The news of Donat’s return was soon confirmed: it was scarcely mid-day, when she heard the drawbridge resounding beneath the hasty trampling of his black steed. She hastened to receive him at the gate with that smile of submissive duty, which she had accustomed herself always to wear in his presence. He repulsed her offered hand with a furious look, and shut himself up in his own chamber with such of his dependents, as were most in his confidence. An hour elapsed; his chamber-door was thrown open, and Donat rushed out again, to all appearance more incensed, if possible, than before. —“Arm! arm!” cried he with a voice of thunder, which resounded through the whole fortress, and which soon collected all his soldiers around him, who, wearied with the journey from which they were just returned, were better fitted for repose than for a second expedition; “to horse, and away this instant; business of importance summons us, and which admits of no delay. Talk not of weariness, or exhausted strength! the deed, which now demands your faulchions, could be executed, if your arms were half useless; for I lead you not against stout warriors, but cowardly monks, on whom I swear to be revenged before sun-set!”— They were too well accustomed to obey Count Donat at the first motion of his finger, to make any remonstrances. In a few minutes all were mounted, and their horses galloped over the echoing draw-bridge into the valley below, whence they disappeared from the eyes of those, who gazed after them, with the rapidity of lightning. The Castle-inhabitants looked on each other in silent astonishment. The similarity of their present feelings produced a kind of confidence between the Countess and her women; and one of them confessed to her, her being almost certain, that she knew the cause of all this uproar. She would however only impart thus much of her knowledge: on his return homewards the Count had received a letter from one who was in the habit of sending him intelligence, and this letter most probably contained the spark, which had kindled such flames in the bosom of Count Donat; for as soon as he had read it to his confidents, he tore it in a thousand pieces, and trampled it under his feet. Besides this, in the midst of a torrent of execrations he had been heard to mention the Abbot of Curwald and his daughter Emmeline. —“Emmeline and the Abbot?” exclaimed Helen delighted. “Is it possible, that some benevolent Being should have opened his eyes to the miseries of his daughter? Is it to rescue her, that he departed in such haste? Ah! then why have I so long delayed to take the nearest and surest way for effecting her deliverance? Had I but confest her danger to Count Donat.... Surely the worst of men could not endure, that his child should be overwhelmed in shame and ruin! The depravity of the Nuns of St. Roswitha must have been concealed from Count Donat, or he never would have made his daughter a member of their society!”—