But these reflections did not occur to Randolf or his hearers; they believed his arguments to be well founded, and that Ida had approved of the design, which had so nearly terminated her benefactor’s existence. That she had been privy to it, is true: she had notmisunderstood Randolf’s hints, though she was not aware of the exact nature of his intentions; but no sooner was she in safety, than her first object was to provide for that of the Count of Torrenburg.
The village, which at length afforded them security and rest, was called Edel-Bothen: here they were compelled to pass the night and the succeeding morning, in order to recover from the fatigues of their late painful journey; and it was from hence, that a messenger was dispatched to the Castle of Torrenburg with a letter, written by Constantia in a disguised hand and without a signature. Ida, who still trembled at the thoughts of being either compelled to give her hand to the old Count of Montfort, or to seclude herself for lifewithin the dreary walls of a cloister, was unwilling to let her incensed uncle know, where she might be found; and Constantia, though she had herself no motive for concealment, was afraid of being the means of discovering her sister. With much difficulty, and after many unsuccessful attempts, the following lines were at length completed, and a peasant was dispatched with them to the Castle of Torrenburg.
Count of Torrenburg!
Peruse these lines from an unknown but sincere friend, who trembles, lest the warning should come too late. In your domestic priest, the worthless Hilarius, you nourish a traitor, whose plans if successful will terminate in your destruction. He has already driven many innocent persons into the jaws of ruin: and now to finish his career with a master stroke of villainy, he meditates the overthrow of his generous benefactor. Secure him, and let him and his papers undergo a strict examination. Above all, set a watch over the Donat-Fortress, and let the private entrancebe carefully closed up, which you will find on the left hand of the window in the large chamber, which terminates the southern wing of the ruins. That entrance communicates with a subterraneous passage, well known to the robbers, who have so long been the terror of Helvetia, and with whom Hilarius carries on the most intimate correspondence. Hasten then to prevent their making any ill use of their knowledge of this communication; and if this warning should be in time to save you from danger, the writers of this letter will thank Heaven as for a benefit conferred upon themselves.
This well-meant epistle did not reach the Castle of Torrenburg till several days after St. Martin’s day. It was read aloud at the Count’s table, when the hall was almost filled with knights and ladies, who were assembled there on account of the festivities, with which Elizabeth thought it right to celebrate her Lord’s escape from the perilous Banditti. The letter, while reading, was frequently interrupted by loud bursts of scornful laughter and expressions of derision from the whole assembly; yet ’tis said, that Frederick and Elizabeth did not laugh, and were quite silent. It waseasily guest, from whom this unavailing warning came; and Count Oswald of March, (whose family pride had been stung to the quick by young Montfort’s conduct on the bridal day, and whose affection for his sister made him the inveterate enemy of any one, who offered her any injury or unkindness) insisted upon being allowed to answer the letter.
According to her instructions, Ida’s messenger had no sooner delivered the letter, than he hastened away from the Castle: but two horsemen were dispatched after him in all haste, and the peasant was compelled to return for an answer. That answer pained the Sisters to the very heart; they preserved it carefully; they read it over and over again, and every time with fresh pain;and they at length showed it to me, as a proof of their total renunciation by their uncle. Count Oswald had written as follows.
The fair Ida’s well-conceived letter arrived at the very time, which she intended; that is, when it was too late to be of any use. First to invent schemes of treachery, and then when they fail, to assume the part of a warning friend against those very schemes, was certainly one of the most dexterous artifices, that ever was produced by female ingenuity! Unfortunately, there are some people, who are not deceived even by artifices so dexterous. The Count of Torrenburg has been rescued from the Banditti, not by the fair Ida’s warningafterthe event had taken place, but by the courage and affection of an angel,whose name was once Elizabeth of March; whose name would have been Elizabeth of Montfort, had it not been for the fair Ida’s coquetry; and whose name is now Elizabeth of Torrenburg, in spite of all the pains, which the fair Ida gave herself to prevent her ever bearing that illustrious title. Yes! Elizabeth is Countess of Torrenburg: I protest, I cannot but pity the poor damsel Ida for so severe a disappointment, as this union must give to her views upon Count Frederick’s inheritance. Besides the loss of her benefactor’s good opinion, she has also to regret that of her lover the robber Randolf, who inhabits one of the Count’s dungeons; so that all her hopes in that quarter are completely annihilated. It seems too, that she has not even contrived to secure the light andworthless heart of Henry of Montfort, who (probably grown already weary of her) has returned to his uncle’s residence; as report says, a sincere penitent for having suffered himself to lose such a treasure as the hand and heart of Elizabeth through the artifices of a perfidious coquette. Probably by this time the fair Ida has found out, that this maxim contains more truth than she supposed; viz. “that crooked paths lead to precipices.”
Randolf, the fair Ida’s lover, is a prisoner; Henry of Montfort, the fair Ida’s dupe, has recovered his senses; Gero and Hilarius, the fair Ida’s friends, are both dead; and Count Frederick, the fair Ida’s intended victim, is aware, that Hilarius is not the only snake, whom he has warmed in his bosom.
Count Frederick of Torrenburg sends the fair Ida his best wishes for her speedy repentance, and ventures to suggest, that a convent will be in future her fittest residence.—He begs however, that this may only be considered as hisadvice; since looking upon her no longer as his relation, he has no longer any right to give her a command. At all events, he begs, that whether she takes that advice or not, she will not think it necessary to inform him of her proceedings, since he has now but one wish on earth respecting her; to hear of her no more!
Ida’s tears streamed plentifully, while she read these cutting lines. She gave the letter in silence to Constantia, who felt the unmerited reproaches no less acutely than her sister. A long pause ensued, which at length was broken by Constantia.
—“There is no mention made ofme!” said she,—“no more, than if I were no longer in existence!—Well! well! it is better to be quite forgotten, than to be so remembered!”—
—“How could they guess,” exclaimed Ida, “thatIwas the writer of that letter?—a letter, which He, who sees the heart, can witness for me, Iwrote out of pure good will to my unkind uncle.”—
—“And how strange,” rejoined Constantia, “that they should misunderstand your character so completely, as to believe you capable of such perfidy! And how cruel of them to insult your misfortunes by such an unfeeling taunting letter!”—
With such inquiries did they torture themselves during a whole tedious day; and they endeavoured in vain to discover, what part of Ida’s conduct could have authorised a man, who had once shown her so much benevolence, to view her on a sudden in a light so perfectly odious. It appeared too from this letter, that Count Frederick’s ill opinion of her was also the opinion of the world; and what had she done todeserve this universal ill opinion?—The Sisters were not aware, that a prejudice once conceived gains strength with every minute, and presses into its services the most insignificant occurrences: till the supposed offence from a molehill is swelled into a mountain, and shade added to shade gradually makes the detested object appear in colours sufficiently black, tojustifyits being made the object of detestation.
No mention had been made of Constantia in Count Oswald’s letter, because on the one hand her gentle inoffensive manners had prevented her having any enemies; and on the other hand, her supposed participation in her sister’s plans prevented the parties concerned from being her friends.—It appeared, that after quitting the Castleof March on the memorable day of Elizabeth’s intended wedding she had not thought proper to return to her convent. She had been way-laid by those robbers, who (as it was now believed) were at that very time in confederacy with her sister. No one doubted, that the free-booters had acted under Ida’s directions, and with Constantia’s concurrence; that the latter was totally under the influence of the former; and that if the one sister was not quite so deserving of censure as the other, she was at least equally unworthy of protection. It was concluded, that she was at that moment Ida’s companion; and it was agreed by all, that the most proper mode of treating her, was not to bestow on her even the slightest notice.
When the bitterness of the first shock was over, the Sisters found, that they had no reason to consider their situation as at all altered for the worse by the perusal of this insulting letter. It had not been in their contemplation to effect a reconciliation with the Count of Torrenburg; after so much as they had suffered, they no longer indulged a wish for any thing except retirement and repose. Ida’s resentment against her lover, for having offered his hand to Elizabeth, was not yet appeased: and after the injurious suspicions, to which her conduct at the Castle of March had (as she learned from Count Oswald’s letter) given rise, she thought it highly incumbent on her to make no inquiries respecting him. She accordingly resolved to verify the remainder of hersister’s fortunate vision, and re-assume the name of Rosanna Tell.—Constantia for a while refused to follow her example, and declared her determination of hiding herself for ever from the world in the Convent of Engelberg: but Ida besought her, with so much earnestness and with so many tears, “not to deprive her of the society of the only person, who still loved her, and whom she still dared to love,” that Constantia was compelled however reluctantly to give way.
A ring of some value, which Ida wore on the day, which made her a captive, and of which Randolf’s respect had prevented his depriving her, purchased a small hut and garden, in which the Countesses of Werdenberg were but too happy to obtain a shelter. Here thenthey remained in tranquil obscurity, unknowing and unknown: till the decease of the Count of Torrenburg and its consequences compelled them once more to take a part in the world, and again become acquainted with its splendours, and its cares.
By the will of Count Frederick, the whole of his domains descended to his wife; the Damsels of Werdenberg were disinherited, nor was this sufficient. A clause of the most disgraceful import declared the Count’s reasons for renouncing them, and thus held them up to the world as proper marks for the finger of contempt. It seems, that there still existed a younger branch of the House of Werdenberg, but with whose members the Sisters had never held any intercourse. The ignominious clause inCount Frederick’s will greatly offended the pride of these high-born noblemen. That any persons belonging to their family should deserve to be mentioned upon record in such opprobrious terms, appeared to them the most intolerable of all offences; and they vowed never to rest, till they had compelled the delinquents to renounce their title to a name, which (till they assumed it) had never been stained with disgrace.—They agitated this business with so much effect, that at length an act was obtained from the Emperor, enjoining two Damsels calling themselves by the names of Ida and Constantia, Countesses of Werdenberg, to lay aside those titles, as having forfeited them by their disgraceful conduct, even supposing that they really possest by birth a right tobear them; a fact, of which, the act professed to doubt the veracity.—It also forbade the reception of the said Damsels into any religious community, except such as were specified by name, and which were those only, whose institution (as was universally known) permitted the acceptance of persons of dissolute characters for the laudable purpose of reformation.
The Lords of Werdenberg were so diligent in making this act public, that it even reached the obscure valley, in which the Sisters had sheltered themselves under borrowed names. Little as they valued the pride of birth, and the empty boast of high-sounding title, the disgrace thrown upon them by this so public act was too insulting to be endured even by their humility. It wasabsolutely necessary, that some steps should be taken to vindicate themselves from such undeserved aspersions. Accordingly without loss of time they addrest letters to the Abbess of Zurich and to their guardians, Abbot Conrad, and the good Bishop of Coira. They disclosed the place of their concealment, asserted the gross injustice of the Emperor’s act, and avowed their willingness to lay every particular respecting themselves or their conduct before either of their guardians, or the respected Abbess.
Till this period they had neglected to apply to these firm friends; because they felt a total indifference to the station, which they had lost; considered the pleasures of the great world as withdrawn from them for ever; and only wished to pass the remainder oftheir lives in tranquillity and oblivion. Their letters communicated the greatest joy to those, to whom they were addrest; and Abbot Conrad lost not a moment in hastening to comfort the poor afflicted ones, and to assure them of his unabated regard and anxiety for their welfare.
It was no difficult task for the Sisters to convince this partial friend of their innocence. He insisted upon the necessity of their returning to the world, and Constantia consented to quit her solitude: but Ida was resolute never again to resume her proper station, till her honour and reputation were re-established in their full purity and with undiminished lustre.
And how is this to be effected? Oh! Elizabeth, it is you alone, who cananswer that question. You have seen, how these unjustly persecuted Girls have been deprived of every thing, of their inheritance, of their fair fame, of the very name, to which their birth entitled them: you have seen their innocence and your own error. Your generosity, your love of justice will tell you, what you ought to do: to those noble sentiments, to your own noble self, I dare trust my cause without a single terror.—
Henry of Montfort’s illness had been long and dangerous. He was scarcely recovered, when two successive attacks of apoplexy convinced his uncle of a truth, which he had long been unwilling to confess to himself. He could no longer deny, that it would be more suitable at his time of life to turn histhoughts towards the grave, than the bridal bed; but still though he was himself no longer the hero of them, his marrying-plans preserved their long-established dominion over his fancy. Henry was his undoubted heir; his attention to Count Egbert during his illness had made a deep and very favourable impression upon the old man’s mind; he suddenly became a favourite, to secure whose happiness in life was now Count Egbert’s chief and almost only object; and in the old man’s opinion, happiness in life was to be obtained by no other possible means, than by marriage. Henry was nearly of the same opinion with him. Unluckily, the only point, on which they differed, was the only material point in the whole affair. Both agreed, that amarriage ought to take place; but each proposed a different person, and neither would give up the object of his choice. Henry insisted upon his engagement to Ida, and declared, that while she existed, honour as well as love forbade his offering his hand to another: while Count Egbert protested with equal vehemence, that he never would consent to the union of his heir with a girl, whom the last will of her nearest relation had deprived of her inheritance and devoted to disgrace. The bride of his selection presented herself in a far more flattering light; ’twas Elizabeth, the young and admired heiress of Torrenburg, whose hand would confer wealth and power on her husband, and whose heart had formerly been warmly disposed in Henry’s favour. As he listened to this eulogium upon Elizabeth,an involuntary sigh escaped from the nephew’s bosom. Ah! he felt but too sensibly the whole value of Elizabeth, and was fully conscious, how dear she would have been to him, had not Ida possest prior and more forcible claims on his affections. Now all thoughts of Elizabeth were quite unavailing: his heart by right was another’s, and was no longer worthy of Elizabeth’s acceptance. This he declared to his uncle, and exprest his resolution of keeping his engagements to Ida in terms so strong, that the old Count lost his patience completely. In the heat of passion, he ordered Henry to quit the Castle that instant, nor ever presume to come again into his presence.
He was obeyed; but the command was scarcely given, before it was repented of. He reflected, that this verybanishment would leave his nephew at liberty to contract the union, which it was so much his wish to prevent. The old man was little acquainted with Ida’s character and turn of mind: he knew not, that delicate as were her notions on the subject of honour, the warmest entreaties of her beloved Henry would by no means be sufficient to persuade her to become Countess of Montfort.
Count Egbert’s guards followed Henry, overtook him, and brought him back to his paternal Castle, where he was ordered into close confinement. How little did the writer of these lines ever imagine, that he should live to see menaces and chains employed, in order to compel a youth to give his hand to Elizabeth of March!
Henry exclaimed loudly against such injustice! He demanded, that the opinionof his proposed bride should be taken in this affair. He declared himself convinced, that he could not possibly appeal to a more just tribunal, and that after what had past, a proposal of marriage would be rejected with no less firmness by Elizabeth, than by himself. The old Count denied this last assertion most positively. He maintained (and not without some show of plausibility) that in spite of his past offences Elizabeth was still weak enough to cherish a secret attachment to the man, by whom she had been so unworthily forsaken: nay, he even went so far as to profess his firm belief, that the severity, with which she had treated the Damsels of Werdenberg, had its origin in this attachment; and that nothing but female spite and jealousy against a successful rival, madeher so obstinately shut her eyes and ears against the justice of those claims, which in the opinion of many persons (thoroughly capable to decide upon such matters) were held to be most just, and founded on an unquestionable basis.
Such indeed was now the general opinion. Time, and the exertions of their guardians had cleared up many suspicious circumstances respecting the Sisters; and the popular cry was fast turning to the side of Count Frederick’s lineal heirs. Their uncle’s testament underwent much censure, and created a kind of prejudice and ill will against Her, who had benefited by it so largely. Elizabeth herself was in some measure the cause of this loss of public estimation, which in truth every day diminished. She had accustomed the worldfor so long to see her act with uniform generosity, and to consider her as a person totally exempt from the ordinary imperfections of her sex, that as soon as her husband’s will was made public, every one prepared themselves for some decided act of heroic self-denial in favour of the disinherited Sisters; and which perhaps they would not have expected from any other than Elizabeth, because they would not have believed any other capable of such an act. However, it is certain, that from Her theydidexpect it; it is also certain, that their expectations were disappointed; and unwilling to allow, that they had themselves required too much, they were extremely displeased with Her, whom they accused of not having done enough. Besides this, Elizabeth evidently fell into a greaterror, in dealing with her inherited possessions, as if they had been her own purchased and personal property. Formed by nature to be no less rash than generous, she gave away whole districts, castles, and towns with as little concern, as if they had been of no more value than the roses, which encircled her head or bloomed upon her bosom.
This inconsiderate liberality produced the greatest discontent among those subjects, whom she bestowed away with so little ceremony. She is already informed of the uproar and confusion, which ensued; but she is by no means aware of the extreme danger, in which she was at one time involved. The discontented vassals denied her right to make them over to another, and declared themselves to be lawfullythe vassals of the young Countesses of Werdenberg: they entered into a secret correspondence with the neighbouring Switzers: they dispatched messengers to the valley, where the Sisters had taken refuge, and assured them of their firm resolution to support their rights. Constantia was already departed; they found Ida alone in her humble cottage, and made the purport of their coming known to her. Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks as she listened, and her first words were prayers of gratitude to Heaven.
—“My worthy friends,” said she at length, “your words have given me the only comfort, which I now could look for on this side the grave! The Ida, whom a whole good and honest people demands for their sovereign,can never be that traitress, that unprincipled wanton, that ungrateful snake, which I have been termed so publicly and so unjustly. Your application has given me back my honour, has reconciled me with myself: this is all I could wish for; now leave me, my friends, and bear with you my warmest thanks. Be faithful to your liege-lady; Heaven and my uncle’s will have destined her for your protectress, and you will find her a noble one. I know well her merits, and admire them; I envy her not her good fortune; but be assured, that even did my happiness depend on my establishing those rights, which you state me to possess, the Ida whom your deputation has thus signally honoured, at least deserves that honour too well, to seek any benefit however great byclandestine, and therefore by unworthy means.”—
The deputies listened to her with astonishment; they requested her to reflect coolly upon their proposals, and left her with a promise to return.
And theydidreturn, furnished with new and much more forcible arguments;—and yet those arguments were employed in vain. They had discovered Ida’s former affection for Henry: they applied to Count Egbert, and laid their plans before him. As they appeared to reconcile all differences between his nephew and himself, he readily promised his assistance: and the deputies now delivered a letter to Ida, in which Count Egbert assured her of Henry’s unabated attachment: he magnified the fortitude, with which his nephew had resistedall attempts to shake his fidelity; and he conjured her to accept the title of Countess of Montfort, since without the possession of her hand there was no happiness in life for Henry.
The poor Ida wept, as she read this letter: every line seemed an arrow in her very heart. She was conscious, that in her present humble state she could never become her lover’s bride, and that the old Count’s consent was entirely grounded on the prospect of her succeeding to Count Frederick’s inheritance.—Yet she still shuddered at the thoughts of obtaining the accomplishment of her fondest wishes by means, which she felt to be unworthy of her; she still positively rejected the proposals of the embassy, and declared herself convinced, that Henry of Montfortwas as little disposed as herself to assist any plan, whose object was to injure Elizabeth. The deputies still prest her to comply; they would take no refusal; and at length to free herself from their importunity she left the valley privately, and took refuge within a Convent, the name of which she concealed from every one except her sister and the Abbot of Cloister-Curwald.
Elizabeth’s knowledge of these transactions was confined to their mere outward appearance. She knew, that she was calumniated by secret enemies, and justified by unknown friends; but little did she suspect, that these favourable judges of her conduct were those very persons, against whom she had nourished in her heart the most inveterate prejudice. Its true, that she was notwithout real friends, willing even to risk her displeasure, rather than suffer her to labour under such gross errors: the Abbot of Curwald often endeavoured to lay the history of the unfortunate Sisters before her eyes, but in vain: No one understood better than Elizabeth the secret of imposing silence on those, whom she suspected of an intention to say that, which it was by any means disagreeable to her to hear.
She suddenly thought fit to take up her abode in the Convent of Zurich, and there indulge her grief for the loss of Count Frederick without restraint. This was a step, which her differences with her discontented vassals rendered both agreeable to herself, and proper in the eye of the world: into the bargain, it possest the further advantage (thoughshe thought it as well to confine this motive for her seclusion to her own bosom) of freeing her from the wearisome remonstrances of the Abbot, and from the truths, which he was so obstinately bent upon placing before her eyes. It’s true, she was still exposed to receiving letters from him; but those it was in her power not to answer; or indeed not even to read, if the first lines gave her reason to believe, that the remainder would afford her but little satisfaction.
But Elizabeth was too good, too noble, to be entirely deserted by truth and virtue, however sedulously she strove to shun them. They pursued her to the Convent, and their imploring voices often spoke to her in the stillness of her solitary cell. I know from good authority, that many a seed of good hasfallen upon her heart, which she has vainly endeavoured to choak in brambles: and should I succeed in my attempt to seduce her unconsciously into perusing the history of the Damsels of Werdenberg, under the title of “The Sisters without a Name,” (a title, which describes them but too well, since injustice and error have robbed them of their proper one) I shall look upon the victory as already won.
And yet by such a victory, what will be gained? How is it in Elizabeth’s power to benefit these persecuted girls? Constantia, who (unknown to her former friend) now inhabits the same Convent with her, demands nothing in this world except permission to take the veil: Ida is contented with her humble habitation near the Lake of Thun;and far from requiring from Elizabeth anything more than mutual forgiveness, she is willing to compensate for the involuntary mortification, which she caused to her on her bridal day, by the sacrifice of every thing; even of that, which she holds dearest! Yes, Elizabeth; she is willing to sacrifice even the hand and affections of her Henry!
The proposal made by the deputies of Elizabeth’s rebellious vassals was laid before Henry by his uncle. The plan, whose object was the ruin of the unsuspecting Countess of Torrenburg, was so well laid, and the preparations were in such forwardness, that it seemed almost impossible for the design to fail. Henry gave a feigned compliance to the old Count’s proposals, and was rewarded with his liberty. The first use, whichhe made of it, was to hasten to Richard of Ulmenhorst, to whom Elizabeth had entrusted the government of her domains during her seclusion in the Convent. To him did young Montfort discover the conspiracy against the Heiress of Torrenburg, and they agreed upon measures for defeating it. The noble Richard had loved Elizabeth in the earliest spring of his life, and had no reason to despair, till the blooming Henry appeared and won the prize, almost before he himself desired it. Richard now first knew the real character of his so long-hated rival: and to know it, and admire it, were but the same. The conspiracy was defeated; the new friends separated; and Henry hastened to the Lake of Thun.
—“Ida!” he exclaimed, “I am thine,and for ever! I have broken through every obstacle, which divided us; I have severed every chain, which detained me from your arms. I renounce the name of Montfort, which has inflicted upon me nothing but misfortune: never shall the man, who so unjustly lords it over my possessions, hear of his persecuted nephew more. You, Ida, must renounce the title of Werdenberg, which has been the cause to you of so much sorrow, and resume that beloved name, which you bore, when we first met. This cottage, this garden, and this little flock are enough to content all the wishes of two loving hearts; and Erwin Melthal and Rosanna Tell will pass together such days, as even, the happiest might look upon with envy.”—
Ida felt in her bosom a painful conflictbetween love and duty. She had renounced wealth and splendour for herself without a pang; but ought she to renounce them for Henry? Ought she to suffer him to quit for her a station, on which he was calculated to confer such lustre? Such were her doubts; yet undoubtedly love would at length have triumphed, had not a report reached her, that Elizabeth’s situation was become more difficult than ever. Her vassals had given up in despair all hopes of persuading the Sisters to contest the Count of Torrenburg’s will. They found, that Elizabeth was destined to remain their sovereign: yet they protested (with such violence as gave reason to apprehend the most dangerous consequences from a refusal) thaton one condition only would they return peaceably to their obedience. That condition was, that if Elizabeth was to be still their liege-lady, Henry of Montfort should become their liege-lord: and they swore, that she never should enter the Castle of Torrenburg except as Henry’s wife, unless she chose to see her way strewn with bleeding corses.
Letters from Richard of Ulmenhorst confirmed this report; and the generous Ida’s resolution was taken without a moment’s delay.
—“Go, my beloved!” she exclaimed and embraced him for the last time. “You were not born to waste your days in the obscurity of these shades. Power and splendour form the proper sphere for you to move in, and those itis not in the poor Ida’s power to bestow! Go then, Henry; protect Elizabeth; content her people; make your wife, make your vassals, makeyourselfhappy; your praises will reach me even in this secluded valley.... ThenIshall be happy too!”—
Henry obeyed her: to refuse was in truth impossible! With every hour and from every quarter fresh entreaties arrived, all assuring him, that if he meant to rescue the Countess of Torrenburg from the fury of her rebellious subjects, not a moment must be lost.—He determined to sacrifice every other consideration, to that of Elizabeth’s welfare: he is arrived at Zurich: he has renounced his claims to Ida’s affections; Ida has renounced her rights toher uncle’s inheritance; and to-morrow will see Henry of Montfort kneeling at the feet of Elizabeth, and will hear him offer her his hand for the second time.
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG.═════════════════════
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG.═════════════════════
ELIZABETH OF TORRENBURG.
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