—“If,” said she to herself, after giving the matter her most serious consideration; “if I should be so fortunate as to obtain an entrance into the mysterious chamber to-morrow night, I will hasten to the subterraneous passage without losing a moment. A torch, and the clear description of the way given in Amalberga’s letter will guide me to the Hermitage to a certainty, and I need only use more than ordinary diligence, in order to be back at the Castle before day-break; for precious as liberty appears to me, I will not obtain it by improper means. I am Donat’s wife, and privately to withdraw myself from his protection were to commit an act of infidelity and treason against my husband. I will content myself therefore with relating what I know to the good hermits, and entreating them to take the best and speediest means of rescuing Emmeline from her dangerous abode, and for placing the fortunate Amalberga in the arms of Torrenburg!”— On second thoughts, she reflected, that merely to give this intelligence to the hermits would not be to do enough; it would also be necessary to give some explanation to the Countess Urania respecting the letters which she had opened, and by advising Torrenburg to make Amalberga his wife, to render it clear to him, that she had herself forgotten the tyes which once existed between them. Perhaps too, a threatening letter to the Abbot of Curwald (should all other means fail) might have some weight in inducing him to surrender Emmeline. In order that nothing might delay her on the ensuing night, she rose instantly from her bed, and began to write. But before her letters were concluded, it was morning, and her attendants, or rather her jailors, entered the apartment to wake her. They exprest no little surprise at finding her already out of bed. —“I presume, noble Lady,” said the eldest of them, “either some joyous foreboding, or some prophetic dream has roused you from your couch so early. Our Lord will return to-day; in truth, we knew this yesterday, but we kept it to make our morning-greeting the more welcome, and also through apprehension lest your joy at this intelligence should spoil your night’s rest.”— Helen only answered the speaker by one of those expressive glances, with which the open-hearted repay words, which belie the secret mind. She was well aware, that her women who had been so often the witnesses of her sufferings, could not but know the nature of those feelings, which Donat’s return was likely to excite in her bosom. Nor did she alone tremble in the presence of the fierce Count of Carlsheim; every creature that existed in the Castle listened to his name with terror, and nothing but irony had dictated this speech of the insolent Jutta. Yet dared not Helen find the least fault with any one of her female attendants, who were chiefly composed of her husband’s former favourites, and the meanest of whom had more influence with him still, than was allowed to his unhappy wife.