While waiting for dinner at the hotel, Hamilton amused himself turning over the leaves of the “strangers’ book,” and saw among the latest arrivals the name of an uncle he had wished much to meet when he had been last in Salzburg; he would then have been glad to have had an opportunity of presenting some respectable relations to Baron Z—, after the old manner in which their acquaintance had commenced. He now wished to see his relations from more natural motives, without either the wish or intention of making them acquainted with his travelling companions. There is something peculiarly agreeable in hearing the voices of one’s countrymen speaking one’s own language in a foreign country; even if they be merely common acquaintances, they rise at once to the rank of friends: if friends, to relations—if relations, we are astonished at the excess of our affection for them! Something of this kind Hamilton experienced as he heard his uncle saying, “A young gentleman inquiring for me! What is his name?” In a moment he had quitted the table, and was in the lobby before the question could be answered. The surprise, perhaps, heightened the pleasure felt by his two young and pretty cousins, and their reception of him was so unreservedly affectionate, that as they came near the door of the dining-room, Hildegarde and Crescenz exchanged glances, and then fixed their eyes on them with a slight expression of curiosity.

“What a pity you did not arrive earlier, Alfred; we have spent the whole morning sight-seeing, and now the horses are being put-to, and we have scarcely ten minutes to ask each other the thousand questions which——But come to our rooms—we cannot possibly talk before these people.”

“They would not understand us,” said Hamilton, following them up the stairs, by no means displeased with the arrangement.

Madame Rosenberg soon became impatient at the duration of his absence, and leaving word with the waiter that Mr. Hamilton might follow them to St. Peter’s cellar, she proposed herself as guide, and they set out on their excursion.

Hamilton accompanied his uncle and cousins to their very handsome travelling-carriage, and as he bade them adieu for the twentieth time, his uncle called out, “God bless you, Alfred! I shall tell your father and uncle Ralph that I found you greatly improved. If they had kept you in London, your brother John would have spoiled you, and made you just as good-for-nothing as he is himself. Nothing like travelling for enlarging the ideas. Good-by!”

The waiter informed Hamilton that the ladies were gone to St. Peter’s cellar.

“Major Stultz, you mean?” said Hamilton.

“No, sir—the ladies—perhaps they have gone to look at the excavation in the rock. The cellar is in the mountain, and is worth seeing.”

The monks of St. Peter are the actual proprietors of this cellar, which adjoins, and in fact is still a part of the monastery; it is the wine from their Hungarian vineyards which is there sold, and the entrance to the drinking-rooms is from the principal quadrangle. Arrived there, Hamilton immediately accosted a man who, in a jacket and apron, and with a green velvet cap on his head, stood before the entrance of the excavation.

“Ladies! Oh, ha—yes—they are within,” he answered, leading the way, through a small, dark passage, to two low rooms, filled with the fumes of tobacco. Hamilton entered, and found his travelling companions actually seated at a table, drinking wine, in a room crowded with Hungarian officers, who seemed equally surprised and amused at the unusual appearance of such an addition to their society. Madame Rosenberg was quietly sipping her wine, and talking earnestly to Major Stultz near a window, quite unconscious of the sensation which she and her party had created and the by no means whispered exclamations of admiration which were echoed on all sides, and which produced most opposite effects on the objects of them. Crescenz looked half-frightened, half-pleased, and blushed incessantly. Hildegarde’s countenance denoted annoyance, bordering on anger, as she sat biting her under lip, while every trace of colour had forsaken her face. Hamilton felt extremely irritated, and looked round the room with a portentous frown, to see if any one had been more forward than the others; but in vain—broad, sallow, good-humoured faces, and small, sparkling black eyes met his angry glance wherever he turned; and as the conversation was now principally carried on in their native language, he could only surmise, but no longer be certain of, the subject of discourse. The eyes of all were still turned on the two sisters; and Hamilton, after a moment’s hesitation, proposed escorting them to the Maximus chapel, which was near, and where they could wait for their mother. Hildegarde started up without asking the permission, which, however, was accorded without difficulty; and the two boys, to their infinite annoyance, were also ordered off. On perceiving their mother engaged in confidential conversation with Major Stultz, they had freely helped themselves to wine, and were now in outrageous spirits. On entering the St. Peter’s churchyard, they commenced springing over the graves in a most irreverent manner, declaring they had never before seen so jolly a churchyard! Crescenz looked infinitely shocked, entreated they would not make so much noise; and finding her remonstrance useless, she turned to the St. Margaret’s chapel, a small building in the middle of the burying-ground, and leaning against the iron railing which formed at once its door and gable-end, she folded her hands reverently, and prayed. The custom in Roman Catholic countries of leaving the church-doors constantly open, most certainly conduces to promote piety. Many a giddy girl whose thoughts have wandered as unrestrained as her glances down the crowded aisle, has sought the same spot afterwards in solitude, to offer up supplications and thanksgivings as fervent, perhaps, as ever were breathed. Much as has been said of the imposing ritual of the Church of Rome—of the almost irresistible effect of high mass, when properly celebrated—it is nothing in comparison to the solemn silence of a week-day afternoon, when the stillness around makes the solitary footfall echo, and those who come to pray can bend the knee and clasp the hand, without exciting the inquisitive gaze of a less piously disposed neighbour.

Hamilton had gone in search of the person who had the keys of the Maximus chapel. On his return he found Hildegarde standing thoughtfully opposite a newly-made tomb, on which a placard was placed, with the words:—“This tomb is to be sold.”

“I should like extremely to know your thoughts,” he said, quietly placing himself beside her.

“Should you? They would scarcely repay you for the trouble of listening.”

“I am quite willing to make the trial.”

“But I am much too lazy to attempt collecting all the scattered thoughts of the last ten minutes.”

“The very last I can guess, perhaps,” said Hamilton; “your eyes were fixed on that placard, and you thought——”

“Well, what?”

“Where are now the future occupiers of that tomb? Am I not right?”

“Quite right. Wherever they are, and whoever they may be, they certainly have no wish to enter here. The buyers of tombs are seldom disposed to enter into actual possession. But where is this Maximus chapel? You said it was in the mountain, and I see nothing in the least like an entrance, although there are three windows and a wall up there.”

“The windows were formerly mere holes made in the rock, and ought never to have been glazed. Through the largest of them fifty monks, who had taken refuge with Maximus, were thrown headlong down the mountain by the barbarians who took possession of Salzburg in the fifth century.”

“And Maximus?”

“He was hung.”

“That was a pity—I dare say he would have preferred being thrown over the precipice.”

“Do you think so? As it all came to the same in the end, I should imagine it must rather have been a matter of indifference to him.”

“But I do not,” cried Hildegarde, stopping suddenly. “I think the manner in which one is put to death of great importance; I am sure you would prefer being beheaded to being hung.”

“The choice would be distressing; but I believe you are right; I should certainly choose being beheaded, as the more gentlemanlike death of the two, though I remember reading in some book of the horrible hypothesis—that the eye could see, the ear hear, and the brain think, for some moments after the head had been severed from the body.”

The guide jingled his keys. He probably thought the discussion of such subjects might be deferred until he had received his Trinkgeld, and he now threw open the gate and motioned to them to ascend. The tolerably numerous steps leading to the former abode and chapel of the anchorite were hewn in the mountain, the passage somewhat dark, and Hildegarde having declined any assistance, Hamilton, notwithstanding all his good resolutions to avoid Crescenz in future, turned towards her, was greeted with a soft smile, and his arm accepted as willingly as it was offered. He now took upon himself the office of guide, exhibited the chapel with its solitary Roman pillar, the sleeping-room of Maximus, and the place from which his companions had been precipitated. He was obliged to hold Crescenz, while she childishly stretched as far as possible over the mountain side, all the while declaring that she could not stand on the brink of a precipice without feeling an almost irresistible inclination to throw herself down it. No sooner had her two brothers heard this, than they rushed forward and thoughtlessly pushed her with a violence that might have had most fatal consequences had not Hamilton at the moment thrown his arm quite around her and drawn her back. Crescenz screamed violently, Fritz and Gustle laughed immoderately, Hildegarde remonstrated angrily, and in the midst of the clamour Madame Rosenberg and Major Stultz joined them. Crescenz blushed deeply, and, with a voice trembling from agitation, related what had occurred, and complained bitterly of her brothers’ rudeness. Madame Rosenberg scolded her for having looked down the precipice; Hildegarde for not having watched her brothers and prevented such a scene in such a place; and concluded by seizing both the brothers by the shoulders and shaking them violently, while she declared that she had a great mind to send them back to the inn, and not let them see either the Don church or the fountain. She turned to thank Hamilton for having taken charge of so riotous a party, but he had disappeared, annoyed at what had occurred, and internally vowing never to take charge of Crescenz or her brothers again.

Major Stultz had suddenly become jealous and out of temper; all the efforts of Madame Rosenberg to turn “the winter of his discontent” to “glorious summer” were vain; he followed her, half whistling, with his hands clasped behind him, intending to look extremely unconcerned; while his heightened colour, as they overtook Hamilton, betrayed to all the cause of his annoyance. Crescenz seemed perfectly indifferent, or rather, half disposed to brave his anger; for as they stood by Haydn’s monument, in the St. Peter’s church, she placed herself beside Hamilton, and spoke to him in French. It is true, the conversation was about the skull of Haydn, and the black marble urn which contained it; but Major Stultz could not be aware of this circumstance; and, with increased anger, he strode down the aisle, seeming disposed to quit them, had not Hamilton, weary of these misunderstandings, and provoked by Crescenz’s coquetry, said that he would meet them at the hotel in an hour; he was going to the cavalry stables to see the horses, which, of course, would not be interesting to them, and without waiting for an answer, he walked away.

Hamilton’s absence did not seem to have much improved the state of affairs, for on his return to the inn, no one but Madame Rosenberg seemed disposed to be loquacious; and when they got into the char-À-banc, which was to take them to Berchtesgaden, Crescenz absolutely maneuvred to avoid Major Stultz; and on being ordered by her mother to sit beside him, pouted in the most significant manner. Madame Rosenberg chose this time to take charge of her two sons herself; she thought their vicinity might interrupt the reconciliation between Major Stultz and Crescenz, which she evidently wished to promote, but which seemed less likely than ever to take place, as Crescenz chose now to appear or to be excessively offended. This line of conduct had the effect of making poor Major Stultz imagine that he had been, perhaps, too hasty—unjust—uncivil—in short, he very soon accused himself of being a savage! and as these thoughts passed through his brain, his manners and words softened; he became humble, and even entreated forgiveness for the unknown offence; but all in vain—Crescenz scarcely answered him—in fact, she had not heard him, for her whole attention was absorbed in the conversation of her sister and Hamilton, who were immediately before her; she fancied that neither had disliked the arrangement which had placed them together. The latter, especially, seemed determined to amuse and be amused, and for more than an hour and a half the conversation never flagged. Madame Rosenberg occasionally joined in it, and Major Stultz also chimed in when he found all his efforts to obtain answers from Crescenz fruitless. They had nearly reached Berchtesgaden, and Hamilton had just begun to congratulate himself on having at length discovered the possibility of talking to Hildegarde without quarrelling, when Major Stultz abruptly asked him if he had been to see the summer riding-school.

“Can you doubt it? It is the prettiest thing of the kind I have ever seen—the beau ideal of an ancient theatre. That the tiers of seats for the spectators are hewn out of the mountain, enhances its grandeur, and makes one forget that it is only a riding-school. What a place for a tournament! or for gladiators; or what an arena for wild beasts!”

“Exactly what we all said when we were there to-day,” exclaimed Hildegarde.

“Yes,” said Crescenz, for the first time joining in the conversation; “we all said that; but Hildegarde and I thought of Schiller’s Ballad of the Glove; didn’t we, Hildegarde?”

Hildegarde nodded.

“It is odd enough, I thought of it too,” said Hamilton; “the tiger attacked by the two leopards; the lion rising to join in the combat—I saw it all in imagination—fancied myself the Knight Delorges, and looked round to see if no Cunigunde were there to throw her glove amid the combatants.”

“Did you think of any particular person as Cunigunde?” asked Crescenz, softly, and with a slight blush.

“Perhaps I did,” replied Hamilton, laughing.

“Oh, I should like so much to know whom you thought of! Should not you, Hildegarde?”

“If Mr. Hamilton wish to tell——” began Hildegarde.

“I prefer walking up the hill into the town,” said Hamilton, springing out of the open side of the carriage.

“Let us all walk,” cried Madame Rosenberg, desiring the coachman to stop; “my feet are quite cramped.”

Hamilton had hoped to escape further questioning, but Crescenz commenced again as they walked along together.

“Your avoidance of my question has raised my curiosity, and you positively must tell me of whom you thought in the riding-school, to-day.”

“Pray, Crescenz,” said Hildegarde, “do not force Mr. Hamilton to give an answer; it must be totally uninteresting to you—remember the number of acquaintances he must have in England whose names are unknown to us.”

“If it had been anyone in England, or anyone unknown to us, he would have answered my question at once, and without hesitation,” replied Crescenz, with unusual decision of manner.

Hildegarde, struck with the reply, experienced herself a feeling of curiosity which greatly surprised her. She walked on in silence, and soon heard her sister continue in a very low voice—

“I am sure you did not think of me!”

“Certainly not,” he replied, in the same tone; “you are too kind and too gentle to place the life even of an enemy in such jeopardy.”

Crescenz seemed not quite to know whether she were satisfied or disappointed. She would have liked to have been his lady-love, would have wished to imagine that he would have picked up her glove at such an imminent risk; yet his manner and words implied nothing flattering to the supposed Cunigunde; and although she did not quite understand his meaning, she knew that he had said that she was kind and gentle, and she felt that she ought to be satisfied. Not so Hildegarde; she understood well the vanity and callousness of the character sketched in a few words by Schiller; she fancied that Hamilton disliked her, and an irresistible impulse made her turn on him, and say, abruptly, “You thought of me!”

The blood mounted to his temples, and seemed to take refuge in his hair, as he returned Hildegarde’s glance, yet hesitated in answering; but he could not deny it, and replied, after a moment’s consideration: “Thoughts are not subject to control; you have no right to make me answerable for them.”

“I have no intention of doing so,” she replied; “I care too little about you to give myself the trouble of convincing you that you do not understand my character in the least. On the contrary, I confess that were you disposed to play the part of the knight, perhaps I might throw down my glove, and be glad to get rid of you on any terms.”

“Even were I to be torn to pieces in your presence by the wild beasts? I did not think you were so cruel!” said Hamilton, amused at her irritated manner.

“The danger for you would not be very great. You are the last person in the world to do any thing of that kind.”

“Do you doubt my personal courage?”

“No; but I doubt your possessing knightly feelings.”

“I am, it is true, no ‘Don Quixote,’ no knight of the sorrowful countenance——”

“No, indeed; you much more deserve the name of the knight of the scornful countenance—that is, if one could fancy you a knight at all.”

“I have no doubt, mademoiselle, that were your fancy to form one, he would in no respect resemble me; however, we need not quarrel on the supposition of what we should have done had we been born a few hundred years sooner; it is evident you would not have chosen me for your knight—nor I—perhaps—you, for my lady-love.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Crescenz, “if I had thought that you two would have quarrelled, I would not have asked any questions; though I do not understand why Hildegarde is so offended at being thought like Cunigunde, who, I dare say, was the handsomest lady present.”

“Your sister is not satisfied with being merely handsome; she wishes to be thought amiable also, and seems disposed to force people to say so, whatever they may think to the contrary.”

Hildegarde walked haughtily towards her step-mother, and reached her just in time to hear the concluding words of what appeared to be Major Stultz’s remonstrances.

“His being an Englishman does not, in my opinion, alter the case, or make him a less dangerous companion for your daughters. I do not presume to dictate. I merely offer advice, which you do not seem disposed to take; and nothing now remains for me but to beg of you to hurry as much as possible the preparations for Crescenz’s marriage. A few scenes such as we have had to-day would soon cure me of all fancy for her. You told me she was good-tempered, and I have found her so sullen since we left Salzburg, that it is impossible to obtain a word from her.”

“My dear Major, you may depend upon my reprimanding her severely for such conduct——”

“By no means, madame; I don’t wish her to be reprimanded. I shall speak to her myself, and tell her that I have a comfortable home to offer her; that I am supposed to be an indulgent husband, but that I am too old to play lover, and altogether decline entering into competition with such a rival as that tall Englishman, who, however, I can also tell her, has no more idea of marriage than the man in the moon!”

“But, my dear Major, I really must beg of you not to mention the Englishman to her. It will only put an idea into her head which I am convinced has never entered it. You forget what a mere child she is—not yet sixteen!”

Major Stultz turned round suddenly to look at his betrothed; the moment was unpropitious for removing jealous doubts. She was walking alone with Hamilton, and speaking with an earnestness totally foreign to her character, while the expression of her upturned eyes denoted anything but childishness.

“This will never do!” exclaimed Major Stultz, angrily.

“You wrong her most assuredly,” cried Madame Rosenberg, with a sort of blind reliance on Crescenz’s childishness, which this time, however, did not deceive her: “You wrong her, and I will prove it by asking her what she is talking about. Crescenz, my love, we wish to know the subject of your discourse—it seems to be interesting.”

Crescenz answered without hesitation, “I am defending Hildegarde; Mr. Hamilton and she have quarrelled about the Ballad of the Glove. He says she was rude; and I think he was rude; for he said if he had been a knight he would not have chosen her for his lady-love. I do not think of being angry, and he did not choose me either,” she added, glancing half reproachfully.

On another occasion Madame Rosenberg would have inquired further, and given, perhaps, an edifying lecture on politeness and propriety of language; she was now too well satisfied with Crescenz’s answer to think of anything of the kind, and turning triumphantly to Major Stultz, she whispered, “You see I was right. I cannot answer for Hildegarde. Rosenberg says I do not understand her; but Crescenz is a good girl—almost too good and docile. You can make whatever you please of her.”

They all walked together to the inn, and The Glove seemed to be quite forgotten.