CHAPTER IX.

"The worm of conscience still begnaw thy soul! Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st, And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends!" Shakspeare.

WOLFSTEIN, ever since the elopement of Rufo and Zanina, had betrayed a restlessness and disquietude, very opposite to the usual insolent, cold security of his temper and manners. He seldom slept two nights together in his castle, business often required his presence at Venice, or other neighbouring places. Sometimes he would set forth, provided and escorted as if for a distant journey, and remain long absent. His garrison, strong as it seemed, was augmented, and Wolfstein was often conversing with his men in an affable familiar tone, making them presents, and

in short, exhibiting towards them a total alteration of demeanor. With the officers he was become mistrustful, capricious, sudden, making frequent and unexpected changes amongst them, while those who were displaced were not suffered to quit the walls, but kept in strict imprisonment, as though they would at a proper season be called to answer the charges their chief would bring against them. Pandulfo still apparently enjoyed his esteem and confidence, but did not rely implicitly on outward indications, perceiving that many of his comrades were caressed and treated with every show of favour up to the instant, when without the form of accusation they were cashiered and imprisoned. In fact, Wolfstein could not accuse, because he was actuated solely by the misgivings of his own dark mind; he was beset by apprehensions of he knew not what, being well aware that there was no point of the compass from which danger might not come to him. Until

the present period, he had always looked calmly and disdainfully on whatever menaced him, and smiled at the opportunity it afforded him for proving his incomparable intelligence and adroitness, never harbouring a suspicion that he could or should be foiled, since nothing was regarded by him as an obstacle. The confidence he reposed in his own Machiavelian talents was his bane, since it had led him to multiply his schemes to an infinite extent, and involved him in an endless labyrinth, the clue to which was become perplexed and entangled; in short, as he once expressed himself, he now found he had "too many men to move." Besides in proportion as the accumulation and intricacy of his affairs required a firmer nerve, a keener eye, and a more comprehensive intellect, were the faculties of Wolfstein declining instead of gaining force; for he had, in the indulgence of his temperament, forgotten the insidious properties of dissipation, and did not cal

culate that he should rise from every scene of excess with unbraced nerves and a wavering brain, till the whole system would finally yield beneath the repetition. It happened one fine spring morning that Louisa was taking the air on the castle ramparts, attended by Barbara, when she perceived Pandulfo approaching, accompanied by a person whose arms and legs were secured by light fetters, which, although they did not preclude the power of taking an uneasy exercise, were an effectual bar against escape. She came rather suddenly upon them, and Captain Pandulfo, who on all other occasions sedulously sought opportunity to converse with the lady of Lornberg, now, forgetful of his wonted courtesy, turned abruptly to avoid her, causing his captive companion to do likewise.

"For some reason," observed Madame de Wolfstein, "Pandulfo is averse to meeting us; let us therefore turn:-he cannot surely fear my disclosure of his

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ndulgence to his prisoner, whomsoever he'may be, but perhaps he fears to involve me in some dangerous knowledge."

They turned, and looked behind them.

See," said Barbara," the poor young man is so overweighted by his fetters, he is obliged to support himself against the bastion! Did you ever see any thing so thin, madam?-And yet, what an elegant figure! I wonder who it can be!"

"Probably," answered Louisa," one of the many officers who during the winter have fallen under the Chevalier's displeasure."

66 Ah, see," said Barbara, in a compassionate tone, "Pandulfo knows not what to do with him! He cannot support himself farther!"

This exclamation of Barbara's induced Madame de Wolfstein again to look back, when she perceived that the poor captive vainly attempted to rise from the bastion against which he leaned, but that either the weight of his chains, or his own