the cloister, because she could not share his affections. Count Gombald had, until now, known the quiet joys of domestic happiness in a peaceful family, and with a wife worthy of his love. But, suddenly, strange desires arose in his heart; quiet and content disappeared from it; it produced in him foolish wishes, which he secretly nourished, in the sinful hope that death might, perhaps, relieve him of his wife, and set him at liberty.
In a short time, the image of the beautiful Richilda changed a once good and virtuous man, and made him capable of every vice. Wherever he went, the form of the Countess of Brabant hovered before his eyes; it flattered his pride to be the only man who had moved this proud beauty; and these heated fantasies painted the possession of her in such high colours, that his wife was thrown quite into the shade; he lost all love and affection for her, and only wished to be free from her. She soon perceived the coldness of her lord, and, in consequence, redoubled her tenderness; but she could do nothing more to please him; he was morose, sulky, and peevish; left her on every occasion, and travelled about between his castles, and in the woods, whilst the solitary one wept and moaned at home, so that it might have moved a very stone.
One day he surprised her in a fit of overwhelming sorrow: “Wife,” cried he, “why dost thou weep and groan? What is this owl-screeching about, which so much displeases me, and which can be of no use either to thee or me?”—“Beloved lord,” answered the gentle sufferer, “permit me my sorrow, since I have lost your love and favour, and do not know how I have deserved this dislike. If I have found grace in your sight, make known to me the cause of your displeasure, that I may see if I can amend it.” Gombald found it was now time to act his part; so, taking her hand with pretended cordiality, “My good wife,” said he, “you have not offended; still, I will not conceal from you what oppresses my heart, and this must not surprise you. I have scruples about our marriage; I think it is a sin which will not go unpunished, in this world or the next. We are married in a forbidden relationship, that of first cousins; which is almost a marriage between brother and sister, for which no absolution or dispensation is of any avail: this troubles my conscience night and day, and eats into my very soul.”
The good lady might oppose and object as much as she pleased, to quiet her lord’s conscience; it was useless trouble. “Ah! beloved husband,” said she. “if you have no pity for your unhappy wife, pity our innocent babe!” A flood of bitter tears followed these words. But the iron breast of the wicked man felt not the seven-fold sorrow of his wife; he hastily left her, took his horse and rode off; bought a divorce with hard gold, and shut up his good faithful wife and her daughter in a cloister, where she grieved and mourned, until, at last, the angel of
