the poor who were unable to render their
lord the exact amount of money and labour
due to him, Wilfred, the younger brother,
was a libertine of the most licentious nature;
who, in his wild passion for the banquet, and
the chase, spared neither the goods nor the
lands, neither the fields nor the fruits of his
vassals. Every holy feeling of humanity
seemed to be dried up in these two hearts.
The father of a family trembled when Franz
ordered him up to the castle, for this was the
sure omen of approaching misfortune. The
mother murmured a short prayer, and
hastened to conceal herself and her children in
the remotest corner of the house, when the
snorting of Wilfred's black horse was heard
on the castle hill.

One warm Sunday morning, during harvest
time, Wilfred had ridden out with a dozen
fleet greyhounds, to course the hare, little
caring in his wild mood for the horror with
which he filled the pious villagers by this
unholy disturbance of the Sabbath. The sport
did not prove successful; the dogs had been
at fault—the horse had failed in speed—the
game had escaped the hunter. He relieved
his ill-temper by pulling at the mouth of his
Arabian horse till it bled; and giving the
dogs, that, aware of their crime, were slinking
fearfully away, a taste of the whip. In his
obstinate determination to reach his prey, he
had ridden farther than usual: now, hungry
and vexed, he sought to shorten the way back
to the castle by leaping over every obstacle.
After proceeding madly in this way for half-
an-hour, a cool, refreshing breeze suddenly
roused the heated rider from his sullen brooding.
He looked up and found himself on a
sandy road, by the bank of the Danube. He
was about to slacken his pace, both for his
own and his horse's sake, when the animal,
shying and starting aside, stopped short.
Surprised at this unusual movement, he looked
around for the cause of the horse's fear.

The sight that met his eyes, although far
from exciting a similar feeling in him, held
him for some moments motionless. A few
paces from him, on a grassy hillock, lay the
orphan (her head resting on her arm),
unconscious of the rider's approach.

A magical loveliness gleamed from her
countenance, which was bent towards the
stream with an arch smile, such as petted
children wear when they venture to play
tricks on grave people. Meanwhile, she cast
into the waters bunches and garlands of wild
flowers, which lay heaped in her lap. Her
long bright hair, gently borne on the wind,
now floated in sunny filaments around her,
and now enveloped in rich shining folds
her slender form. The whole apparition
was one of entrancing beauty, rare and
captivating.

Much less would have sufficed to enflame
the excitable heart of the Austrian ; he
alighted from his horse, and approached the
maiden, fearing all the while lest some
illusion might be dazzling his senses, and the
whole enchantment dissolve into air before
he reached it. She did not look up; but
continued playing with the flowers.

"Who art thou?" he at length exclaimed,
almost trembling with emotion. "Say, art
thou woman, or immortal?"

There was no answer.

The Count drew nearer, and sat down at
her feet. "Listen!" he resumed, "I feel, by
the passionate beating of my heart, that thou
art mortal, like myself. I know not whence
thou comest, nor what thy name. It matters
not. Woman reigns but by beauty's power.
Reign over all that is mine, and over me!"
With these words he tried to seize her hand.
The maiden now looked up for the first time;
and on her countenance was depicted only
childish vexation at the interruption. "Hush!"
she said; "you speak so loud that I cannot
hear what they are telling me."

"Leave thy childish play," said the
knight, caressingly. "Dost thou not hear?
Dost thou not understand what I offer thee?
I, Count Wilfred, lord of this wide domain,
implore thy love. Follow me to my castle;
and, let the world say what it will, thou shalt
be Lord Wilfred's wife."

The maiden listened thoughtfully to his
words; a sad foreboding flitted unconsciously
like a shadow over her clear brow. "I do
not understand—I know not what you would
with me—I feel only that your presence
alarms and disturbs me." With these words
she turned from him, as though in anger.

The Count stood up, he felt a gush of that
impatience which always seized him on the
slightest contradiction; but a glance at the
fascinating creature before him subdued it.

"Thou art a child, yet a charming, a
wondrous child. Understand, then, oh sweet
wild maiden! Thou shalt become my wife—
shalt go with me to my castle—shalt leave
this place never to return."

Of all Wilfred had said, the orphan understood
only that he purposed to remove her
from her home.

In anxious fear she sprang up.  "Leave
this place !—Depart !" she cried. "Stranger,
why torment me with such words?   Know
you not that I am the orphan?  Leave me!"
she continued, and clasped her hands
imploringly, "leave me to myself! Do you not
hear?" and she bent, in a listening attitude,
over the Danube—"They murmur. I fear
they are displeased with me."—She threw
herself weeping on her knees: "Be not angry
with me, loved ones! Never will the orphan
leave this place!"

A shudder ran through the Knight. A dim
recollection began to dawn on his mind.
Involuntarily, his thoughts reverted to his
father, who had been murdered on these banks.
The details of the awful event had always, so
far as was possible, been concealed from him and
his brother. Why did the shade of his father
now rise to his imagination, dark and bloody?