"I will wait" said an old man, as he stopped under a grove of tall forest trees. "I will wait till all this splendor has past. Poor young creature! she will hear it soon enough." He looked towards the superb palace which shone out one blaze of light amid the darkness of the night. He saw the doors crowded with persons; and carriages rolled rapidly past him. He recognized the imperial equipage, by the light of the flambeaux borne around it. He drew nearer, and heard the sound of music and song. "No? no," he exclaimed, "I cannot enter yet." He turned back, and sought the little inn where he had left his horse. There the happy peasantry were assembled. Unwearied with a long day of rejoicing, they were dancing, and singing, and laughing. The whole house rung with merriment.—The old man-entered one of the least crowded rooms: there he found a large party sitting round a long table, covered with fruit and cakes. They were all talking, and laughing; all but one little girl, who had dropped fast asleep with joyful fatigue. Her arms were crossed upon the table, and her bright cheek rested on them; her eyelids looked heavy with slumber, but her fresh rosy lips were partly unclosed, and her cheek was dimpled with smiles. The old man sat down beside her and leaned his folded arms also on the table; but he did not sleep.

The palace of the Countess of Florenheim was on that evening thronged with lordly company. Every splendid saloon had been thrown open: but among the beauteous forms assembled there, the young Countess herself was the most admired. It might be that every eye looked in almost determined admiration upon one so gentle, and so distinguished bv birth and fortune. But the young and innocent Bianca was very lovely. The usual expression of her large hazel eyes was eloquent tenderness, her features were beautiful, and every movement of her tall and delicate form was by nature graceful: though her dress was adorned by jewels of immense value, its appearance was less magnificent than simple.

That day she had taken possession of her princely wealth; and, for the first time, she appeared as the mistress of her own palace: her manner was perfectly dignified and easy, but, during the whole evening, the rich bloom of her cheek was heightened by a continual blush.

The Empress remained some hours at the Florenheim palace, delighted with the appearance and conduct of the young and noble orphan. The parents of the Countess had deserved and enjoyed the favour of their Sovereigns, and Maria Theresa loved to distinguish their child.

Every guest had departed; and the young Countess stood alone in her spacious and magnificent saloons. She pressed her hand for a moment over her eyes, for they ached with the glare of the tapers still blazing around her. She looked at the beautiful flowers which hung in fading garlands round the room, and sighed. With a true girlish, fancy, she took down a long drooping branch of roses from the tall candelabra beside her; the blossoms were all faded: she sighed again; her heart had not been in the gaiety and splendor of the evening, and now she had leisure to attend to the silent thoughts of her bosom. She thought of her betrothed husband, and she could not help reproaching herself for having shared in any way the festivities around her, while Ernest Alberti was exposed to the dangers of war.

As the young Countess was retiring to rest, the arrival of a person, who earnestly requested to see her that very night, was announced: she hesitated at first, but after a few moments consideration, she consented to appear. She returned to the deserted saloon, and there waited till the man was introduced to her presence. She recognized at once the servant of the Count Alberti, and dismissed her attendants. How often did she tremble, how often did she turn pale with horror, during that short interview! Ernest had fought with his general officer against the positive commands of the Emperor; the general had been mortally wounded, and Alberti was disgraced, a high reward was set upon his life. He had however escaped, but his servant knew not whither.

Many months passed away, months of doubt and sorrow to the hapless Bianca. The young deserter was never heard of; and the festive magnificence which had flashed for a moment in the palace of the Countess, entirely disappeared. All Vienna talked of her engagement with Ernest, and many pronounced the engagement to be dissolved. It was said, that the Empress had herself forbidden the young Countess to think of the disgraced Alberti.—Bianca was certainly commanded to appear at Court, and she did not refuse. Many of the young courtiers determined to pay more than usual attention to the very beautiful and very wealthy heiress. She appeared, but none presumed to insult her sorrow with their addresses: her real, artless grief, invested her with a dignity which no one dared to infringe upon. She did not attempt to conceal how severely the blow had fallen upon her; but her grief, though silent, and seeming to claim no interest, was quietly majestic. Calm and pale, she stood among the ladies of the court, an object of respect and admiration even to the Empress herself.

A year passed away. The general whom Alberti had wounded was not dead, but he had met with so many relapses that his recovery was still pronounced uncertain. Bianca continued a quiet mourner, but now her alliance was sought by many of the noblest houses of Austria; gently, but firmly, every proposal was declined. For the first time, the Empress interested herself in the suit of the Prince, one of Bianca's enthusiastic admirers. The young Countess did not repel the confidence which her Sovereign sought: she disclosed with affecting earnestness the feelings of her heart, and the principles on which she acted: before she quitted the Empress, she perceived that her feelings were understood, she guessed that her principles were approved.

The mother of the Count Alberti was living; and still presided over the household of her son. The Countess Bianca was now a constant visitor at the Alberti palace; and a few days after the abovementioned interview with the Empress, the aged Countess and Bianca were conversing almost cheerfully together: they were elated with hope, for the petitions which had been presented in behalf of Ernest seemed to be successful. The Empress had herself written to the Countess Alberti. the letter was in Bianca's hand. Suddenly a person entered the saloon: it was the old and faithful servant of Alberti; he told them news that almost overwhelmed them. The young Count had returned, he had been brought to Vienna with a gang of desperate banditti, he was said to be the captain of men who were outlaws, robbers, and murderers. —"Alas! alas!" exclaimed the old Countess, and she gazed with a look of heart-broken sorrow on a magnificent portrait of her late husband; "this is to be the end of the house of Alberti. Your only son, my beloved Conrad, the child of our hopes, will he prove a shame to his father's name? It is well you are not here, it is enough that I survive to witness our disgrace"—"Ernest will never disgrace you" cried Bianca. eagerly. "We know him much better," she added, clasping the trembling hands of the Countess, with tender affection: "there is much to be explained in this story. Dear rash Ernest," she faltered, leaning her head on her mother's shoulder, and burst into tears. "We know him better: he may be wild and faulty, but he will never disgrace any one." "He never will, you are right," replied the Countess; "I spoke hastily. I ought to hope, I ought to believe, better things of my beloved son. Daughter of my love, I was very wrong to doubt him for a moment; you judge him rightly. Bless you, bless you, my sweet Bianca."

Alberti had been indeed brought to Vienna among the banditti of Istria; every proof was strong against him. He was condemned to be broken on the wheel, and there seemed no hope that the sentence would be mitigated. Ernest himself told an improbable story about his not being connected with the banditti; but nobody listened to it, and he mentioned it no more. Bianca and his mother did believe him. The account was perfectly true.

Ernest had seen his antagonist fall, and he stood in stupified horror, with the bloody sword in his hand; a cold and sickening chill crept through his frame, and thought and memory seemed to forsake him. The friend who had accompanied him to the spot where the duel was fought, roused him from his reekless stupor: he led him up to his charger, which had brought him to the spot; he conjured, he commanded, him to fly. Ernest heeded him not, but rushed to the place where the wounded general was lying: he had swooned, and the ashy paleness of death was already on his countenance. Ernest flung himself on the ground, and groaned with anguish. The general revived, he behelf the young man, he called to him with a feeble voice, he stretched out his clammy hand to him. Ernest half rose from the ground-he drew near the dying man, and with downcast eyes he took the extended hand. Again the general spoke. "I was in fault," he said; " I should have known better than to be provoked by a youth like yourself. Forgive me, Alberti. If you wish that I should recover, leave me. Fly instantly—I shall be anxious, I shall have no rest, I shall die, if I think that you are in danger. Leave me, I entreat you". The young soldier obeyed; he kissed the cold hand of his general, and his friend hurried him away; he pointed towards the south, as if insinuating the direction which Ernest should take. Once again, Alberti looked round: he saw the arm of the wounded man raised, as if to wave him away; his hand was on the reign of the impatient charger; he leaped into the saddle and fled.

It was nearly sunset when the Count Alberti stopped at the entrance of a desolate valley. Immense masses of rock descended to the banks of a rushing stream, on one side of which a narrow path wound apparently up the valley. For some miles before he reached this spot, Ernest had beheld no traces of man. He looked behind ; and the broad barren moor, which he had passed over, marked out a uniform horizon, against the clear crimson heavens. The standing rays of the sun spread in a thread-like blaze of golden glory over the plain. He turned again towards the mountains and waters. There all was dark and awful; the shadows of evening had cast even a terrific gloom over the valley; the loud and rising wind came rushing down it, and blew the foam of the torrent over his face. Ernest threw the reins on his horse's neck, and proceeded slowly along the winding path. The valley became narrower as he advanced, the rocks more precipitous, and the darkness increased. At last, the valley appeared to be closed in entirely by one steep precipice, over which, the torrent fell with a deafening roar. The charger stopped, and Ernest dismounted; he climbed the rocks beside him; the path which he had lost sight of, again appeared: it seemed to lead into a chasm of impenetrable blackness: he sprung forward, and felt the path firm and level under his feet. Returning to his horse, he led it after him, till they had reached what seemed to be the end of the cavern, for he saw the stars shining above him, and the ground beneath was spread with thick grass. The horse stooped down his head to graze, and Ernest unbridled it. The fugitive threw himself down among the rocks, and slept.

When he awoke, the moon was shining brightly on the plain before him, and the wind had died quite away. Not a sound disturbed the stillness of the night, except a faint murmur of distant waters, and the ceaseless chirping of innumerable grasshoppers. The plain seemed to be enclosed by mountains partly covered with dark pine woods; but the black and deepened shadows which enveloped every spot not lighted by the silvery moonshine prevented his accurate observance of the scenes he gazed upon. He listened in vain, to hear if his horse were grazing near; he then wandered on, but forgot entirely that he was seeking his horse,—he forgot every thing but the thoughts most nearly connected with his own dreary sorrows.

"At this moment," thought he, "the blood that I have shed, may be crying up to God for vengeance." In the heat of passion he had found a thousand excuses for himself: he had been among gay and thoughtless young men, and they seldom trouble themselves with reasoning, where a laugh or sarcasm convinced more easily. Alberti had often in his heart despised their silliness, but he had allowed his mind to be governed by their opinions, just because his passions and those opinions agreed; he had stooped to the palliation of crime under the screen of worldly custom: he had become probably a murderer, and for what? because his temper had been provoked—for a trifle, that was not worth remembering. He was now alone in calm, undisturbed Solitude. He had leisure to search the very ground of his heart; and he did so. Calmly and clearly he called up all the excuses which he had framed; and with firm but grieving severity he condemned them all. He sought for the principle on which he had acted, but he found that he sought for a shadow. He looked up into the boundless heavens above him, and the thought which he strove to fix upon his soul, was, "I am alone with God, and in condemning myself, I will not, dare not, encourage a single excuse." A rush of agonizing thoughts passed over his bosom; they confused and distracted him. He leaned his burning head against the rocks near him, their dewy coldness relieved its throbbing heat; he then felt how contrasted a creature he was to all around and about him; the magnificent stillness of the scene abashed him; he felt as if his presence were a pollution to its sublime solitude: the objects that he beheld, seemed to shadow forth their viewless Creator, they seemed to speak of His purity and grandeur; and he felt himself more a creature of sinful and lawless passions, than he had ever done in the haunts of men.

Ernest was roused from his meditation; his charger gallopped past him, he called to it, and the animal stopped: but suddenly it started again: he looked for the cause, and beheld a party of men within a few yards of the place where he stood. The moonbeams glittered upon the weapons which they wore. Alberti had advanced into the full moonlight, and they perceived him; he did not appear to notice them, but again called to his horse. The animal came up to him, but at that instant one of the men approached to seize it. Ernest lifted up his arm and struck the man down; he wreathed the mane round his hand, and demanded loudly, but calmly, the reason of their interference. An insulting shout was the only reply he received, and they rushed towards him. In an instant, Ernest had leapt upon his horse: the men threw themselves before him; they commanded him to dismount, they attempted to drag him down. He swept them away with his arm, he urged on his charger, and bounded from the midst of them, but another party sprung up before him. He had burst from them, his way seemed unimpeded, when he felt the whirr and report of a "bullet, as it flew past his head. He heard again the report of a loud volley, and he was yet unwounded. At once his charger reared, and snorted; then its legs staggered, its head plunged forward into the earth; it struggled in vain to rise, and rolled heavily over. Ernest heard not, cared not for the crowd that gathered round him. He lifted up the head of his dying horse from the earth, and wiped away the foam and dust from its mouth and nostrils. The poor animal was dying; the sweat streamed out from its reeking sides, and mingled with its spouting blood. Ernest saw an expression, almost human, turned for a moment on him from its staring eye. Once again, the faithful creature struggled to throw out its quivering limbs, and to strike its head into ihe earth: it gasped, and gasped, and its head slipped away from the arms of its master. Alberti raised it again, but his loved charger lay motionless and dead beside him. The tears gushed from his eyes; but he saw the men who surrounded him, who had for some minutes gazed on him in silence. In a frenzy of rage he started up, and strove to draw his sword; it seemed glued to the scabbard, and at first resisted his efforts. Wild with fury, he wrenched it forth. The blade had already struck against another sword, when it rivetted his look, for it was smeared with what he knew to be the dark blood of his general. The sight calmed him at once; the sword dropt from his grasp; and he called out, in a voice of horror, "Enough, enough! I have had blood enough!" His antagonist started with wonder; but suddenly a blow struck him from behind. He turned his head, and beheld a man drawing from his shoulder a streaming dasher: he saw the face of this man; he knew him. The man was a deserter from his own regiment. " It is right that I should fall thus," he cried out; and sunk lifeless on the body of his horse.

Ernest unclosed his eyes, and found that he was lying upon a mat, in a spacious cavern, partly roofed in from the open sky, by a shelving rock at a great height above him. By the dim light, his eyes could not measure the vast extent of the cavern. He endeavoured to rise, but the pain and weakness which he felt in his shoulder reminded him of his wound, and he sunk back again. He listened; but faint and indistinct sounds alone met his ear. At length, amid the black shadows which hung about the vault-like roof, at the farther end of the cavern, a light appeared: it shone out one red sparkle from the gloom; it moved downwards; and he thought he heard the clanking tread of a person descending a flight of steps. Nearer and nearer the light came: and he beheld a figure approaching. The moon, whose light had been gradually fading, had now set; the first dun light of morning scarcely dispelled the darkness which succeeded. The man placed the lamp on a ledge of the rock, and, drawing his cloak round him, stood leaning against the wall. The chill morning air rushed through the cavern, and almost extinguished the flame; the man bent down over the lamp to trim it, and the light flared over the face of the deserter, who had stabbed Alberti. Ernest spoke to the man: he addressed him by his name. The man answered churlishly.—" Do you not know me?" said Alberti. "I know you? not I: I only know, that I wish I had killed you; or that the fellows, who took the trouble of bringing you here, would have staid with you, and not sent me down to this dismal den, while they are drinking above." "Bring your lamp, and look me in the face," said Ernest, in a tone of command. The man brought the lamp, and held it carelessly before his face. He turned pale as he gazed; and, although Alberti was a helpless and imprisoned man, for a while he thought of him only as the officer whom he had served under, and obeyed. He faultered out a few words of excuse, dictated by the feeling of the moment. "There is no occasion for excuse, Michael," said Alberti; "I do not think you would have stabbed me intentionally; but I want no excuses. I see what you now are; while I am here, a dying man perhaps, and in your power: but I ask no favours." The man spoke not, as he stood without moving, and in silence at the feet of Alberti who turned away, and closed his eyes. Ernest looked round again, and the man was still standing before him. "Will you answer me one question?" inquired the deserter—"Speak then."—"Did you come hither in search of me?"— "In search of you!" replied Aiberti, (in a tone of evident surprise;) "No, alas! I thought not of you till this night." The man did not raise his head, but said slowly, "I was sorry when I saw that I had stabbed my commander. I don't forget that I have met with much kindness from you, signor; but now I know that you came not here to take me, I would do any thing to save you." Alberti was proud; but he felt ashamed in the presence of the man whose hand had been raised against his life, who was a deserter, and a common robber, "I am justly punished," he said, "I am more guilty than yourself. I have lifted my arm against my commander. I left him dying, perhaps he is now dead. I too am a deserter: at this moment I am pursued; and if I should be taken, my life will be forfeited for my crime. If you are inexcusable, what am I?"

The man took up the lamp, and walked hastily from the cavern. He returned in a short time, and with him came a young woman, whose countenance displayed a strange mixture of boldness and feminine beauty. She brought with her a basket of provisions, and with the assistance of the deserter, they dressed the wound in Alberti's shoulder which had been before bound only with handkerchiefs.

For days and weeks, Alberti was kindly and constantly attended by the banditti. They heard his history from Michael; and his manners and martial appearance, all they observed about him, commanded respect and even confidence. His wound was healed, and his strength was gradually returning, when the cavern was entered one night by a party of the banditti, among whom was the leader of the band. Ernest had been treated before with attention; but the request which the band then made, astonished him. They told him, that they knew he could not return to his rank, and to his former associates. They told him that they admired, respected, and could trust him. They were still speaking, when Alberti raised his eyes, and fixed them on the man who addressed him, with a look of calm and almost stern surprise. The fellow looked down and hesitated; he had begun to speak in a tone which seemed to declare, that he was conferring a favour; as he continued, he felt that he was asking a favour. He had proposed to Alberti, that he should take command of their band. "Never," replied Ernest, in a tone of resolute decision. A murmur of angry disapprobation passed through the band. He observed it, and walked into the midst of them. "Hear me," he said; "l am speaking to men, and I expect to be heard, as a man. You have been kind to me, and I thank you heartily. I am still weak in body, but I have not learned to fear any of you. I thank you for the admiration and respect you declare to me, but I never will be one of your band. I wish not to offend you; but I will tell you the plain truth. I will never countenance your mode of life.—It is perfectly true, that I am a disgraced man, and an outlaw. I feel it. But I feel that, bad as I am, I might be worse.—I pretend to bo superior virtue.—In my own opinion, I am the most sinful man among you; surely then, 1Ihave gone far enough in guilt. I will not go farther. You have me in your power, kill me if you please; life cannot be very joyful to me in future.—I have nothing more to say. ! would not have you forget that I am grateful to you; but remember, at the same time, that I know as little of fear as any man among you."

The men had listened to him in silence; and after a pause, the loader asked, rather impatiently, " What do you expect from us, Count!" "Nothing,'' replied Ernest coolly. "What would you do, were you permitted to follow your own will?" "Leave this place. And betray us," said one of them, "instantly."—"I could have answered that question more warmly," replied Ernest, with a look of calm disdain (turning to the captain of the band:) had no suspicions been uttered by that man, I might have told you that the same principles which forbid my becoming your companion, would prevent my becoming a pitiful informer. I ask my freedom as a man, entitled, equally with yourselves, to the common right of air and liberty. I do not insult you or myself by entreaties. You may best judge if you can believe, and trust me."

It is a fact, that Alberti was released a few days after the above interview: the captain of the band came to the cavern where Alberti had been kept, and told him that his freedom wes granted to him. Ernest thanked him even with tears, and before he followed him out, he said, "I was brought to this place senseless; I have never quitted it since that time. Bind your cloak round my head, and lead me till I am at some distance from the entrance of these caverns. I will never betray you."

Ernest from that time had no intercourse with the banditti, but he still remained among the mountains which they haunted, never molested by them. Once he ventured from his retreat to a town at somr distance from it; and he learnt there, that search had been made, and was still making, for him by the imperial command. With some difficulty he effected his return to the mountains of Istria. In the magnificent solitudes of woods and waters he learnt to examine his own heart, and to meditate on the follies and faults which had diverted his mind from higher and more ennobling subjects. It was there that he was seized by the imperial troops. He declared in vain, that he had no connexion with the banditti which had been taken. He was brought with them, and as one of them, to Vienna.

The Countess Alberti, with her young and lovely friend, used every exertion to prevent the execution of Ernest; but the verdict appeared irrevocable. The day, the dreadful day of death was fixed, and they implored an audience of the Empress: the aged mother, the betrothed wife, lay at her feet in speechless agony; they entreated, they clung to her in the delirium of their grief. Their gentle sovereign wept with them, she endeavoured to console them; but although her whole frame trembled, and her voice faltered with agitation, as she replied to their entreaties, her answer left them quite hopeless. They obtained, however, permission to see the prisoner once before his execution, and even this had been hitherto denied to every one.

An unforeseen circumstance saved the life of Alberti. The captain of the banditti, who had not been taken with his companions; heard that Ernest was condemned to die. He had boon once a man of honour himself; and he gave himself up to justice, relating clearly every particular of the Count's refusal to join his band. The sentence was changed. Was it a merciful change? the noble and gallant Count Ernest was condemned in the prime of youthful manhood to become a workman for life, in the quicksilver mines of Idria.

The first surprise, which made known to the aged Countess her son's safety, was joyful; but her grief soon returned as she thought upon the dreadful termination which still awaited all her hopes for him. But Bianca was young and ardent, and the worst that would now happen was a joy to her. She devoted her whole heart, and every energy of her mind, to a plan which she instantly resolved to execute.—Since her childhood she had been a privileged favourite with Maria Theresa, but she now dreaded the opposition of her royal mistress to her intention. After mature deliberation, she decided that the most certain method of succeeding would be to confide her plan to the Empress herself, before it could be told to her by any other person.

The Countess Florenheim was beloved as an own child by the good and venerable confessor of Maria Theresa. She went to him, and he listened to her kindly, and with earnest attention. He was accustomed to examine the principles of actions, rather than their effects; to consider whether they were really right, not whether they might be approved according to worldly opinions.

The father, Antonio, left the Countess in doubt as to his opinion; but a few hours after his departure, lie again visited the Florenheim palace, and he brought with him a message from the Empress. She commanded the immediate presence of the Countess Bianca, at the imperial palace. The confessor declined answering any of Bianca's anxious questions; and departed, declaring his intention of seeing her, when she returned from the Empress.

The young Countess ordered her carriage, and in a short time after she had received the imperial summons, she was admitted into the private apartments of her sovereign. She remained alone for a sufficient time, to perplex herself with attempting, to discover why she had been summoned to the presence of the Empress. Maria Theresa appeared; she was simply dressed, and unattended: she smiled as she bowed her head to Bianca, and then sat down, fixing the full gaze of her eyes on the blushing countenance of the young Countess. She spoke at once on the subject, which the latter was most interested about. "I have been conversing with the father Antonio,'" she said; "you, Countess Bianca, were the subject of our conference.—I have requested your presence; for, although I am your friend, I would now speak to you as your monarch; as such, I ask not your confidence. Tell me only, have you considered, do you know, that if you accompany the disgraced Count Alberti to the mines of Idria, you must literally share his fortunes? You will be, from the moment that you become his wife, simply the wife of an Idrian miner. Your title, your estates, all your rank and wealth, will be forfeited. You will be forced to perform even the duties of a menial servant to your husband.

"Countess Bianca of Florenheim," she proceeded, " can you dare to undertake such a sacrifice? Are you aware that your mind may not be upheld by an uncertain enthusiasm? Have you thought upon the drear dull calm of poverty, and decaying health? Do you feel assured, than when the first tumultuous feelings of self-applause have worn themselves out, when there are none around to wonder at your extraordinary devotion to Alberti, when your name will be almost forgotten in the circles where you have hitherto lived, quite forgotten indeed, by all but a few friends whom you will never behold again, do you think you will then rejoice at the decision you have made? When perhaps your husband may be dying, in the morning of his age, with no attendant but a weak helpless wife, who may be then too ill even to stand beside him, then what will your feelings be?" The Empress repeated her question, for the words which preceded it had absorbed Bianca's thoughts. She pictured to herself the young and vigorous Ernest wasting away, dying in her presence; she forgot herself, and all but his sufferings. Slowly she raised her head, as the Empress again addressed her. "What will my feelings be? Ah! I can scarcely imagine what they will be. Sorrow, certainly sorrow, but only for him, that must be the pervading feeling at such a moment. Happiness" her whole face brightened with smiles as she spoke, "real joy on my own account, to know that I am with him then, to hope, to believe, that I shall soon be with him for ever." Bianca continued to speak, and it was evident that her mind had anticipated and dwelt od the miseries that awaited the wife of Alberti.

Maria Theresa listened to her with profound attention; she asked, once again, "Do you determine to follow Ernest Alberti to the Mines of Idria as his wife, and to resign your rank and possessions?" Bianca sunk on her knee, she raised her clasped hands, and exclaimed, "l am but too favoured by God and my sovereign, if I may follow him. I resign my rank and my property with joy, with gratitude." Again, once again, the Empress fixed on Bianca, an earnest and searching look, and appeared to think deeply.—"I am satisfied—I am quite satisfied," she said at length, and the sternness of her look disappeared;  "I cannot countenance, but I shall not oppose your marriage." Bianca had been comparatively calm before, but now she covered her face with her hands, and sobbed almost hysterically. Maria Theresa would have raised her, but Bianca sprung up from the ground, her face beaming with delight, though the tears hung upon her cheeks. "Oh! forgive me," she said eagerly; "your highness will forgive me. Do not mistake my tears for sorrow; I am so happy, that I must weep."

The Empress opened the door by which she had entered the room, and led the trembling Countess into a small oratory. "I must converse with you here, before we part," she said, and at once her look, her voice, her manner, became expressive of the tendernest affection. "I have spoken as the sovereign, now listen to your friend. Here we should forget all distinctions of worldly rank. Here, my sweet Bianca, an Empress may feel herself inferior to the wife of a poor miner. Tell me really, my dear child," she said, tenderly clasping her companion's hands, as she drew her nearer, and gazed with a look of affectionate inquiry in her face; "confide in your friend. Must you, will you, pursue this rash plan? What is the chief motive that determines you?"—"I love," she replied, and those two words, spoken as they then were, needed little comment to the heart of Maria Theresa; "I love Ernest for himself. I did not love his rank or his riches; he is still Ernest Alberti, he is still himself, and therefore I still love him. I can live with him in disgrace and misery. I can die with him. My words may seem like those of a romantic girl, but they are not idle sounds. I do feel that I am speaking to a friend. I open all my heart to you, when I tell you, that I see but one simple path before me, and that, in deciding to tread it, my principles confirm the decision of my heart."—"And I," said the Empress, "yes, I confess that I understand and approve you. My child, you must leave me, or -—." Bianca sunk at the feet of the Empress. She hoped, she implored for a moment. The words died upon her lips, when she beheld the calm but changeless refusal expressed in the look of Maria Theresa, who said instantly, "I have now only to bid you farewell. In this oratory I shall pray for you constantly. Think of me, not as your sovereign, but as your friend, and love me." A missal lay upon the altar, its leaves were kept open by a rosary of pearls; the Empress had left it there, it was the rosary she always wore: she pressed the crucifix suspended from it to her lips, and gave it silently to the young Countess. Silently she kissed her cheek and forehead, and they parted.

That very evening Bianca visited the cell of Alberti; she had been there once before, it was to receive his last embrace. Now she looked round on the gloomy courts, and smiled. Joyfully she passed on to the massy doors, which separated her from him whom she loved, and the grating of the bolts no longer sounded harshly. Ernest heard with astonishment the cry of delight, with which Bianca threw herself on his bosom. He looked in vain for explanation on his mother, and the Father Antonio, who slowly entered the cell. He moved not, as she unwound her slender arms, and looked up tenderly, but almost reproachfully, in his face. "My love," she said, "I am very bold; but it was not always thus. Do you look coldly on me? Dear, dear Ernest, must I remind you of our long-plighted affection? Are you still silent? Then I must plead the cause which has so often made you eloquent. I do not blush," she said, " to make my request;" while a deepening blush spread over her downcast face, and completely belied her assertion. "Will you not understand me ? Will you not recal the time when I should have waited like a bashful maid, to be entreated like all bashful maids? then you have often called me too reserved. But now." she exclaimed, fixing her ardent and innocent gaze upon him, "a wife offers her hand to her husband. Dear Ernest, will you not take this hand?" She smiled, and heid out her small white hand. He took her hand, he pressed it to his lips, and continued to hold it trembling in his own. "My sweet Bianca," he said, and as he looked at her the tears streamed from .his eyes, "I was prepared for this. I knew that you would speak as you do now. It is heartbreaking to see you here, to hear you speak, as I knew you would. I almost wish you had been less true, less like yourself. An, how can I refuse the slightest of your chaste favours! But I must be firm. We must part. My love, I will not speak of poverty, although the change would be too hard for you, a young and delicate lady, of high rank, accustomed to affluence and to ease. But, Bianca, you are a woman; and shall a tender helpless woman be doomed to pine away in dark and horrid caverns, whose very air is poison?" "Alberti,* said she, with eager earnestness, "have not the miners wives?"—" It may be so," he replied, but those women must be poor neglected wretches, inured to the sorrows and hardships of their life; they must be almost callous to distress." Bianca looked at him as if she had not heard him rightly; her tall figure seemed to dilate into unusual majesty; her whole face beamed with intelligence as she spoke. "And do you think, Ernest, that cold and deadened feeling can produce that fortitude, that patient heavenly fortitude which the gospel, the spirit of God, alone inspires? Dearest, when I become your partner, the happy partner of your misery, I think not of my woman's weakness; (and yet I hardly believe that it would fail.) No; I look to another arm for strength, to him who now supports the burden of all his children's sorrow. He will hear our prayers, and He will never forsake us. A miner's hut may be a very happy home: it must be so to me, for my happiness is to remain with you. Would you have me wretched with my wealth and titles? I am pleading for my happiness, not so much for yours. Must I plead in vain?"

It was not her language, it was the almost unearthly eloquence of tone and manner, that gave to the words of the Lady Bianca an effect which it seemed impossible to resist. When she finished speaking, her hand extended to Ernest, and her face, as she leaned forward, turning alternately to the aged Countess and the Friar, her eyes shining with the light of expression, and the pure blood flooding in tides of richer crimson to her cheek and parted lips, lips on which a silent and trembling eloquence still hung, they all sat gazing on her in speechless astonishment. One sunbeam had darted through the narrow window of the cell, and the stream of light, as Bianca moved, at last fell upon her extended hand. When Ernest saw the pale transparent red, which her slender fingers assumed, as the sunbeams shone through them, he thought with horror, that the blood now giving its pure clearness to her fair skin, and flowing so freely and freshly through her delicate frame, would in the mine's poisonous atmosphere become thick and stagnant: he thought how soon the lustre of her eyes would be quenched, and the light elastic step of youth, the life which seemed exultant in the slight and graceful form of Bianca, would be palsied for ever. Ernest was eager to speak, but the old priest interrupted him, by proposing that nothing should be finally settled till the evening of the fourth ensuing day. Then the Lady Bianca, he observed, would have had more time to consider the plan she had formed: and till then, the young Count would be permitted to remain in Vienna. "I will consent; but on this one condition," said Bianca, "that my proposal, bold as it is, shall not be then opposed, if, as you say, my resolution be not changed. You know, dear Ernest, that I cannot change."

Bianca went, and with her husband, to the mines. The dismal hut of a workman in the mines of Idria, was but a poor exchange for the magnificent palace of the Count Alberti, on the banks of the Danube, which was now confiscated to the crown; though a small estate was given to the venerable and respected Countess during her life. But Bianca smiled with a smile of satisfied happiness, as leaning on her husband's arm, she stopped before the hut which was to be their future home. Their conductor opened the door, but the Count had forgotten to stoop, as he entered the low door-way, and he struck his lofty forehead a violent blow. Bianca uttered a faint shriek, her first and only complaint in that dark mine. The alarm which Bianca betrayed at his accident, banished the gloom which had begun to deepen on her husband's spirits: to remove her agitation, he persuaded himself to speak, and even to feel, cheerfully; and when Bianca had parted away his thick hair, to examine the effects of the blow, and had pressed her soft lips repeatedly to his brow, she said playfully, as she bent down with an arch smile, and looked into her husband's face, "After all, this terrible accident and my lamentations have not had a very bad effect, as they have brought back the smiles to your dear features, my own Ernest."

The miner's hut became daily a more happy abode; the eyes of its inhabitants were soon accustomed to the dim light, and all that had seemed so wrapt in darkness when they first entered the mines, gradually dawned into distinctness and light. Bianca began to look with real pleasure on the walls and rude furniture of her too-narrow room. She had no time to spend in useless sorrow, for she was continually employed in the necessary duties of her situation; she performed with cheerful alacrity the most menial offices, she repaired her husband's clothes, and she was delighted if she could sometimes take down from an old shelf, one of the few books she had brought with her. The days passed on rapidly; and as the young pair knelt down at the close of every evening, their praises and thanksgivings were as fervent as their prayers. Ernest had not been surprised at the high and virtuous enthusiasm which had enabled Bianca to support at first all the severe trials they underwent, without shrinking; but he was surprised to find that in the calm, the dull and hopeless calm, of undiminished hardship her spirit never sank; her sweetness of temper and unrepining gentleness rather increased.

Another trial was approaching. Bianca, the young and tender Bianca, was about to become a mother; and one evening, on returning from his work, Ernest found his wife making clothes for her unborn infant. He sat down beside her, and sighed; but Bianca was singing merrily, and she only left off singing to embrace her husband with smiles, he thought the sweetest smiles he had ever seen.

The wife of one of the miners, whom Bianca had visited when lying ill of a dangerous disease, kindly offered to attend her during her confinement; and from the arms of this woman, Ernest received his firstborn son; the child, who, born under different circumstances, would have been welcomed with all the care and splendour of noble rank. But he forgot this, in his joy that Bianca was safe, and stole on tiptoe to the room where she was lying. She had been listening for his footstep, and as he approached, he saw in the gloom of the chamber her white arms stretched towards him. "I have been thanking God in my thoughts," said Bianca, after her husband had bent down to kiss her: "but I am so very weak! Dear Ernest, kneel down beside the bed. and offer up my blessings with your own." Surprising strength seemed to have been given to this delicate mother, by Him "who temper the wind to the shorn lamb;" and she recovered rapidly from her confinement: but when her infant was about a month old, Bianca began to fear for his health. It was a great sorrow for her to part with her own darling child; but she felt it to be her duty to endeavour to send him out of the mines, to the care of the old Countess Aiberti. It was very hard to send him away, before he could take into the world the remembrance of those parents who never would behold him more, before his first smiles had seemed to notice the love and the care of the mother who bore him; but Bianca did not dare to think of her sorrowful regret, for it was necessary to use every exertion to effect this separation, so painful to herself. She knew that the wretched inhabitants of die mines were dropping into the grave daily; she knew that their lives seldom exceeded the two first years of their horrid confinement, and she panted with eager desire to send her pallid child to pure untainted air.

It was at this time that Ernest, as he was at work in one of the galleries, beheld a stranger, attended by the surveyor of the mines, approaching the place where he stood. Ernest turned away as the stranger passed, but he started with surprise, to hear the tones of a voice which he well remembered. He could not be mistaken, for the person spoke also with a foreign accent. At first he nearly resolved not to address him; but the stranger had not proceeded many steps, when Ernest stood before him, and exclaimed, "Signor Everard, have you forgotten me?" The Italian, who had come there to examine the mines, did not, indeed, recognise at once, in the emaciated being who addressed him, the young and gallant Count Alberti, whom he had known at Vienna, one of the bravest and most accomplished men of the court. Who would not have been struck at such a contrast? Who could have refused to grant the request that Ernest made?—He entreated Everard to remove his infant from the mines, and to deliver him to the care of the old Countess. The generous Italian did not hesitate to comply with his wishes; but his heart and soul were interested in the cause, when Alberti conducted him to the hut, and he beheld the pale and slender Bianca bending over her sick infant like a drooping lily; preserving in the midst of toil and misery, all the sweet and delicate graces of a virtuous and high-born female; and when her beseeching and melancholy smiles, and her voice like mournful music, pleaded for her infant's life.

The Italian left the mines immediately to seek the means of the child's removal, but had no sooner reached the post-house nearest to the mines, than a person arrived there express from Vienna, anxiously inquiring if Alberti or his wife were still alive. A few hours after, another person arrived with the same haste, and on the same errand: they were, the one a near relation of Bianca, the other Alberti's fellow soldier and most intimate friend. Pardon had at length been granted to the young exile, at the petition of the general officer whom he had wounded; and Alberti was recalled by the Empress herself to the court of Vienna.

The bearers of these happy tidings immediately descended into the mines. As they approached Alberti's hut, the light which glimmered through some apertures in the shattered door, induced them to look at its inmates before they entered. Though dressed in a dark course garmemt, and wasted away to an almost incredible slightness, still enough of her former loveliness remained to tell them, that the pallid female they beheld was the young Countess; and the heart admired her more, as she sat leaning; over her husband, and holding up to his kisses her small infant, her dark hair carelessly parted, and bound round her pale brow, seeming to live but in her husband's love; than when elegance had vied with splendour in her attire, when her hair had sparkled with diamonds: and in full health and beauty, she had been the one gazed at and admired in the midst of the noblest and fairest company of Vienna. The door was still unopened, for Bianca was singing to her husband: she had chosen a song, which her hearers had last listened to in her own splendid saloon, on the last night she had sung there; the soft complaining notes of her voice had seemed out of place there, where all was careless mirth and festivity; but its tone was suited to that dark solitude—it was like the song of hope in the cave of despair.

The feelings of Bianca, as she ascended slowly in the miners' bucket from the dark mine, cannot be described. She had unwillingly yielded to her husband's intreaties, that she should be first drawn up; and with her infant in her bosom, her eyes shaded with a thick veil, and supported bv the surveyor of the mines, she gradually rose from the horrible depths. The dripping damps that hung round the cavern fell upon her, but she heeded them not. Once she looked up at the pale pure star of light, far, far above her, but immediately after she bent down over her infant, and continued without moving or speaking. Several times the bucket swayed against the sides of the shaft, and Bianca shuddered, but her companion calmly steadied it; and at last she was lifted out upon the ground. She did not look up, she knelt in fervent but distracted prayer, till she heard the bucket which contained her husband approaching. The chain creaked, and the bucket swung, as it stopped above the black abyss. Even then there was danger, the chance of great danger; it was necessarv for Ernest to remain immoveable; at the highest certainty of hope, he might yet be plunged at once into the yawning depths below. Bianca felt this, and stirred not; she held in her breath convulsively—she saw through her veil the planks drawn over the cavern's mouth—she saw Ernest spring from the bucket—some one caught her child, as stretching forth her arms to her husband, she fell senseless on the ground.

There were many hearts that sorrowed over the departure of the young Alberti and his wife from the mines of Idria. The miners, with whom thev had lived so Iong, had learned to love them, at a time when too many a heart had almost forgotten to love and to hope; had learned from their kind words, but more, Oh! much more from their beautiful example, to shake off the dreadful bands of despair, and daily to seek, and to find, a peace which passeth all understanding. Ernest and Bianca had taught them to feel how happy, how cheerful, a thing religion is! Was it then surprising, that, at their departure, their poor companions should crowd around them, and weep with mournful gratitude, as Ernest distributed among them his working tools, and the simple furniture of his small hut? Was it surprising, that Bianca and her husband, as they sat on the green grass, with waving trees and a cloudless sky above them, while the summer breeze bore with it full tides of freshness and fragrance from their magnificent gardens, and they beheld the pure rose colour of health begin to tinge the cheek of their delicate child, was it surprising that they should turn with feelings of affectionate sorrow to the dark and dreary mines of Idria?

I must not forget to mention, that Ernest and his wife were publicly reinstated in all their former titles and possessions. A short time after their return to Vienna, they made their first appearance at court for that purpose. At the imperial command, all the princes and nobles of Austria, gorgeously dressed, and blazing with gold and jewels, were assembled. Through the midst of these, guiding the steps of his feeble and venerable mother, Alberti advanced to the throne. A deep blush seemed fixed upon his manly features, and the hand which supported his infirm parent trembled more than the wasted fingers he tenderly clasped. The Empress herself hung the order of the golden fleece round his neck, and gave into his hands the sword which he had before forfeited; but as she did so, her tears fell upon the golden scabbard: the young soldier kissed them off with quivering lips. But soon every eye was turned to the wife of Alberti, who, with her young child sleeping in her arms, and supported by the noble-minded general, who had obtained her husband's pardon, next approached. Bianca had not forgotten that she was still only the wife of an Idrian miner, and no costly ornament adorned her simple dress. Not a tinge of colour had yet returned to her cheeks of marble paleness, and a shadowy langour still remained about her large hazel eyes; but her delicately shaped lips had almost regained their soft crimson dye, and her dark brown hair, confined by a single ribbon, shone as brightly as the beautiful and braided tresses around her. She wore a loose dress of white silk, adorned only with a fresh cluster of roses, (for since she had left the mines she was more fond than ever of flowers.) Every eye was fixed on her, and the Empress turned coldly from the glittering forms beside her, to the simple Bianca. Descending from the throne, Maria Theresa hastened to raise her ere she could kneel; and, kissing her with the tender affection of a dear and intimate friend, she led the trembling Bianca to the highest step of the throne. There she turned to the whole assembly, and looking like a queen as she spoke, said, "This is the person whom we should all respect, as the brightest ornament of our court. This is the wife, ladies of Austria, whom I, your monarch, hold up as your example—whom I am proud to consider far our superior in the duties of a wife. Shall we not learn of her, to turn away from the false pleasures of vanity and splendour, and like her to act up, modestly but firmly, to that high religious principle, which proves true nobility of soul?—Count Alberti," continued the Empress, " every husband may envy you your residence in the mines of Idria. May God bless you both, and make you as happy, with the rank and wealth to which I now fully restore you, as you were in the hut of an Idrian miner."

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