. The Library of fiction : or, Family story-teller, consisting of original tales, essays, and sketches of character. , Fool—idiot—did you think to rob me ofto-nght ? a night, too, which gives to me the long covetedSuzeline! Altenfeldt started on his feet, and essayed to quit the sceneof festivity, which now seemed to him a charnel-house filled withmouldering spectres—he would have said, * Fly Suzeline! buthis voice was lost in a murmuring sigh, and he felt but too trulythat he might wish to avoid and avert the horrors about to beaccomplished—but that to act was no longer in his o
. The Library of fiction : or, Family story-teller, consisting of original tales, essays, and sketches of character. , Fool—idiot—did you think to rob me ofto-nght ? a night, too, which gives to me the long covetedSuzeline! Altenfeldt started on his feet, and essayed to quit the sceneof festivity, which now seemed to him a charnel-house filled withmouldering spectres—he would have said, * Fly Suzeline! buthis voice was lost in a murmuring sigh, and he felt but too trulythat he might wish to avoid and avert the horrors about to beaccomplished—but that to act was no longer in his of warnings, he poured into the chaste ear of the yet in-nocent maiden vows of the most impassioned love; insteadof leading Suzeline to the side and protection of her mother,she was in his arms, and they were lost in the mazes of thewaltz; and, giddy with the intoxicating dance, soon forgot earth-^heaven—all, save love. Midnight sounded—the guests were departing, and Conradand his Suzeline were sought for in the windings of the brilliantlyilluminated walks that surrounded the pavilion—long and vain. Pa^e 327, Vol 2 THE GERMAN STUDENT. 327 was the search—vain the repeated name of Suzeline and ofAltenteldt—all was dismay and confusion. The wreath whichhad adorned the hair of the ill-fated girl was found faded andtrampled on—the veil of silver gauze which had shaded her lovelyfig-ure, was discovered torn and soiled on the bank of the river,which slept in peace, save when, gently rippled by the light night-breeze, it danced in the glittering moonbeam—all unconsciousthat its now unruffled bosom had so lately proved the grave ofbetrayed and self-immolated innocence. Silence soon reignedin the late joyous scene — desolation seemed to make thespot her own from that terrific hour—and even now, as theypass that ruined bower, fearful mothers press close to theirbosoms their trembling daughters and sigh for Suzeline ofWallenstein! An hour after midnight, the Count
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookpublisherlondonchapmanandhall, bookyear1836
