# The Midnight Bell/Volume II/Chapter X

CHAPTER X.
Beneath a mountain's brow, the most remote And inaccessible, by shepherds trod, In a deep cave, dug by no mortal hand,
A hermit liv'd; a melancholy man.
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Stunned by the fall, Lauretta lay a length of time amidst the ruins, insensible of her situation, till reason, beginning again to dawn, brought along with it a recollection of the accident that had befallen her. The tempest was abated, but it still rained violently: her head and right side were much bruised, and her left arm was burnt by the lightning: but, having fortunately dropped upon the wet earth, her body had sustained no other material injury. She lifted up her head, and cast her eyes around; but the twilight, obscured by the thick rain, was insufficient to show her any object but the ruined turret close by which she lay.
Resolved, however, if possible, to profit by an opportunity which seemed providentially given her for effecting her escape, she with difficulty raised herself upon her feet, and, although very weak, she determined to proceed from the castle as quickly as she was able, hoping perchance to arrive at some convent before she was missed—at least could be overtaken—by her guards, who had probably not heard the fall of the turret.
She had proceeded nearly a league without stopping, when the dawn of day, beginning to break, showed her that she was entering upon the precincts of a wood. The ground over which she had passed was heathy and uneven:—heated and panting for breath, she supported herself against the trunk of the first tree; her head ached violently; her arm and side were extremely painful, and her garments, drenched with the continued rain, clung round her, dripping with water. The inaction of a few moments produced a shivering chillness less tolerable than the fatigue of proceeding, and she again endeavoured to walk; but exhausted nature supported her trembling frame only a few paces, ere she sunk upon the rough ground: no prospect but that of a lingering death, or again falling into the hands of Kroonzer and his companion, now presented itself to her melancholy view: a flood of tears came to the relief of her full heart; she closed her eyes, and sobbed bitterly.
In this situation she had lain a considerable time, when she heard a voice articulate some words which she understood not. She raised her dim eyes, and beheld standing by her side a hermit of a benign aspect and venerable mien, on whose arm hung a flagon, and in whose hand was a staff, on which he supported his aged limbs.
"Praised be the saints!" cried he, as Lauretta opened her eyes, "I am deceived; I thought thee dead." Lauretta extended her feeble hand, which the hermit taking in his, knelt down by her side. "My strength is wasting fast," said Lauretta. After a short pause, she added, "Kind heaven hath sent thee to close my dying eyes."
"Rather do thou hope," returned the hermit, "it has sent me to succour thee from death: thy nature seems exhausted with fatigue; let me conduct thee to my cell hard by, and trust to providence and my endeavours to renovate thy strength."
"Alas, father!" replied Lauretta, "I fear I cannot reach it; I am too faint to walk."
"Let me entreat thee to essay it," cried the hermit.—The old man was feeble, and it required his utmost exertions to assist Lauretta in rising from the ground: he then put the staff into her right hand; and, encircling her waist with his arm, he held the other arm in his, and thus led her tottering steps through a winding path to his rude cell.
Having seated her on a bench covered with moss, the hermit laid a faggot and some dried leaves on the hearth; and, having kindled them, he warmed a small quantity of a restorative cordial he possessed, and gave it to Lauretta to drink. Somewhat revived by the medicine she had swallowed, the old man placed her before the fire, and, having given her a skin mantle, he left her to exchange her wet garments, whilst he went to fill his flagon at a neighbouring spring; which had been his errand abroad when he discovered Lauretta, but which he had left unaccomplished.
On his return, he found his fair guest in some measure refreshed, but still weak and ill. She complained much of the bruises on her head and side, and her arm also was extremely painful:—to this the hermit applied an assuasive balm; and, having given her a healing balsam with which to anoint her head and side, he conducted her into the inner division of his cell; and, having recommended to her to compose herself to sleep on his straw pallet, he left her to repose, whilst he broke his own fast in the outward division of his humble dwelling.
Soft sleep quickly visited the couch of Lauretta, and she embraced it as a friend whose caresses she was unwilling to forego; for she rose not till mid-day had been some hours gone by.
The kind hermit had baked for her some apples on his hearth; and of these, together with some brown bread, she made a sufficient repast, and drank plenteously of the water from the spring.
Lauretta's spirits returning with her strength, she voluntarily gratified the hermit's curiosity in regard to such particulars as led to account for the situation in which he had found her.
"A veil of mystery," cried the old man, as Lauretta ended her account, "has many years clouded that castle. The coward peasantry report it to be the residence of spirits: your words confirm me in the suspicion I have long entertained, that it is infested by a banditti. The castle formerly belonged to the family of Byroff, whose circumstances falling into decay, they have left this country; and their once stately mansion is now mouldering into a pile of ruins."
"Have they ever committed any depredations hereabout?" asked Lauretta.
"Never," answered the hermit. "If they are robbers, as I conjecture, caution would doubtless teach them not to assail the passenger near their haunt, lest it should be detected. But let us hope that the baron Smaldart, whom you represent as your friend, will find some measure for bringing them under the lash of justice."
"But how came Theodore connected with them?" said Lauretta.
"Time will develop that mystery," replied the venerable man: and he added, "However artifice may for a while conceal his guilt, rest assured that providence in its own time will expose the machinations of the wicked, and turn their evil actions on themselves."
"The will of heaven be done," cried Lauretta. "But let me entreat your assistance in devising some method for my returning to my husband."
"We must be cautious in our steps," said the hermit, "lest they lead to the discovery of your retreat, and you again should fall into the power of your malicious enemies."
"By your counsel I will be guided," replied Lauretta.
"Thus then I advise," answered the solitary man. "I will provide thee with implements for writing unto whomsoever it shall best suit thy purpose; and on the morrow I will seek a trusty peasant, residing on the skirts of this forest, who shall convey what thou hast written to the baron Smaldart; and he may then concert some measure for thy safe return to thy husband."
Lauretta gladly adopted this proposal; and, having addressed a brief account of her sufferings and present concealment to her beloved Alphonsus, she enclosed it in a cover directed to the baron; she then drank a second cup of the cordial prepared for her by the hermit, and again retired to his pallet, which he kindly insisted on resigning for her accommodation, having prepared for himself a bed of dried moss and leaves in the outward part of his cell.
Early in the morning Lauretta arose, with a heart lighter than she had for some time felt it; and, having joined her kind host in his accustomed devotions, they sat down to an humble repast, and the hermit then sallied forth in search of the peasant who was to be Lauretta's messenger to the castle of Smaldart.
On his departure, Lauretta again habited herself in her own garments, which a constant fire had now rendered fit for wearing; and, not daring to venture without the cell, she sat ruminating on her happy and unexpected escape from her prison, and anticipating the pleasure of again beholding her Alphonsus.
The hermit, on returning, informed her that the peasant had willingly undertaken the journey; and that, in about five days, she might expect the arrival of her husband, or at least to receive some intelligence of him by the return of the messenger.
Lauretta expressed to him her gratitude for his kindness in the warmest terms; but he silenced her by observing that what he had done was but the debt of man to man, and that it were better not to know than not to perform it. She raised her hands to heaven, in thankfulness for the kind protector she had found; and at the same time dropped a tear for the sorrows of her Alphonsus.
In the course of that day, Lauretta ventured to inquire of her venerable host, what could have induced him, who, from his knowledge of the world, and the exalted sentiments of his heart, seemed to be so well calculated for the offices of society, to have secluded himself from all intercourse with men.
"Canst thou, daughter," he replied, "attend with patience to the tale of a careworn old man?"
Lauretta immediately expressed her anxious wish to be made acquainted with the history of her newly-gained friend.
The hermit heaved a sigh, and thus began.