian!"

Alice sunk on her knees by the side of her uncle. She bent her face upon his fervent hands, and pressed them with her lips as her heart breathed with devotion the thanksgiving his eloquent piety pronounced.

Cornelia, having been the glad messenger to Mr. Athelstone, and afterwards to her mother, of the safe return of Louis, accompanied Mrs. Coningsby to the general sitting room. It was that in which they had welcomed the travellers the preceding night, and where they found them now. Ferdinand had cast himself into a chair, fatigued and gloomy. His father stood by the window, gazing on him in anxious silence. Mrs. Coningsby had not time to address either, before the Pastor entered. He advanced immediately to Santa Cruz; and his aged eyes not discerning the peculiar sadness of his guest, "My Lord Marquis," cried he, "Louis de Montemar is returned. And I take shame to myself for having doubted the integrity of his word."

"My son has told me sufficient of the manner in which Mr. de Montemar has kept it, to fill me with respect for his principles, and to inspire me with something more than admiration for the determination with which he has asserted them."

Before the Marquis had ceased speaking, a quick step was heard in the passage.

"Here is my dear nephew," cried Mrs. Coningsby, and the next moment he opened the door; but perceiving the strangers, he checked the buoyant gladness with which he was coming forward, and with a graceful bow advanced into the room. Alice glided in after him, and took a seat behind her mother's chair. Mr. Athelstone immediately named to him the Marquis Santa Cruz, and Don Ferdinand d'Osorio. The Marquis scanned for a moment the son of Ripperda, and the comparison he could not but draw was wormwood to the heart of a father. Nature had given Louis a passport to almost every bosom; a countenance and a figure which needed no addition to complete the perfect form of youthful nobleness.

"Mr. de Montemar," said Santa Cruz, addressing him with a sigh he could not smother, "you have this day proved how worthy you are of the name you bear. I shall be proud of your friendship for my son."

Louis found himself pressed to the breast of Don Ferdinand, who indistinctly repeated his father's assurance of esteem. Praise and flattery of dubious import were fresh in the mind of Louis; but there was something in the encomium uttered by the Marquis, an air of noble sincerity rather than of courtly politeness, that filled him with a pleasure very apparent in the luminous countenance with which he bowed in modest silence to what was said. The Marquis pursued the subject with a vehemence not usual to him; and still addressing Louis, spoke of the indispensible duty of maintaining mutual confidence between relations; and then expatiated on the honourable contest which man is commissioned to hold at all periods of his life with the ignoble impulses of sense, till the appetites are subdued, and the passions themselves become the agents of virtue.

"Few young men," added he, "would have made so bold an amendment as you you have done, on the story of Telemachus. He waited till Mentor thrust him from the rock, you cast yourself into the sea!"

Louis lost the pleasure of being approved, in the embarrassing personality of the language. He thought the Marquis went much farther than delicacy could warrant, or real respect for the object of his praise would have dictated. What had he then heard of the scene at the castle? How much was left for himself to tell his revered uncle? And whether did he indeed deserve praise or blame for his tardy yet desperate determination to escape? While this passed in his thoughts, he looked down disordered. But some were present, who read in the anxious face of Santa Cruz a dearer aim than paying a compliment to a stranger.

Mrs. Coningsby observed that Ferdinand was discomposed by his father's remarks; and the Marquis himself soon perceived the mischief he had done. He sought to excite a generous emulation in his despondent son; but he saw that his extraordinary eulogy of Louis had been received by Ferdinand as an insidious reproach to himself: and resentful of the covert infliction, he stood distant, frowning and pale. A withering chill struck to the heart of the father, who became abruptly silent. Striving to shake off his embarrassment, Louis looked up, and met the haughty glance of Don Ferdinand. When their eyes encountered, the Spaniard's ashy cheek flashed scarlet, and he turned with a scornful air towards the window. This, by offending Louis, tended to restore his self-possession. Whatever the father might intend by his excessive praise, the son evidently shewed that he despised its object. Louis thought he could not mistake the looks of the young Spaniard, and a sense of self-respect immediately dispelled his confusion.

Pleased with the truth of the Marquis's remarks, the Pastor had remained a gratified listener. But Alice, observing the gloom of Ferdinand; and half suspecting there was some reproving reference to him in what had been said, took advantage of the general pause; and hoping to change the conversation, or at least take it out of the Marquis's hands; she whispered her mother to ask of Louis the particulars of his detention at the castle. Mrs. Coningsby did so, adding, "It will interest our guests:—and I am anxious to know how you could be driven to so dangerous an alternative." Louis felt new embarrassment at this request; and in a low voice he replied to his aunt, "I am sure, madam, you will excuse me, if I do not relate circumstances in the presence of these gentlemen, which might seem to cast some blame on a relation to whom I owe gratitude, if not unquestionable respect?"

The Marquis rose from his seat, on over-hearing this answer, and taking Louis's hand; "young man," said he, "I honour you." Louis could not doubt that look, that voice, that pressure; and blaming himself for having been inclined to take a prejudice against the father, from the repelling manners of the son; he gazed long and silently on the closed door, after the Marquis and Ferdinand had left the room.