While the Colonel was assured of the safety of Elvira, she was in the atmost anguish te know what was become of him. She feared the rage of the Dey, and fancied the Colonel as already dead. This idea so wholly possessed || her mind, that she thought nothing of the dangers which threatened herself. She had passed almost the whole day in this sorrowful situation, when she was taken out of that place to be conducted to another, not doubt ing but her husband had been executed, and that she was now going to share the same fate.

The guards who were charged with the care of Elvira, assured her, that Ernestus was not dead, and that she would soon see him.

"What," said Elvira, is my husband still living! No matter then what my fate may be, I shall suffer every thing contentedly."

When the Colonel saw her approaching, he was seized with inexpressible terror, and believed that the Dey had brought them tcgether that they might perish in the sight of each other.

"Ah, cruel Zara!" cried he, " is it thus you fulfil your promise? Without doubt, it is an agreement between you and your father, and you have only flattered me with the hopes of an approaching deliverance, that you might make the punishment that you design for us more terrible!"

While the Colonel was complaining of the cruelty of Zara, the people who had conducted Elvira to him retired.

"Why," said she to the Colonel, "do you accuse Zara of the fate which threatens us? Perhaps she is more to be pitied than we are; the Dey, in the first rage of his anger, may not have spared even her, and she may have been the first victim he had sacrificed to his resentment."

"Do you not yet know, my dear Elvira," said the Colone!, "that the tears of Zara softened the heart of her father, and that she had obtained pardon for both you and me? But this pardon was upon conditions worse than death, which were, to quit you aud marry her. I confess the fear of your death almost shook my resolu icu."

"I believe," said Elvira, "that you know not my heart. What, my Ernestus, could you

think I would have endured a life, which I should owe to your infidelity? By thus endeavouring to save me, you would have only bastened my destruction. Let us then die; death cannot be unwelcome to us in our present situation. The Dey, in sacrificing us to bis fury, will unite us for ever. I would much rather descend into the grave with my husband than give place to a rival."

Elvira was here interrupted by a slave, who opened the door suddenly, and ordered her and Ernestus to follow him into an approaching chamber. But how were they surprised when they there beheld Zara!

"I come," said she to them, "to avenge, the ills I have received from you both. I will not now, Elvira, make use of unnecessary reproaches; time is short, and every moment is precious. You should have informed me that Ernestus was your husband, and I should, perhaps, bave been able to have stifled a passion which was then but in its infancy. You are culpable, Ernestus, of the same of fence. will, to punish both of you, give you life and liberty. I will give you up to the just feelings of remorse, for having thus reduced innocence to a state worse than death. Be gone. That slave will conduct you to the seacoast, where you will find a vessel ready to carry you to Spain. I have deceived my father, who believes that Ernestus, seduced by Elvira, has consented to become a Mahometas. Fly, be gone, and take the advantage of the night. To-morrow my father, when he shall discover the deceit, if he find you here, will immediately hasten your destruction."

While Zara was thus speaking, Elvira and the Colonel, touched with the nobleness of her soul, could not refiain their tears. Ste perceived it, and said to them, "I see your tears, you pity my condition, and your friendship softens its rigour. Adieu! remember sometimes the sorrowful Zara: Elvira, she loved you as her sister; Ernestus, had she never seen you she would have lived happily !”

Zara, having thus spoken, retired without waiting for the answer of Elvira and the Co. loncl, and the slave charged with the care of conducting them, made a sign to them to follow him. He led them, under the favour of darkness, to the sea coast; and, as they were

While the Colonel was making the most tender reflections on the unbounded generosity of Zara, he was bastering from the coast of Africa, where the unfortunate Zara was delivering herself up to the profoundest grief. The effort she had made tore her heart,aud she had for ever lost all hopes of seeing again the lover she adored. She had preserved this lover for her rival, and she perpetually fancied she saw him at the feet of his Elvira, swearing to her a perpetual love. This image, which she could not remove from her mind, redoubled her grief. In unfortunate hearts, jealousy adds to the load of afliction: so far from diminishing love, it augments it, and the thoughts of being despised, instead of inspiring hatred, often increases tenderness.

Zara passed the rest of the night is com plaints against the severity of her fortune. Scarce did the day appear when the Dey, being informed of the escape of Ernestus and Elvira, and believing that his daughter was ignorant of it, entered her chamber to tell her the news. By her pale aad dejected air, he saw she had been informed of it, but did not suspect that she had contrived their flight.

My daughter," said he, "I see, by your grief, you have been acquainted with the flight of the two Christians. Had you listened to the advice of a father who loves you tenderly, you would have revenged your injuries and my own; but I pardon your fault, and I will no more reproach you with it. Seek not, to increase your sorrow, but rather endeavour to diminish it. Judge of my love and tenderness from the marks I have just given you: I consented, in order to wipe away your tears and cure your grief, to give you a slave for your husband. I raised that slave, in spite of his perfidy, to an employ in the state which might have made him worthy of that honour he was about to receive. Forget, Zara, forget a miserable and ungrateful wretch, whose intentions have been directed only to make a handle of your love to deceive you. I swear

to you, by every thing the most sacred, that I was no way concerned in their flight. As soon as I was informed of it, judging it would be the cause of much grief to thee, and ever fear. ful of your health, I put every scheme in practice to discover and arrest those who might have favoured their escape; but my eudea. vours have been fuitless."

"My father," said Zara, " if my grief could receive any comfort, it would undoubtedly from these marks of tenderness which you show me; but in my present situation, consolation serves only to augment my pain; permit me to deliver myself up to my sorrows; sorrow has charms for the unfortunate. Not being able to see Ernestus, the tears I shed will be pleasing; and his absence will be the less cruel to me if I am permitted to sigh at liberty. I perceive that time will increase my love, and that absence, instead of healing the wound, will spread it the more."

What Zara predicted really happened. She set out for Tunis, where her melancholy increased, and they began to despair of her life. The Dey, almost as unfortunate as his daughter, did every thing he could to ease her grief, and studied her inclination on all occasions. He even sometimes regretted the departure of Ernestus, and wished him still in his power, that he might save the life of his beloved Zara, whom he saw hastening to her grave.

Whilst the Dey was in this sorrowful situa tion, news was one day brought to him, that a Tunisian vessel, on her return home, had taken a ship from the Christians, in which were the two slaves who had escaped from prison. The Dey, struck with this news, ordered the slaves to be brought before him. He was answered, that one of the two was a woman, who had been dangerously wounded in the engagement, which had been supported with great bravery by the Christians.

"What signifies that," replied the Dey; "let a covered litter be provided; let them be brought before me. God grant what I hope for may be true, and that the days of my daughter may still be happy!"

According to the description given of these slaves, and the time when they were taken, it seemed impossible that his conjectures should be false.

of remorse, as she feared her passion had contributed to shorten the days of the fondest aud most indulgent parent that ever existed.

torrent, hurries every thing before it, without the least hops of recovery. How different is love founded on reason? it is constant and sincere, but never violent and incurable; it tends to unite two hearts in the tenderest of all passions, and restores serenity to the soul; it softens the savage heart, reclaims the libertine, and stands the test of the envious shocks of fortune, since nothing but reason or death can

THE unhappy Waldeck no sooner saw his two mothers depart, than turning to the side of the couch where, with curtains closed, re. posed his bride, be threw himself into an arm chair, and sighing exclaimed, "It is with the deepest regret, Madam, that I make the cruel confession, but concealment would be cruel both to you and myself. Long have I loved an amiable girl-long before you were proposed to me; from her I have been torn, to vow affection to you! But my heart is her's alone. She only can I love whilst that heart is capa ble of sensation. I know, I feel, how dreadful is the confession; but I appeal to your deli cacy-I trust to it. You will never wish for the attentions of a man whose tenderest endearments would not be dictated by the heart. You will not then think it strange; you will even approve of my leaving to you this apartment, and passing to my own. Our friends have wished to give you my name, it is yours, it is theirs-but you will expect no other sacri fice from one who, spite of shame and regret, is forced to make this avowal."

He rose, but was checked by a soft and faltering voice which faintly sighed, but what it said must be reserved for a future opportunity; we must first account for Waldeck's being thus left alone with a bride whom he chose to leave behind the curtains.

The Countess of Waldeck, the heiress of the extensive estates of her ancestors, the Counts de Waldeck, ou the banks of the Danube, had retired about sixteen years before this æra to her paternal castle in the centre of her domains, whose hoary towers hung frowning over vast masses of rock fiuely contrasting with the

rapidity with which, unchanged and regardless of the vicissitudes of ages, the never- ceasing torrent has rolled at their base midst all the changes of passing generations. Here, in the midst of this sublime scenery, she spent her early years of widowhood, being the relict of a gallant nobleman, the Baron de Waldeck, of her own family, whose sword had been his sole patrimony, and who had recently fallen at the battle of Lu zen, in the service of his country.

The only memorial left to her of past affection and departed happiness, was the young Ernest de Waldeck, then three years old, who now occupied every care, and was the sole object of her thoughts. Auxious to dedicate all her time and all her affections to the offspring of the man she had ardently loved, the Countess, although accustomed to the gaicties of life, and to all the pleasures of society, determined to shut her doors to all but a favoured few, whose friendly attentions should solace her in retirement, and whose conversation and advice should aid her in the education of the young Count.

With a few of these friends she had passed the dreary months of the first winter, and the spring with languid steps was just ushering in the early snow drop, when a continuance of boisterous weather, for some days, had swelled the Danube's stream, that now ran thunder||ing at the feet of the rocks which skirted the castle wails. Towards the close of the evening, an aged fisherman whose fragile boat had been driven from her moorings by the torrent, and who had wandered thus far in search of it, applied fer admission at the castle gate, re.