The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Castle of Otranto, by Horace Walpole

Published：2026-07-30 14:32:36 Source: best magnetic tiles for rainy days Author: Camp Craft Kits

CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY
(New Series)

The
Castle of Otranto

BY
HORACE WALPOLE.

CASSELL AND COMPANY,magnetic blocks for 9 year olds under 100 dollars Limited
LONDON, PARIS,NEW YORK &MELBOURNE
1901

INTRODUCTION

Horace Walpole was the youngest son of Sir RobertWalpole, the great statesman, who died Earl of Orford. He was born in 1717, theyear in which his father resigned office, remaining in opposition for almostthree years before his return to a long tenure of power. Horace Walpole waseducated at Eton, where he formed a school friendship with Thomas Gray, who wasbut a few months older. In 1739 Gray was travelling-companion with Walpole inFrance and Italy until they differed and parted; but the friendship wasafterwards renewed, and remained firm to the end. Horace Walpole went from Etonto King’s College, Cambridge, and entered Parliament in 1741, the yearbefore his father’s final resignation and acceptance of an earldom. Hisway of life was made easy to him. As Usher of the Exchequer, Comptroller of thePipe, and Clerk of the Estreats in the Exchequer, he received nearly twothousand a year for doing nothing, lived with his father, and amused himself.

Horace Walpole idled, and amused himself with the small life of the fashionableworld to which he was proud of belonging, though he had a quick eye for itsvanities. He had social wit, and liked to put it to small uses. But he was notan empty idler, and there were seasons when he could become a sharp judge ofhimself. “I am sensible,” he wrote to his most intimate friend,“I am sensible of having more follies and weaknesses and fewer real goodqualities than most men. I sometimes reflect on this, though, I own, tooseldom. I always want to begin acting like a man, and a sensible one, which Ithink I might be if I would.” He had deep home affections, and, undermany polite affectations, plenty of good sense.

Horace Walpole’s father died in 1745. The eldest son, who succeeded tothe earldom, died in 1751, and left a son, George, who was for a time insane,and lived until 1791. As George left no child, the title and estates passed toHorace Walpole, then seventy-four years old, and the only uncle who survived.Horace Walpole thus became Earl of Orford, during the last six years of hislife. As to the title, he said that he felt himself being called names in hisold age. He died unmarried, in the year 1797, at the age of eighty.

He had turned his house at Strawberry Hill, by the Thames, near Twickenham,into a Gothic villa—eighteenth-century Gothic—and amused himself byspending freely upon its adornment with such things as were then fashionable asobjects of taste. But he delighted also in his flowers and his trellises ofroses, and the quiet Thames. When confined by gout to his London house inArlington Street, flowers from Strawberry Hill and a bird were necessaryconsolations. He set up also at Strawberry Hill a private printing press, atwhich he printed his friend Gray’s poems, also in 1758 his own“Catalogue of the Royal and Noble Authors of England,” and fivevolumes of “Anecdotes of Painting in England,” between 1762 and1771.

Horace Walpole produced The Castle of Otrantoin 1765, at the mature ageof forty-eight. It was suggested by a dream from which he said he waked onemorning, and of which “all I could recover was, that I had thought myselfin an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head like mine, filled withGothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a great staircase I saw agigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat down and began to write, withoutknowing in the least what I intended to say or relate.” So began the talewhich professed to be translated by “William Marshal, gentleman, from theItalian of Onuphro Muralto, canon of the Church of St. Nicholas, atOtranto.” It was written in two months. Walpole’s friend Grayreported to him that at Cambridge the book made “some of them cry alittle, and all in general afraid to go to bed o’ nights.” TheCastle of Otrantowas, in its own way, an early sign of the reactiontowards romance in the latter part of the last century. This gives it interest.But it has had many followers, and the hardy modern reader, when hereads Gray’s note from Cambridge, needs to be reminded of its date.

H. M.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family inthe north of England. It was printed at Naples, in the black letter, in theyear 1529. How much sooner it was written does not appear. The principalincidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of Christianity; butthe language and conduct have nothing that savours of barbarism. The style isthe purest Italian.

If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have happened, itmust have been between 1095, the era of the first Crusade, and 1243, the dateof the last, or not long afterwards. There is no other circumstance in the workthat can lead us to guess at the period in which the scene is laid: the namesof the actors are evidently fictitious, and probably disguised on purpose: yetthe Spanish names of the domestics seem to indicate that this work was notcomposed until the establishment of the Arragonian Kings in Naples had madeSpanish appellations familiar in that country. The beauty of the diction, andthe zeal of the author (moderated, however, by singular judgment) concur tomake me think that the date of the composition was little antecedent to that ofthe impression. Letters were then in their most flourishing state in Italy, andcontributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at that time so forciblyattacked by the reformers. It is not unlikely that an artful priest mightendeavour to turn their own arms on the innovators, and might avail himself ofhis abilities as an author to confirm the populace in their ancient errors andsuperstitions. If this was his view, he has certainly acted with signaladdress. Such a work as the following would enslave a hundred vulgar mindsbeyond half the books of controversy that have been written from the days ofLuther to the present hour.

This solution of the author’s motives is, however, offered as a mereconjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution of themmight have, his work can only be laid before the public at present as a matterof entertainment. Even as such, some apology for it is necessary. Miracles,visions, necromancy, dreams, and other preternatural events, are exploded noweven from romances. That was not the case when our author wrote; much less whenthe story itself is supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigywas so established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful tothe manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them. He is not boundto believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as believing them.

If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing elseunworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and all the actorscomport themselves as persons would do in their situation. There is no bombast,no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tendsdirectly to the catastrophe. Never is the reader’s attention relaxed. Therules of the drama are almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece. Thecharacters are well drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, theauthor’s principal engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; andit is so often contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constantvicissitude of interesting passions.

Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too littleserious for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition to theprincipal personages, the art of the author is very observable in his conductof the subalterns. They discover many passages essential to the story, whichcould not be well brought to light but by their naïvetéandsimplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles of Bianca, in thelast chapter, conduce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe.

It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted work.More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties of thispiece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author’s defects. I could wishhe had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this: that “the sinsof fathers are visited on their children to the third and fourthgeneration.” I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at present,ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so remote apunishment. And yet this moral is weakened by that less direct insinuation,that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St. Nicholas. Here theinterest of the Monk plainly gets the better of the judgment of the author.However, with all its faults, I have no doubt but the English reader will bepleased with a sight of this performance. The piety that reigns throughout, thelessons of virtue that are inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments,exempt this work from the censure to which romances are but too liable. Shouldit meet with the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint theoriginal Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our languagefalls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and harmony. Thelatter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It is difficult in Englishto relate without falling too low or rising too high; a fault obviouslyoccasioned by the little care taken to speak pure language in commonconversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank piques himself on speakinghis own tongue correctly and with choice. I cannot flatter myself with havingdone justice to my author in this respect: his style is as elegant as hisconduct of the passions is masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply histalents to what they were evidently proper for—the theatre.

I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though themachinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I cannot butbelieve that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth. The scene isundoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems frequently, withoutdesign, to describe particular parts. “The chamber,” says he,“on the right hand;” “the door on the left hand;”“the distance from the chapel to Conrad’s apartment:” theseand other passages are strong presumptions that the author had some certainbuilding in his eye. Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in suchresearches, may possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation onwhich our author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which hedescribes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute tointerest the reader, and will make the “Castle of Otranto” a stillmore moving story.

SONNET TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY MARY COKE.

The gentle maid, whose hapless tale
    These melancholy pages speak;
Say, gracious lady, shall she fail
    To draw the tear adown thy cheek?

No; never was thy pitying breast
    Insensible to human woes;
Tender, tho’ firm, it melts distrest
    For weaknesses it never knows.

Oh! guard the marvels I relate
Of fell ambition scourg’d by fate,
    From reason’s peevish blame.
Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail
I dare expand to Fancy’s gale,
    For sure thy smiles are Fame.

H. W.

CHAPTER I.

Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a mostbeautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was threeyears younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet hewas the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection toMatilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis ofVicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had already been delivered by herguardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding assoon as Conrad’s infirm state of health would permit.

Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family andneighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of theirPrince’s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on thisprecipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture torepresent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his greatyouth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any other answer thanreflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenantsand subjects were less cautious in their discourses. They attributed this hastywedding to the Prince’s dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy,which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto“should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should begrown too large to inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense ofthis prophecy; and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with themarriage in question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make thepopulace adhere the less to their opinion.

Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company wasassembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning thedivine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient of the leastdelay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of hisattendants to summon the young Prince. The servant, who had not stayed longenough to have crossed the court to Conrad’s apartment, came running backbreathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. Hesaid nothing, but pointed to the court.

The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita,without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away.Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials,and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the matter? Thefellow made no answer, but continued pointing towards the courtyard; and atlast, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, “Oh! the helmet!the helmet!”

In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence washeard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began tobe alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get information of whatoccasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained endeavouring to assist hermother, and Isabella stayed for the same purpose, and to avoid showing anyimpatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived littleaffection.

The first thing that struck Manfred’s eyes was a group of his servantsendeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sableplumes. He gazed without believing his sight.

“What are ye doing?” cried Manfred, wrathfully; “where is myson?”

A volley of voices replied, “Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! thehelmet! the helmet!”

Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, headvanced hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—hebeheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet,an hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, andshaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortunehad happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took awaythe Prince’s speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief couldoccasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; andseemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation on the stupendousobject that had occasioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; norcould even the bleeding mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes ofManfred from the portent before him.

All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much surprisedat their Prince’s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at themiracle of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall,without receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little was he attentiveto the ladies who remained in the chapel. On the contrary, without mentioningthe unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that droppedfrom Manfred’s lips were, “Take care of the Lady Isabella.”

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guidedby their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed toher situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chambermore dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances sheheard, except the death of her son.

Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, andthought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella,who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who returned thattenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous about thePrincess; at the same time endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight ofsorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived thewarmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her own situation could not help findingits place in her thoughts. She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad,except commiseration; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriagewhich had promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, orfrom the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her bygreat indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigourto such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfredremained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of thecrowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around him. The fewwords he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew fromwhence it could have come? Nobody could give him the least information.However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity, it soon became soto the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable,as the catastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of their senselessguesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouringvillage, observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on thefigure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in thechurch of St. Nicholas.

“Villain! What sayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from histrance in a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar;“how darest thou utter such treason? Thy life shall pay for it.”

The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince’s furyas all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circumstance.The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not conceiving how he hadoffended the Prince. Yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace andhumility, he disengaged himself from Manfred’s grip, and then with anobeisance, which discovered more jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked,with respect, of what he was guilty? Manfred, more enraged at the vigour,however decently exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold,than appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, ifhe had not been withheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials,would have poignarded the peasant in their arms.

During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the greatchurch, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring thatthe helmet was missing from Alfonso’s statue. Manfred, at this news, grewperfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempestwithin him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying—

“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! ’tis thou hast done this! ’tisthou hast slain my son!”

The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on whomthey might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words from themouth of their lord, and re-echoed—

“Ay, ay; ’tis he, ’tis he: he has stolen the helmet from goodAlfonso’s tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince withit,” never reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between themarble helmet that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes;nor how impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece ofarmour of so prodigious a weight.

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whetherprovoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the twohelmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that in thechurch, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition,he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necromancer, and thattill the Church could take cognisance of the affair, he would have theMagician, whom they had thus detected, kept prisoner under the helmet itself,which he ordered his attendants to raise, and place the young man under it;declaring he should be kept there without food, with which his own infernal artmight furnish him.

It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous sentence:in vain did Manfred’s friends endeavour to divert him from this savageand ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed with theirlord’s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great appearanceof justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very instrument withwhich he had offended: nor were they struck with the least compunction at theprobability of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed that, by hisdiabolic skill, he could easily supply himself with nutriment.

Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a guardwith strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the prisoner, hedismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his own chamber, afterlocking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics toremain.

In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the PrincessHippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own sorrow frequentlydemanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her attendants to watch overhim, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort herfather. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred, though shetrembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderlyrecommended to Isabella; and inquiring of the domestics for her father, wasinformed that he was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobodyshould have admittance to him. Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow forthe death of her brother, and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of hissole remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in upon hisaffliction; yet solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother,encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she hadnever been guilty of before.

The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his door.She heard him traverse his chamber backwards, and forwards with disorderedsteps; a mood which increased her apprehensions. She was, however, just goingto beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the door; and as it was nowtwilight, concurring with the disorder of his mind, he did not distinguish theperson, but asked angrily, who it was? Matilda replied, trembling—

“My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.”

Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, “Begone! I do not want adaughter;” and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against theterrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with her father’s impetuosity to venture asecond intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter areception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that theknowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the most anxiousterms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda assured herhe was well, and supported his misfortune with manly fortitude.

“But will he not let me see him?” said Hippolita mournfully;“will he not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed amother’s sorrows in the bosom of her Lord? Or do you deceive me, Matilda?I know how Manfred doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? hashe not sunk under it? You do not answer me—alas! I dread theworst!—Raise me, my maidens; I will, I will see my Lord. Bear me to himinstantly: he is dearer to me even than my children.”

Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita’s rising; and boththose lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm thePrincess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and told Isabellathat his Lord demanded to speak with her.

“With me!” cried Isabella.

“Go,” said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord:“Manfred cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you lessdisordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him, dearIsabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add tohis.”

As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch beforeher. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery,he started, and said hastily—

“Take away that light, and begone.”

Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against thewall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling.

“I sent for you, Lady,” said he—and then stopped under greatappearance of confusion.

“My Lord!”

“Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment,” resumed he.“Dry your tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom. Yes,cruel fate! and I have lost the hopes of my race! But Conrad was not worthy ofyour beauty.”

“How, my Lord!” said Isabella; “sure you do not suspect me ofnot feeling the concern I ought: my duty and affection would havealways—”

“Think no more of him,” interrupted Manfred; “he was asickly, puny child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might nottrust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfredcalls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyesof my prudence—but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to havereason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.”

Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she apprehended thatgrief had disordered Manfred’s understanding. Her next thought suggestedthat this strange discourse was designed to ensnare her: she feared thatManfred had perceived her indifference for his son: and in consequence of thatidea she replied—

“Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would haveaccompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and wherever fateshall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and regard yourHighness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.”

“Curse on Hippolita!” cried Manfred. “Forget her from thismoment, as I do. In short, Lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of yourcharms: they shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy, youshall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to value yourbeauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring.”

“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella, “my mind is too sadlyengrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of anothermarriage. If ever my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shallobey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until hisreturn, permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ themelancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita’s, and the fairMatilda’s affliction.”

“I desired you once before,” said Manfred angrily, “not toname that woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must beto me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer youmyself.”

“Heavens!” cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, “what doI hear? You! my Lord! You! My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husbandof the virtuous and tender Hippolita!”

“I tell you,” said Manfred imperiously, “Hippolita is nolonger my wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by herunfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust willgive a new date to my hopes.”

At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead withfright and horror. She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose to pursueher, when the moon, which was now up, and gleamed in at the opposite casement,presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the heightof the windows, waving backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, andaccompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered couragefrom her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred’s pursuitof his declaration, cried—

“Look, my Lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impiousintentions!”

“Heaven nor Hell shall impede my designs,” said Manfred, advancingagain to seize the Princess.

At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the benchwhere they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its breast.

Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor knewwhence the sound came, but started, and said—

“Hark, my Lord! What sound was that?” and at the same time madetowards the door.

Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached thestairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began to move,had, however, advanced some steps after her, still looking backwards on theportrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a graveand melancholy air.

“Do I dream?” cried Manfred, returning; “or are the devilsthemselves in league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! Or, if thou art mygrandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendant, who toodearly pays for—” Ere he could finish the sentence, the visionsighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.

“Lead on!” cried Manfred; “I will follow thee to the gulf ofperdition.”

The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery, andturned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at a littledistance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would have enteredthe chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an invisible hand. ThePrince, collecting courage from this delay, would have forcibly burst open thedoor with his foot, but found that it resisted his utmost efforts.

“Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,” said Manfred, “Iwill use the human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall notescape me.”

The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quittedManfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase. Thereshe stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape fromthe impetuosity of the Prince. The gates of the castle, she knew, were locked,and guards placed in the court. Should she, as her heart prompted her, go andprepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt butManfred would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to doublethe injury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosityof his passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures hehad conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if shecould—for that night, at least—avoid his odious purpose. Yet whereconceal herself? How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout thecastle?

As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected asubterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the church ofSt. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew evenManfred’s violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place;and she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, to shut herselfup for ever among the holy virgins whose convent was contiguous to thecathedral. In this resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of thestaircase, and hurried towards the secret passage.

The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; andit was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened intothe cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout those subterraneous regions,except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed,and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that longlabyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with new terror; yet more shedreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursueher.

She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stoppedand listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thoughtshe heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment shethought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she concluded itwas Manfred. Every suggestion that horror could inspire rushed into her mind.She condemned her rash flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in aplace where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yetthe sound seemed not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was, hemust have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the stepsshe had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come. Cheeredwith this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not thePrince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at some distanceto the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she held up, coulddiscover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing the light.

Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether sheshould proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror. Thevery circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. Itcould only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Hergentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence made her hopethat, unless sent by the Prince’s order to seek her, his servants wouldrather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with thesereflections, and believing by what she could observe that she was near themouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had beenopened; but a sudden gust of wind that met her at the door extinguished herlamp, and left her in total darkness.

Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in sodismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day,hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and farfrom tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom,who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all these thoughts crowded onher distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions. Sheaddressed herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored theirassistance. For a considerable time she remained in an agony of despair.

At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having found it,entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the sigh and steps.It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of cloudedmoonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, andfrom whence hung a fragment of earth or building, she could not distinguishwhich, that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towardsthis chasm, when she discerned a human form standing close against the wall.

She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The figure,advancing, said, in a submissive voice—

“Be not alarmed, Lady; I will not injure you.”

Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the stranger,and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened the door,recovered her spirits enough to reply—

“Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched Princess, standing on thebrink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in a fewmoments I may be made miserable for ever.”

“Alas!” said the stranger, “what can I do to assist you? Iwill die in your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, andwant—”

“Oh!” said Isabella, hastily interrupting him; “help me butto find a trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service youcan do me, for I have not a minute to lose.”

Saying these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the strangerto search likewise, for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in one of the stones.

“That,” said she, “is the lock, which opens with a spring, ofwhich I know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape—if not, alas!courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes: Manfredwill suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim tohis resentment.”

“I value not my life,” said the stranger, “and it will besome comfort to lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny.”

“Generous youth,” said Isabella, “how shall I everrequite—”

As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a cranny ofthe ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought.

“Oh! transport!” said Isabella; “here is thetrap-door!” and, taking out the key, she touched the spring, which,starting aside, discovered an iron ring. “Lift up the door,” saidthe Princess.

The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending into avault totally dark.

“We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me; dark anddismal as it is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St.Nicholas. But, perhaps,” added the Princess modestly, “you have noreason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service; in afew minutes I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage—only let me know towhom I am so much obliged.”

“I will never quit you,” said the stranger eagerly, “until Ihave placed you in safety—nor think me, Princess, more generous than Iam; though you are my principal care—”

The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemedapproaching, and they soon distinguished these words—

“Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; Iwill find her in spite of enchantment.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Isabella; “it is the voice of Manfred!Make haste, or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you.”

Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately; and as the strangerhastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell, and thespring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having observedIsabella’s method of touching the spring; nor had he many moments to makean essay. The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who,directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants with torches.

“It must be Isabella,” cried Manfred, before he entered the vault.“She is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have gotfar.”

What was the astonishment of the Prince when, instead of Isabella, the light ofthe torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought confined underthe fatal helmet!

“Traitor!” said Manfred; “how camest thou here? I thoughtthee in durance above in the court.”

“I am no traitor,” replied the young man boldly, “nor am Ianswerable for your thoughts.”

“Presumptuous villain!” cried Manfred; “dost thou provoke mywrath? Tell me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thyguards, and their lives shall answer it.”

“My poverty,” said the peasant calmly, “will disculpate them:though the ministers of a tyrant’s wrath, to thee they are faithful, andbut too willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed uponthem.”

“Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?” said the Prince;“but tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will know thyaccomplices.”

“There was my accomplice!” said the youth, smiling, and pointing tothe roof.

Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeksof the enchanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of the court,as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and had broken through intothe vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant had pressed himself someminutes before he was found by Isabella.

“Was that the way by which thou didst descend?” said Manfred.

“It was,” said the youth.

“But what noise was that,” said Manfred, “which I heard as Ientered the cloister?”

“A door clapped,” said the peasant; “I heard it as well asyou.”

“What door?” said Manfred hastily.

“I am not acquainted with your castle,” said the peasant;“this is the first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only partof it within which I ever was.”

“But I tell thee,” said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youthhad discovered the trap-door), “it was this way I heard the noise. Myservants heard it too.”

“My Lord,” interrupted one of them officiously, “to be sureit was the trap-door, and he was going to make his escape.”

“Peace, blockhead!” said the Prince angrily; “if he was goingto escape, how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth whatnoise it was I heard. Tell me truly; thy life depends on thy veracity.”

“My veracity is dearer to me than my life,” said the peasant;“nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting the other.”

“Indeed, young philosopher!” said Manfred contemptuously;“tell me, then, what was the noise I heard?”

“Ask me what I can answer,” said he, “and put me to deathinstantly if I tell you a lie.”

Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the youth,cried—

“Well, then, thou man of truth, answer! Was it the fall of the trap-doorthat I heard?”

“It was,” said the youth.

“It was!” said the Prince; “and how didst thou come to knowthere was a trap-door here?”

“I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,” replied he.

“But what told thee it was a lock?” said Manfred. “How didstthou discover the secret of opening it?”

“Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me tothe spring of a lock,” said he.

“Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee outof the reach of my resentment,” said Manfred. “When Providence hadtaught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who did not knowhow to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed outfor thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before thou hadst descendedthe steps?”

“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I, totallyunacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any outlet?but I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever those steps lead to, perhaps Ishould have explored the way—I could not be in a worse situation than Iwas. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your immediate arrivalfollowed. I had given the alarm—what imported it to me whether I wasseized a minute sooner or a minute later?”

“Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,” said Manfred;“yet on reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me. Thou hast notyet told me how thou didst open the lock.”

“That I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant; and, taking up afragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the trap-door,and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it, meaning to gain timefor the escape of the Princess. This presence of mind, joined to the franknessof the youth, staggered Manfred. He even felt a disposition towards pardoningone who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savagetyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune hadgiven an asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtueswere always ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.

While the Prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoedthrough the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished theclamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the castle insearch of Isabella, calling out—

“Where is my Lord? where is the Prince?”

“Here I am,” said Manfred, as they came nearer; “have youfound the Princess?”

The first that arrived, replied, “Oh, my Lord! I am glad we have foundyou.”

“Found me!” said Manfred; “have you found thePrincess?”

“We thought we had, my Lord,” said the fellow, looking terrified,“but—”

“But, what?” cried the Prince; “has she escaped?”

“Jaquez and I, my Lord—”

“Yes, I and Diego,” interrupted the second, who came up in stillgreater consternation.

“Speak one of you at a time,” said Manfred; “I ask you, whereis the Princess?”

“We do not know,” said they both together; “but we arefrightened out of our wits.”

“So I think, blockheads,” said Manfred; “what is it hasscared you thus?”

“Oh! my Lord,” said Jaquez, “Diego has seen such a sight!your Highness would not believe our eyes.”

“What new absurdity is this?” cried Manfred; “give me adirect answer, or, by Heaven—”

“Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,” said thepoor fellow, “Diego and I—”

“Yes, I and Jaquez—” cried his comrade.

“Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?” said the Prince:“you, Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thouart; what is the matter?”

“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if it please your Highnessto hear me; Diego and I, according to your Highness’s orders, went tosearch for the young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghostof my young Lord, your Highness’s son, God rest his soul, as he has notreceived Christian burial—”

“Sot!” cried Manfred in a rage; “is it only a ghost, then,that thou hast seen?”

“Oh! worse! worse! my Lord,” cried Diego: “I had rather haveseen ten whole ghosts.”

“Grant me patience!” said Manfred; “these blockheads distractme. Out of my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thousober? art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense: has the other sotfrightened himself and thee too? Speak; what is it he fancies he hasseen?”

“Why, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going totell your Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, Godrest his precious soul! not one of us your Highness’s faithfulservants—indeed we are, my Lord, though poor men—I say, not one ofus has dared to set a foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and I,thinking that my young Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there tolook for her, and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart toher.”

“O blundering fools!” cried Manfred; “and in the meantime,she has made her escape, because you were afraid of goblins!—Why, thouknave! she left me in the gallery; I came from thence myself.”

“For all that, she may be there still for aught I know,” saidJaquez; “but the devil shall have me before I seek her thereagain—poor Diego! I do not believe he will ever recover it.”

“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it ishas terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I willsee if she is in the gallery.”

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear, good Lord,” cried Jaquez,“do not go to the gallery. Satan himself I believe is in the chamber nextto the gallery.”

Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle panic,was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the apparition of theportrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end of the gallery. Hisvoice faltered, and he asked with disorder—

“What is in the great chamber?”

“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into thegallery, he went first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we cameinto the gallery we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; andstill we found nobody.”

“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred.

“Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think oflooking behind them.”

“Well, well!” said Manfred; “proceed.”

“When we came to the door of the great chamber,” continued Jaquez,“we found it shut.”

“And could not you open it?” said Manfred.

“Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!” repliedhe—“nay, it was not I neither; it was Diego: he was grownfoolhardy, and would go on, though I advised him not—if ever I open adoor that is shut again—”

“Trifle not,” said Manfred, shuddering, “but tell me what yousaw in the great chamber on opening the door.”

“I, my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heardthe noise.”

“Jaquez,” said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; “tell me,I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what wasit thou heardest?”

“It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,” replied Jaquez;“I only heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than hecried out, and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is it theghost?’ ‘The ghost! no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stoodon end—‘it is a giant, I believe; he is all clad in armour, for Isaw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the helmet below inthe court.’ As he said these words, my Lord, we heard a violent motionand the rattling of armour, as if the giant was rising, for Diego has told mesince that he believes the giant was lying down, for the foot and leg werestretched at length on the floor. Before we could get to the end of thegallery, we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did notdare turn back to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think onit, we must have heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’ssake, good my Lord, send for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for,for certain, it is enchanted.”

“Ay, pray do, my Lord,” cried all the servants at once, “orwe must leave your Highness’s service.”

“Peace, dotards!” said Manfred, “and follow me; I will knowwhat all this means.”

“We! my Lord!” cried they with one voice; “we would not go upto the gallery for your Highness’s revenue.” The young peasant, whohad stood silent, now spoke.

“Will your Highness,” said he, “permit me to try thisadventure? My life is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and haveoffended no good one.”

“Your behaviour is above your seeming,” said Manfred, viewing himwith surprise and admiration—“hereafter I will reward yourbravery—but now,” continued he with a sigh, “I am socircumstanced, that I dare trust no eyes but my own. However, I give you leaveto accompany me.”

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone directly tothe apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had retired thither.Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious fondness to meet her Lord, whomshe had not seen since the death of their son. She would have flown in atransport mixed of joy and grief to his bosom, but he pushed her rudely off,and said—

“Where is Isabella?”

“Isabella! my Lord!” said the astonished Hippolita.

“Yes, Isabella,” cried Manfred imperiously; “I wantIsabella.”

“My Lord,” replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviourhad shocked her mother, “she has not been with us since your Highnesssummoned her to your apartment.”

“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince; “I do not want toknow where she has been.”

“My good Lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter tells you thetruth: Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since;—but,my good Lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest: this dismal day hasdisordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.”

“What, then, you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell medirectly, for I will not lose an instant—and you, woman,” speakingto his wife, “order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita calmly, “is retired, I suppose, toher chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious myLord,” continued she, “let me know what has disturbed you. HasIsabella offended you?”

“Trouble me not with questions,” said Manfred, “but tell mewhere she is.”

“Matilda shall call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, myLord, and resume your wonted fortitude.”

“What, art thou jealous of Isabella?” replied he, “that youwish to be present at our interview!”

“Good heavens! my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what is it yourHighness means?”

“Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,” said the cruelPrince. “Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.”

At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving theamazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost invain conjectures on what he was meditating.

Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a few ofhis servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended the staircasewithout stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he metHippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he hadgone directly to the Princess’s apartment with the alarm of what he hadseen. That excellent Lady, who no more than Manfred doubted of the reality ofthe vision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. Willing,however, to save her Lord from any additional shock, and prepared by a seriesof griefs not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herselfthe first sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction.Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave toaccompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visitedthe gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul than she hadfelt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that the vision of thegigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no doubt an impression made by fear,and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on the minds of his servants. Sheand the chaplain had examined the chamber, and found everything in the usualorder.

Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no work offancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strangeevents had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a Princess whoreturned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he felt returninglove forcing itself into his eyes; but not less ashamed of feeling remorsetowards one against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage,he curbed the yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to lean even towardspity. The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy.

Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself thatshe would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if itwas his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him herhand—but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabellawas not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to thecastle should be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain of theirlives to suffer nobody to pass out. The young peasant, to whom he spokefavourably, he ordered to remain in a small chamber on the stairs, in whichthere was a pallet-bed, and the key of which he took away himself, telling theyouth he would talk with him in the morning. Then dismissing his attendants,and bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his ownchamber.

CHAPTER II.

Matilda, who by Hippolita’s order had retired to her apartment, wasill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had deeplyaffected her. She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the strange wordswhich had fallen from her father, and his obscure menace to the Princess hiswife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mindwith terror and alarm. She waited anxiously for the return of Bianca, a youngdamsel that attended her, whom she had sent to learn what was become ofIsabella. Bianca soon appeared, and informed her mistress of what she hadgathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be found. She relatedthe adventure of the young peasant who had been discovered in the vault, thoughwith many simple additions from the incoherent accounts of the domestics; andshe dwelt principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in thegallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that shewas rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but wouldwatch till the Princess should rise.

The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of Isabella,and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. “But what business could hehave so urgent with the chaplain?” said Matilda, “Does he intend tohave my brother’s body interred privately in the chapel?”

“Oh, Madam!” said Bianca, “now I guess. As you are become hisheiress, he is impatient to have you married: he has always been raving formore sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons. As sure as I live,Madam, I shall see you a bride at last.—Good madam, you won’t castoff your faithful Bianca: you won’t put Donna Rosara over me now you area great Princess.”

“My poor Bianca,” said Matilda, “how fast your thoughtsamble! I a great princess! What hast thou seen in Manfred’s behavioursince my brother’s death that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me?No, Bianca; his heart was ever a stranger to me—but he is my father, andI must not complain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my father’s heart against me,it overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother—O that dearmother! yes, Bianca, ’tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. Ican support his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I amwitness to his causeless severity towards her.”

“Oh! Madam,” said Bianca, “all men use their wives so, whenthey are weary of them.”

“And yet you congratulated me but now,” said Matilda, “whenyou fancied my father intended to dispose of me!”

“I would have you a great Lady,” replied Bianca, “come whatwill. I do not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you hadyour will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is betterthan no husband at all, did not hinder you.—Bless me! what noise is that!St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jest.”

“It is the wind,” said Matilda, “whistling through thebattlements in the tower above: you have heard it a thousand times.”

“Nay,” said Bianca, “there was no harm neither in what Isaid: it is no sin to talk of matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying,if my Lord Manfred should offer you a handsome young Prince for a bridegroom,you would drop him a curtsey, and tell him you would rather take theveil?”

“Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger,” said Matilda: “youknow how many proposals for me he has rejected—”

“And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam? But come,Madam; suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great councilchamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young Prince, withlarge black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like jet; inshort, Madam, a young hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in thegallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours together—”

“Do not speak lightly of that picture,” interrupted Matildasighing; “I know the adoration with which I look at that picture isuncommon—but I am not in love with a coloured panel. The character ofthat virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me forhis memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pourforth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that somehow or other mydestiny is linked with something relating to him.”

“Lord, Madam! how should that be?” said Bianca; “I havealways heard that your family was in no way related to his: and I am sure Icannot conceive why my Lady, the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or adamp evening to pray at his tomb: he is no saint by the almanack. If you mustpray, why does she not bid you address yourself to our great St. Nicholas? I amsure he is the saint I pray to for a husband.”

“Perhaps my mind would be less affected,” said Matilda, “ifmy mother would explain her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes,that inspires me with this—I know not what to call it. As she never actsfrom caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I knowthere is: in her agony of grief for my brother’s death she dropped somewords that intimated as much.”

“Oh! dear Madam,” cried Bianca, “what were they?”

“No,” said Matilda, “if a parent lets fall a word, and wishesit recalled, it is not for a child to utter it.”

“What! was she sorry for what she had said?” asked Bianca; “Iam sure, Madam, you may trust me—”

“With my own little secrets when I have any, I may,” said Matilda;“but never with my mother’s: a child ought to have no ears or eyesbut as a parent directs.”

“Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint,” saidBianca, “and there is no resisting one’s vocation: you will end ina convent at last. But there is my Lady Isabella would not be so reserved tome: she will let me talk to her of young men: and when a handsome cavalier hascome to the castle, she has owned to me that she wished your brother Conradresembled him.”

“Bianca,” said the Princess, “I do not allow you to mentionmy friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soulis pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps hasnow and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the solitude inwhich my father keeps us—”

“Blessed Mary!” said Bianca, starting, “there it is again!Dear Madam, do you hear nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!”

“Peace!” said Matilda, “and listen! I did think I heard avoice—but it must be fancy: your terrors, I suppose, have infectedme.”

“Indeed! indeed! Madam,” said Bianca, half-weeping with agony,“I am sure I heard a voice.”

“Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?” said the Princess.

“Nobody has dared to lie there,” answered Bianca, “since thegreat astrologer, that was your brother’s tutor, drowned himself. Forcertain, Madam, his ghost and the young Prince’s are now met in thechamber below—for Heaven’s sake let us fly to your mother’sapartment!”

“I charge you not to stir,” said Matilda. “If they arespirits in pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning them. They canmean no hurt to us, for we have not injured them—and if they should,shall we be more safe in one chamber than in another? Reach me my beads; wewill say a prayer, and then speak to them.”

“Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!” criedBianca. As she said those words they heard the casement of the little chamberbelow Matilda’s open. They listened attentively, and in a few minutesthought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish the words.

“This can be no evil spirit,” said the Princess, in a low voice;“it is undoubtedly one of the family—open the window, and we shallknow the voice.”

“I dare not, indeed, Madam,” said Bianca.

“Thou art a very fool,” said Matilda, opening the window gentlyherself. The noise the Princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath,who stopped; and they concluded had heard the casement open.

“Is anybody below?” said the Princess; “if there is,speak.”

“Yes,” said an unknown voice.

“Who is it?” said Matilda.

“A stranger,” replied the voice.

“What stranger?” said she; “and how didst thou come there atthis unusual hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?”

“I am not here willingly,” answered the voice. “But pardonme, Lady, if I have disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard. Sleephad forsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hourswith gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient to be dismissed fromthis castle.”

“Thy words and accents,” said Matilda, “are of melancholycast; if thou art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me knowit; I will mention thee to the Princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts forthe distressed, and she will relieve thee.”

“I am indeed unhappy,” said the stranger; “and I know notwhat wealth is. But I do not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me;I am young and healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support tomyself—yet think me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. Iwill remember you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your graciousself and your noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for others, not formyself.”

“Now I have it, Madam,” said Bianca, whispering the Princess;“this is certainly the young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is inlove—Well! this is a charming adventure!—do, Madam, let us sifthim. He does not know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita’swomen.”

“Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!” said the Princess. “Whatright have we to pry into the secrets of this young man’s heart? He seemsvirtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances thatauthorise us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to hisconfidence?”

“Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!” replied Bianca;“why, lovers have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress.”

“And would you have mebecome a peasant’s confidante?”said the Princess.

“Well, then, let me talk to him,” said Bianca; “though I havethe honour of being your Highness’s maid of honour, I was not always sogreat. Besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too; I have a respect forany young man in love.”

“Peace, simpleton!” said the Princess. “Though he said he wasunhappy, it does not follow that he must be in love. Think of all that hashappened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what lovecauses.—Stranger,” resumed the Princess, “if thy misfortuneshave not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of thePrincess Hippolita’s power to redress, I will take upon me to answer thatshe will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repairto holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of St. Nicholas,and make thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet. He will not failto inform the Princess, who is the mother of all that want her assistance.Farewell; it is not seemly for me to hold farther converse with a man at thisunwonted hour.”

“May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!” replied the peasant;“but oh! if a poor and worthless stranger might presume to beg aminute’s audience farther; am I so happy? the casement is not shut; mightI venture to ask—”

“Speak quickly,” said Matilda; “the morning dawns apace:should the labourers come into the fields and perceive us—What wouldstthou ask?”

“I know not how, I know not if I dare,” said the young stranger,faltering; “yet the humanity with which you have spoken to meemboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?”

“Heavens!” said Matilda, “what dost thou mean? With whatwouldst thou trust me? Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to avirtuous breast.”

“I would ask,” said the peasant, recollecting himself,“whether what I have heard from the domestics is true, that the Princessis missing from the castle?”

“What imports it to thee to know?” replied Matilda. “Thyfirst words bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither topry into the secrets of Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee.”Saying these words she shut the casement hastily, without giving the young mantime to reply.

“I had acted more wisely,” said the Princess to Bianca, with somesharpness, “if I had let thee converse with this peasant; hisinquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own.”

“It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness,” replied Bianca;“but perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been moreto the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him.”

“Oh! no doubt,” said Matilda; “you are a very discreetpersonage! May I know what youwould have asked him?”

“A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play,”answered Bianca. “Does your Highness think, Madam, that this questionabout my Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, thereis more in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all theservants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella’s escape;now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know that my Lady Isabella never muchfancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is killed just in a criticalminute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so, my Lord,your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this young spark is amagician, and stole it from Alfonso’s tomb—”

“Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence,” said Matilda.

“Nay, Madam, as you please,” cried Bianca; “yet it is veryparticular though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day,and that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the trap-door. Iaccuse nobody; but if my young Lord came honestly by his death—”

“Dare not on thy duty,” said Matilda, “to breathe a suspicionon the purity of my dear Isabella’s fame.”

“Purity, or not purity,” said Bianca, “gone she is—astranger is found that nobody knows; you question him yourself; he tells you heis in love, or unhappy, it is the same thing—nay, he owned he was unhappyabout others; and is anybody unhappy about another, unless they are in lovewith them? and at the very next word, he asks innocently, pour soul! if my LadyIsabella is missing.”

“To be sure,” said Matilda, “thy observations are not totallywithout foundation—Isabella’s flight amazes me. The curiosity ofthe stranger is very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought fromme.”

“So she told you,” said Bianca, “to fish out your secrets;but who knows, Madam, but this stranger may be some Prince in disguise? Do,Madam, let me open the window, and ask him a few questions.”

“No,” replied Matilda, “I will ask him myself, if he knowsaught of Isabella; he is not worthy I should converse farther with him.”She was going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at thepostern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower, whereMatilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing the conversation withthe stranger.

After continuing silent for some time, “I am persuaded,” said sheto Bianca, “that whatever be the cause of Isabella’s flight it hadno unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be satisfiedwith his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca? that his wordswere tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was no ruffian’sspeech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth.”

“I told you, Madam,” said Bianca, “that I was sure he wassome Prince in disguise.”

“Yet,” said Matilda, “if he was privy to her escape, how willyou account for his not accompanying her in her flight? why expose himselfunnecessarily and rashly to my father’s resentment?”

“As for that, Madam,” replied she, “if he could get fromunder the helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father’s anger. I donot doubt but he has some talisman or other about him.”

“You resolve everything into magic,” said Matilda; “but a manwho has any intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use ofthose tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe withwhat fervour he vowed to remember meto heaven in his prayers? Yes;Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety.”

“Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult toelope!” said Bianca. “No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of anotherguess mould than you take her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up her eyesin your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when your back wasturned—”

“You wrong her,” said Matilda; “Isabella is no hypocrite; shehas a due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On thecontrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and though I ownthe mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me; though it seemsinconsistent with the friendship between us; I cannot forget the disinterestedwarmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil. She wished to see memarried, though my dower would have been a loss to her and my brother’schildren. For her sake I will believe well of this young peasant.”

“Then you do think there is some liking between them,” said Bianca.While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and told thePrincess that the Lady Isabella was found.

“Where?” said Matilda.

“She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas’s church,” repliedthe servant; “Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is belowwith his Highness.”

“Where is my mother?” said Matilda.

“She is in her own chamber, Madam, and has asked for you.”

Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita’sapartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioningher, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, littlesuspecting the cause of the Friar’s arrival, and knowing he was employedby Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leavethem together, while he pursued his search after Isabella.

“Is your business with me or the Princess?” said Manfred.

“With both,” replied the holy man. “The LadyIsabella—”

“What of her?” interrupted Manfred, eagerly.

“Is at St. Nicholas’s altar,” replied Jerome.

“That is no business of Hippolita,” said Manfred with confusion;“let us retire to my chamber, Father, and inform me how she camethither.”

“No, my Lord,” replied the good man, with an air of firmness andauthority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help reveringthe saint-like virtues of Jerome; “my commission is to both, and withyour Highness’s good-liking, in the presence of both I shall deliver it;but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess, whether she is acquaintedwith the cause of the Lady Isabella’s retirement from your castle.”

“No, on my soul,” said Hippolita; “does Isabella charge mewith being privy to it?”

“Father,” interrupted Manfred, “I pay due reverence to yourholy profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest tointerfere in the affairs of my domestic. If you have aught to say attend me tomy chamber; I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the secret affairsof my state; they are not within a woman’s province.”

“My Lord,” said the holy man, “I am no intruder into thesecrets of families. My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, topreach repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. Iforgive your Highness’s uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and amthe minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to him who speaksthrough my organs.”

Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita’s countenance declaredher astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Her silence morestrongly spoke her observance of Manfred.

“The Lady Isabella,” resumed Jerome, “commends herself toboth your Highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has beentreated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her ownmisfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes, whomshe shall always respect as Parents; she prays for uninterrupted union andfelicity between you” [Manfred’s colour changed]: “but as itis no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent toremain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by thecertainty of his death, be at liberty, with the approbation of her guardians,to dispose of herself in suitable marriage.”

“I shall give no such consent,” said the Prince, “but insiston her return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person toher guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own.”

“Your Highness will recollect whether that can any longer beproper,” replied the Friar.

“I want no monitor,” said Manfred, colouring;“Isabella’s conduct leaves room for strange suspicions—andthat young villain, who was at least the accomplice of her flight, if not thecause of it—”

“The cause!” interrupted Jerome; “was a youngman thecause?”

“This is not to be borne!” cried Manfred. “Am I to be beardedin my own palace by an insolent Monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to theiramours.”

“I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,”said Jerome, “if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience howunjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven to pardon that uncharitableness:and I implore your Highness to leave the Princess at peace in that holy place,where she is not liable to be disturbed by such vain and worldly fantasies asdiscourses of love from any man.”

“Cant not to me,” said Manfred, “but return and bring thePrincess to her duty.”

“It is my duty to prevent her return hither,” said Jerome.“She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles ofthis world; and nothing but a parent’s authority shall take herthence.”

“I am her parent,” cried Manfred, “and demand her.”

“She wished to have you for her parent,” said the Friar; “butHeaven that forbad that connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you:and I announce to your Highness—”

“Stop! audacious man,” said Manfred, “and dread mydispleasure.”

“Holy Father,” said Hippolita, “it is your office to be norespecter of persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my dutyto hear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear. Attend the Prince tohis chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the blessed Virgin toinspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the heart of my graciousLord to its wonted peace and gentleness.”

“Excellent woman!” said the Friar. “My Lord, I attend yourpleasure.”

Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where shuttingthe door, “I perceive, Father,” said he, “that Isabella hasacquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons ofstate, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that Ishould have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolita. I have madechoice of Isabella. You must bring her back; and you must do more. I know theinfluence you have with Hippolita: her conscience is in your hands. She is, Iallow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the littlegrandeur of this world: you can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her toconsent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into amonastery—she shall endow one if she will; and she shall have the meansof being as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divertthe calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of savingthe principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and thoughthe warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honouryour virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and thepreservation of my family.”

“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am but itsworthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thyunwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have mounted tothe throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intention ofrepudiating her: by me thou art warned not to pursue the incestuous design onthy contracted daughter. Heaven that delivered her from thy fury, when thejudgments so recently fallen on thy house ought to have inspired thee withother thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despisedFriar, am able to protect her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, anduncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not whatamours, scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt minehonesty. I love my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thyPrincess—but I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, norserve even the cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances—butforsooth! the welfare of the state depends on your Highness having a son!Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn, whose house wasso great, so flourishing as Manfred’s?—where is young Conradnow?—My Lord, I respect your tears—but I mean not to checkthem—let them flow, Prince! They will weigh more with heaven toward thewelfare of thy subjects, than a marriage, which, founded on lust or policy,could never prosper. The sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso tothine, cannot be preserved by a match which the church will never allow. If itis the will of the Most High that Manfred’s name must perish, resignyourself, my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can never passaway. Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow—let us return to the Princess:she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to alarmyou. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love, she heard,she rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. I know she longs to fold you inher arms, and assure you of her unalterable affection.”

“Father,” said the Prince, “you mistake my compunction: true,I honour Hippolita’s virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were formy soul’s health to tie faster the knot that has united us—butalas! Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that Ihave had scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me inthe fourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have beeninformed that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sitsheavy at my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitationthat has fallen on me in the death of Conrad!—ease my conscience of thisburden: dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness—whichyour divine exhortations have commenced in my soul.”

How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived thisturn in the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw wasdetermined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, thathis impatience for a son would direct him to some other object, who might notbe equally proof against the temptation of Manfred’s rank. For some timethe holy man remained absorbed in thought. At length, conceiving some hopesfrom delay, he thought the wisest conduct would be to prevent the Prince fromdespairing of recovering Isabella. Her the Friar knew he could dispose, fromher affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him forManfred’s addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the churchcould be fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck withthe Prince’s scruples, he at length said:

“My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if intruth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your repugnanceto your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to harden your heart. Thechurch is an indulgent mother: unfold your griefs to her: she alone canadminister comfort to your soul, either by satisfying your conscience, or uponexamination of your scruples, by setting you at liberty, and indulging you inthe lawful means of continuing your lineage. In the latter case, if the LadyIsabella can be brought to consent—”

Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, or thathis first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was overjoyed atthis sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent promises, if he shouldsucceed by the Friar’s mediation. The well-meaning priest suffered him todeceive himself, fully determined to traverse his views, instead of secondingthem.

“Since we now understand one another,” resumed the Prince, “Iexpect, Father, that you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I foundin the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella’s flight: tell metruly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another’s passion? I haveoften suspected Isabella’s indifference to my son: a thousandcircumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself was soconscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, she outran mysuspicions, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness to Conrad.”

The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt occasionallyfrom the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not sufficientlyreflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred’s temper, conceived that itmight not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in his mind: they might beturned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the Prince againstIsabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting his attention to awrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary intrigue, prevent hisengaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy policy, he answered in a mannerto confirm Manfred in the belief of some connection between Isabella and theyouth. The Prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them into ablaze, fell into a rage at the idea of what the Friar suggested.

“I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue,” cried he; andquitting Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his return, hehastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to be broughtbefore him.

“Thou hardened young impostor!” said the Prince, as soon as he sawthe youth; “what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence,was it, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door tothee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast beenacquainted with the Princess—and take care to answer with lessequivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the truth fromthee.”

The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess wasdiscovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no longer be ofany service or detriment to her, replied—

“I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. Ianswered to every question your Highness put to me last night with the sameveracity that I shall speak now: and that will not be from fear of yourtortures, but because my soul abhors a falsehood. Please to repeat yourquestions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in mypower.”

“You know my questions,” replied the Prince, “and only wanttime to prepare an evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hastthou been known to the Princess?”

“I am a labourer at the next village,” said the peasant; “myname is Theodore. The Princess found me in the vault last night: before thathour I never was in her presence.”

“I may believe as much or as little as I please of this,” saidManfred; “but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the truthof it. Tell me, what reason did the Princess give thee for making her escape?thy life depends on thy answer.”

“She told me,” replied Theodore, “that she was on the brinkof destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was indanger in a few moments of being made miserable for ever.”

“And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl’s report,”said Manfred, “thou didst hazard my displeasure?”

“I fear no man’s displeasure,” said Theodore, “when awoman in distress puts herself under my protection.”

During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita. Atthe upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery withlatticed windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing herfather’s voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him, she stoppedto learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention: the steady andcomposed manner in which he answered, and the gallantry of his last reply,which were the first words she heard distinctly, interested her in his favour.His person was noble, handsome, and commanding, even in that situation: but hiscountenance soon engrossed her whole care.

“Heavens! Bianca,” said the Princess softly, “do I dream? oris not that youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso’s picture in thegallery?”

She could say no more, for her father’s voice grew louder at every word.

“This bravado,” said he, “surpasses all thy former insolence.Thou shalt experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seizehim,” continued Manfred, “and bind him—the first news thePrincess hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his head for hersake.”

“The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me,” said Theodore,“convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princessfrom thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!”

“This is a lover!” cried Manfred in a rage: “a peasant withinsight of death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy,who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee.”

“Thou hast threatened me with death already,” said the youth,“for the truth I have told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am toexpect for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosityfarther.”

“Then thou wilt not speak?” said Manfred.

“I will not,” replied he.

“Bear him away into the courtyard,” said Manfred; “I will seehis head this instant severed from his body.”

Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—“Help! help! the Princess is dead!”

Manfred started at thisejaculation, and demanded what was the matter! The young peasant, who heard ittoo, was struck with horror, and asked eagerly the same question; but Manfredordered him to be hurried into the court, and kept there for execution, till hehad informed himself of the cause of Bianca’s shrieks. When he learnedthe meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to becarried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, and calling for one of hisguards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow.

The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation thattouched every heart but Manfred’s. He wished earnestly to know themeaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing toexasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he deignedto ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and make his peacewith heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor’s means to come at theyouth’s history, readily granted his request; and being convinced thatFather Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be called and shrivethe prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe that hisimprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in themost solemn manner not to shed innocent blood. He accused himself in thebitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate the youth, andleft no method untried to soften the tyrant’s rage. Manfred, moreincensed than appeased by Jerome’s intercession, whose retraction nowmade him suspect he had been imposed upon by both, commanded the Friar to dohis duty, telling him he would not allow the prisoner many minutes forconfession.

“Nor do I ask many, my Lord,” said the unhappy young man. “Mysins, thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expectedat my years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is a badworld; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.”

“Oh wretched youth!” said Jerome; “how canst thou bear thesight of me with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismalhour upon thee!”

“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hopeheaven will pardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thyblessing.”

“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome.“Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thouforgive that impious man there?”

“I can,” said Theodore; “I do.”

“And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?” said the Friar.

“I sent for thee to confess him,” said Manfred, sternly; “notto plead for him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood beupon thy head!”

“It will! it will!” said the good man, in an agony of sorrow.“Thou and I must never hope to go where this blessed youth isgoing!”

“Despatch!” said Manfred; “I am no more to be moved by thewhining of priests than by the shrieks of women.”

“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate couldhave occasioned what I heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?”

“Thou dost but remember me of my wrath,” said Manfred.“Prepare thee, for this moment is thy last.”

The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the sorrowwhich he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as into the Friar,suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and unbuttoning hiscollar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down belowhis shoulder, and discovered the mark of a bloody arrow.

“Gracious heaven!” cried the holy man, starting; “what do Isee? It is my child! my Theodore!”

The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The tearsof the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by joy. Theyseemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to feel. Surprise,doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of theyouth. He received with modest submission the effusion of the old man’stears and embraces. Yet afraid of giving a loose to hope, and suspecting fromwhat had passed the inflexibility of Manfred’s temper, he cast a glancetowards the Prince, as if to say, canst thou be unmoved at such a scene asthis?

Manfred’s heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in hisastonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even doubtedwhether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save the youth.

“What may this mean?” said he. “How can he be thy son? Is itconsistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’soffspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours!”

“Oh, God!” said the holy man, “dost thou question his beingmine? Could I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! goodPrince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest.”

“Spare him! spare him!” cried the attendants; “for this goodman’s sake!”

“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I amdisposed to pardon. A Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”

“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty.If I am this venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know theblood that flows in my veins—”

“Yes,” said the Friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble;nor is he that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, andSicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But alas!my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable,sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dustwhence we sprung, and whither we must return.”

“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are nolonger Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; youwill have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain thegrace of that sturdy criminal there.”

“Mother of God!” said the Friar, “is it possible my Lord canrefuse a father the life of his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, myLord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!”

“Thou canst feel, then,” said Manfred, “what it is to lose anonly son! A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: myhouse, if fate so pleased, must perish—but the Count ofFalconara—”

“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; butaggravate not an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, northink of such vanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is thememory of the dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead?”

“Her soul has long been with the blessed,” said Theodore.

“Oh! how?” cried Jerome, “tell me—no—she ishappy! Thou art all my care now!—Most dread Lord! will you—will yougrant me my poor boy’s life?”

“Return to thy convent,” answered Manfred; “conduct thePrincess hither; obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the lifeof thy son.”

“Oh! my Lord,” said Jerome, “is my honesty the price I mustpay for this dear youth’s safety?”

“For me!” cried Theodore. “Let me die a thousand deaths,rather than stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Isthe Princess still safe from his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man;and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me.”

Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere Manfred couldreply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hungwithout the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the same instant thesable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end ofthe court, were tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by someinvisible wearer.

CHAPTER III.

Manfred’s heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage on the miraculouscasque shaken in concert with the sounding of the brazen trumpet.

“Father!” said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Countof Falconara, “what mean these portents? If I have offended—”the plumes were shaken with greater violence than before.

“Unhappy Prince that I am,” cried Manfred. “Holy Father! willyou not assist me with your prayers?”

“My Lord,” replied Jerome, “heaven is no doubt displeasedwith your mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the church; and cease topersecute her ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to respect theholy character I wear. Heaven will not be trifled with: you see—”the trumpet sounded again.

“I acknowledge I have been too hasty,” said Manfred. “Father,do you go to the wicket, and demand who is at the gate.”

“Do you grant me the life of Theodore?” replied the Friar.

“I do,” said Manfred; “but inquire who is without!”

Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears, that spokethe fulness of his soul.

“You promised to go to the gate,” said Manfred.

“I thought,” replied the Friar, “your Highness would excusemy thanking you first in this tribute of my heart.”

“Go, dearest Sir,” said Theodore; “obey the Prince. I do notdeserve that you should delay his satisfaction for me.”

Jerome, inquiring who was without, was answered, “A Herald.”

“From whom?” said he.

“From the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre,” said the Herald;“and I must speak with the usurper of Otranto.”

Jerome returned to the Prince, and did not fail to repeat the message in thevery words it had been uttered. The first sounds struck Manfred with terror;but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and all hiscourage revived.

“Usurper!—insolent villain!” cried he; “who dares toquestion my title? Retire, Father; this is no business for Monks: I will meetthis presumptuous man myself. Go to your convent and prepare thePrincess’s return. Your son shall be a hostage for your fidelity: hislife depends on your obedience.”

“Good heaven! my Lord,” cried Jerome, “your Highness did butthis instant freely pardon my child—have you so soon forgot theinterposition of heaven?”

“Heaven,” replied Manfred, “does not send Heralds to questionthe title of a lawful Prince. I doubt whether it even notifies its will throughFriars—but that is your affair, not mine. At present you know mypleasure; and it is not a saucy Herald that shall save your son, if you do notreturn with the Princess.”

It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be conductedto the postern-gate, and shut out from the castle. And he ordered some of hisattendants to carry Theodore to the top of the black tower, and guard himstrictly; scarce permitting the father and son to exchange a hasty embrace atparting. He then withdrew to the hall, and seating himself in princely state,ordered the Herald to be admitted to his presence.

“Well! thou insolent!” said the Prince, “what wouldst thouwith me?”

“I come,” replied he, “to thee, Manfred, usurper of theprincipality of Otranto, from the renowned and invincible Knight, the Knight ofthe Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his Lord, Frederic, Marquis of Vicenza, hedemands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prince, whom thou hast basely andtraitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians during hisabsence; and he requires thee to resign the principality of Otranto, which thouhast usurped from the said Lord Frederic, the nearest of blood to the lastrightful Lord, Alfonso the Good. If thou dost not instantly comply with thesejust demands, he defies thee to single combat to the last extremity.” Andso saying the Herald cast down his warder.

“And where is this braggart who sends thee?” said Manfred.

“At the distance of a league,” said the Herald: “he comes tomake good his Lord’s claim against thee, as he is a true knight, and thouan usurper and ravisher.”

Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his interestto provoke the Marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of Frederic was; norwas this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic’s ancestors hadassumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso the Goodwithout issue; but Manfred, his father, and grandfather, had been too powerfulfor the house of Vicenza to dispossess them. Frederic, a martial and amorousyoung Prince, had married a beautiful young lady, of whom he was enamoured, andwho had died in childbed of Isabella. Her death affected him so much that hehad taken the cross and gone to the Holy Land, where he was wounded in anengagement against the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead. Whenthe news reached Manfred’s ears, he bribed the guardians of the LadyIsabella to deliver her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by whichalliance he had proposed to unite the claims of the two houses. This motive, onConrad’s death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve onespousing her himself; and the same reflection determined him now to endeavourat obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage. A like policy inspiredhim with the thought of inviting Frederic’s champion into the castle,lest he should be informed of Isabella’s flight, which he strictlyenjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight’s retinue.

“Herald,” said Manfred, as soon as he had digested thesereflections, “return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate ourdifferences by the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid himwelcome to my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall havecourteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we cannotadjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in safety, andshall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms: So help me God andHis holy Trinity!”

The Herald made three obeisances and retired.

During this interview Jerome’s mind was agitated by a thousand contrarypassions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was topersuade Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed atthe thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita’s unboundedsubmission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt but he couldalarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get access to her; yetshould Manfred discover that the obstruction came from him, it might be equallyfatal to Theodore. He was impatient to know whence came the Herald, who with solittle management had questioned the title of Manfred: yet he did not dareabsent himself from the convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her flightbe imputed to him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain onwhat conduct to resolve. A Monk, who met him in the porch and observed hismelancholy air, said—

“Alas! brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent PrincessHippolita?”

The holy man started, and cried, “What meanest thou, brother? I come thisinstant from the castle, and left her in perfect health.”

“Martelli,” replied the other Friar, “passed by the conventbut a quarter of an hour ago on his way from the castle, and reported that herHighness was dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for herhappy transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival. They knowthy holy attachment to that good Lady, and are anxious for the affliction itwill cause in thee—indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a mother toour house. But this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur—we shallall follow her! May our end be like hers!”

“Good brother, thou dreamest,” said Jerome. “I tell thee Icome from the castle, and left the Princess well. Where is the LadyIsabella?”

“Poor Gentlewoman!” replied the Friar; “I told her the sadnews, and offered her spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the transitorycondition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the exampleof the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon.”

“Thy zeal was laudable,” said Jerome, impatiently; “but atpresent it was unnecessary: Hippolita is well—at least I trust in theLord she is; I heard nothing to the contrary—yet, methinks, thePrince’s earnestness—Well, brother, but where is the LadyIsabella?”

“I know not,” said the Friar; “she wept much, and said shewould retire to her chamber.”

Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she was notin her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but could learn nonews of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church, anddespatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get intelligence if she hadbeen seen; but to no purpose. Nothing could equal the good man’sperplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having precipitatedhis wife’s death, had taken the alarm, and withdrawn herself to some moresecret place of concealment. This new flight would probably carry thePrince’s fury to the height. The report of Hippolita’s death,though it seemed almost incredible, increased his consternation; and thoughIsabella’s escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred for a husband, Jeromecould feel no comfort from it, while it endangered the life of his son. Hedetermined to return to the castle, and made several of his brethren accompanyhim to attest his innocence to Manfred, and, if necessary, join theirintercession with his for Theodore.

The Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the gatesof the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger Knight and histrain. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First came two harbingers withwands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpets. Then a hundredfoot-guards. These were attended by as many horse. After them fifty footmen,clothed in scarlet and black, the colours of the Knight. Then a led horse. Twoheralds on each side of a gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the armsof Vicenza and Otranto quarterly—a circumstance that much offendedManfred—but he stifled his resentment. Two more pages. The Knight’sconfessor telling his beads. Fifty more footmen clad as before. Two Knightshabited in complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principalKnight. The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. TheKnight’s own squire. A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, andseeming to faint under the weight of it. The Knight himself on a chestnutsteed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face entirely concealedby his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of scarlet and blackfeathers. Fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets closed the procession,which wheeled off to the right and left to make room for the principal Knight.

As soon as he approached the gate he stopped; and the herald advancing, readagain the words of the challenge. Manfred’s eyes were fixed on thegigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his attentionwas soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned andbeheld the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the same extraordinarymanner as before. It required intrepidity like Manfred’s not to sinkunder a concurrence of circumstances that seemed to announce his fate. Yetscorning in the presence of strangers to betray the courage he had alwaysmanifested, he said boldly—

“Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortalmould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight, thouwilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be these omens from heaven orhell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of his cause and to the aid of St.Nicholas, who has ever protected his house. Alight, Sir Knight, and reposethyself. To-morrow thou shalt have a fair field, and heaven befriend the justerside!”

The Knight made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to thegreat hall of the castle. As they traversed the court, the Knight stopped togaze on the miraculous casque; and kneeling down, seemed to pray inwardly forsome minutes. Rising, he made a sign to the Prince to lead on. As soon as theyentered the hall, Manfred proposed to the stranger to disarm, but the Knightshook his head in token of refusal.

“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, “this is not courteous, but by mygood faith I will not cross thee, nor shalt thou have cause to complain of thePrince of Otranto. No treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is intendedon thine; here take my gage” (giving him his ring): “your friendsand you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here until refreshments arebrought. I will but give orders for the accommodation of your train, and returnto you.” The three Knights bowed as accepting his courtesy. Manfreddirected the stranger’s retinue to be conducted to an adjacent hospital,founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception of pilgrims. As they madethe circuit of the court to return towards the gate, the gigantic sword burstfrom the supporters, and falling to the ground opposite to the helmet, remainedimmovable. Manfred, almost hardened to preternatural appearances, surmountedthe shock of this new prodigy; and returning to the hall, where by this timethe feast was ready, he invited his silent guests to take their places.Manfred, however ill his heart was at ease, endeavoured to inspire the companywith mirth. He put several questions to them, but was answered only by signs.They raised their vizors but sufficiently to feed themselves, and thatsparingly.

“Sirs” said the Prince, “ye are the first guests I evertreated within these walls who scorned to hold any intercourse with me: nor hasit oft been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and dignityagainst strangers and mutes. You say you come in the name of Frederic ofVicenza; I have ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous Knight; norwould he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social converse witha Prince that is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in arms. Still ye aresilent—well! be it as it may—by the laws of hospitality andchivalry ye are masters under this roof: ye shall do your pleasure. But come,give me a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to pledge me to the healths ofyour fair mistresses.”

The principal Knight sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the board.

“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, “what I said was but in sport. Ishall constrain you in nothing: use your good liking. Since mirth is not yourmood, let us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better. Let us withdraw, andhear if what I have to unfold may be better relished than the vain efforts Ihave made for your pastime.”

Manfred then conducting the three Knights into an inner chamber, shut the door,and inviting them to be seated, began thus, addressing himself to the chiefpersonage:—

“You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis ofVicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been contractedin the face of Holy Church to my son, by the consent of her legal guardians;and to require me to resign my dominions to your Lord, who gives himself forthe nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul God rest! I shall speak tothe latter article of your demands first. You must know, your Lord knows, thatI enjoy the principality of Otranto from my father, Don Manuel, as he receivedit from his father, Don Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless inthe Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, inconsideration of his faithful services.” The stranger shook his head.

“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, warmly, “Ricardo was a valiantand upright man; he was a pious man; witness his munificent foundation of theadjoining church and two convents. He was peculiarly patronised by St.Nicholas—my grandfather was incapable—I say, Sir, Don Ricardo wasincapable—excuse me, your interruption has disordered me. I venerate thememory of my grandfather. Well, Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by hisgood sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas—so did my father; and so,Sirs, will I, come what come will. But Frederic, your Lord, is nearest inblood. I have consented to put my title to the issue of the sword. Does thatimply a vicious title? I might have asked, where is Frederic your Lord? Reportspeaks him dead in captivity. You say, your actions say, he lives—Iquestion it not—I might, Sirs, I might—but I do not. Other Princeswould bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if he can: they would notstake their dignity on a single combat: they would not submit it to thedecision of unknown mutes!—pardon me, gentlemen, I am too warm: butsuppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are stout Knights, would it not moveyour choler to have your own and the honour of your ancestors called inquestion?”“But to the point. Ye require me to deliver up the Lady Isabella. Sirs, Imust ask if ye are authorised to receive her?”

The Knight nodded.

“Receive her,” continued Manfred; “well, you are authorisedto receive her, but, gentle Knight, may I ask if you have full powers?”

The Knight nodded.

“’Tis well,” said Manfred; “then hear what I have tooffer. Ye see, gentlemen, before you, the most unhappy of men!” (he beganto weep); “afford me your compassion; I am entitled to it, indeed I am.Know, I have lost my only hope, my joy, the support of my house—Conraddied yester morning.”

The Knights discovered signs of surprise.

“Yes, Sirs, fate has disposed of my son. Isabella is at liberty.”

“Do you then restore her?” cried the chief Knight, breakingsilence.

“Afford me your patience,” said Manfred. “I rejoice to find,by this testimony of your goodwill, that this matter may be adjusted withoutblood. It is no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to say. Yebehold in me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of my son has weaned mefrom earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer any charms in my eyes. Iwished to transmit the sceptre I had received from my ancestors with honour tomy son—but that is over! Life itself is so indifferent to me, that Iaccepted your defiance with joy. A good Knight cannot go to the grave with moresatisfaction than when falling in his vocation: whatever is the will of heaven,I submit; for alas! Sirs, I am a man of many sorrows. Manfred is no object ofenvy, but no doubt you are acquainted with my story.”

The Knight made signs of ignorance, and seemed curious to have Manfred proceed.

“Is it possible, Sirs,” continued the Prince, “that my storyshould be a secret to you? Have you heard nothing relating to me and thePrincess Hippolita?”

They shook their heads.

“No! Thus, then, Sirs, it is. You think me ambitious: ambition, alas! iscomposed of more rugged materials. If I were ambitious, I should not for somany years have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious scruples. But Iweary your patience: I will be brief. Know, then, that I have long beentroubled in mind on my union with the Princess Hippolita. Oh! Sirs, if ye wereacquainted with that excellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her like amistress, and cherish her as a friend—but man was not born for perfecthappiness! She shares my scruples, and with her consent I have brought thismatter before the church, for we are related within the forbidden degrees. Iexpect every hour the definitive sentence that must separate us forever—I am sure you feel for me—I see you do—pardon thesetears!”

The Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end.

Manfred continued—

“The death of my son betiding while my soul was under this anxiety, Ithought of nothing but resigning my dominions, and retiring for ever from thesight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who would betender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who is dear to me asmy own blood. I was willing to restore the line of Alfonso, even in his mostdistant kindred. And though, pardon me, I am satisfied it was his will thatRicardo’s lineage should take place of his own relations; yet where was Ito search for those relations? I knew of none but Frederic, your Lord; he was acaptive to the infidels, or dead; and were he living, and at home, would hequit the flourishing State of Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality ofOtranto? If he would not, could I bear the thought of seeing a hard, unfeeling,Viceroy set over my poor faithful people? for, Sirs, I love my people, andthank heaven am beloved by them. But ye will ask whither tends this longdiscourse? Briefly, then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in your arrival seems to point outa remedy for these difficulties and my misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is atliberty; I shall soon be so. I would submit to anything for the good of mypeople. Were it not the best, the only way to extinguish the feuds between ourfamilies, if I was to take the Lady Isabella to wife? You start. But thoughHippolita’s virtues will ever be dear to me, a Prince must not considerhimself; he is born for his people.” A servant at that instant enteringthe chamber apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of his brethren demandedimmediate access to him.

The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar woulddiscover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was going toforbid Jerome’s entrance. But recollecting that he was certainly arrivedto notify the Princess’s return, Manfred began to excuse himself to theKnights for leaving them for a few moments, but was prevented by the arrival ofthe Friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded them for their intrusion, and wouldhave forced them back from the chamber; but Jerome was too much agitated to berepulsed. He declared aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of hisown innocence.

Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the knowledge ofthe strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences, now upbraiding theFriar, now apologising to the Knights, earnest to know what was become ofIsabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing; impatient to pursue her, yetdreading to have them join in the pursuit. He offered to despatch messengers inquest of her, but the chief Knight, no longer keeping silence, reproachedManfred in bitter terms for his dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded thecause of Isabella’s first absence from the castle. Manfred, casting astern look at Jerome, implying a command of silence, pretended that onConrad’s death he had placed her in sanctuary until he could determinehow to dispose of her. Jerome, who trembled for his son’s life, did notdare contradict this falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the sameanxiety, declared frankly that she had fled to their church in the precedingnight. The Prince in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmedhim with shame and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at thecontradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had secretedthe Princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her flight, rushingto the door, said—

“Thou traitor Prince! Isabella shall be found.”

Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other Knights assisting their comrade,he broke from the Prince, and hastened into the court, demanding hisattendants. Manfred, finding it vain to divert him from the pursuit, offered toaccompany him and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome and some of theFriars to guide them, they issued from the castle; Manfred privately givingorders to have the Knight’s company secured, while to the knight heaffected to despatch a messenger to require their assistance.

The company had no sooner quitted the castle than Matilda, who felt herselfdeeply interested for the young peasant, since she had seen him condemned todeath in the hall, and whose thoughts had been taken up with concertingmeasures to save him, was informed by some of the female attendants thatManfred had despatched all his men various ways in pursuit of Isabella. He hadin his hurry given this order in general terms, not meaning to extend it to theguard he had set upon Theodore, but forgetting it. The domestics, officious toobey so peremptory a Prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love ofnovelty to join in any precipitate chase, had to a man left the castle. Matildadisengaged herself from her women, stole up to the black tower, and unboltingthe door, presented herself to the astonished Theodore.

“Young man,” said she, “though filial duty and womanlymodesty condemn the step I am taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all otherties, justifies this act. Fly; the doors of thy prison are open: my father andhis domestics are absent; but they may soon return. Be gone in safety; and maythe angels of heaven direct thy course!”

“Thou art surely one of those angels!” said the enrapturedTheodore: “none but a blessed saint could speak, could act—couldlook—like thee. May I not know the name of my divine protectress?Methought thou namedst thy father. Is it possible? Can Manfred’s bloodfeel holy pity! Lovely Lady, thou answerest not. But how art thou here thyself?Why dost thou neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch likeTheodore? Let us fly together: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated tothy defence.”

“Alas! thou mistakest,” said Matilda, sighing: “I amManfred’s daughter, but no dangers await me.”

“Amazement!” said Theodore; “but last night I blessed myselffor yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns menow.”

“Still thou art in an error,” said the Princess; “but this isno time for explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to savethee: should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause totremble.”

“How!” said Theodore; “thinkest thou, charming maid, that Iwill accept of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? Better I endureda thousand deaths.”

“I run no risk,” said Matilda, “but by thy delay. Depart; itcannot be known that I have assisted thy flight.”

“Swear by the saints above,” said Theodore, “that thou canstnot be suspected; else here I vow to await whatever can befall me.”

“Oh! thou art too generous,” said Matilda; “but rest assuredthat no suspicion can alight on me.”

“Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceiveme,” said Theodore; “and let me bathe it with the warm tears ofgratitude.”

“Forbear!” said the Princess; “this must not be.”

“Alas!” said Theodore, “I have never known but calamity untilthis hour—perhaps shall never know other fortune again: suffer the chasteraptures of holy gratitude: ’tis my soul would print its effusions on thyhand.”

“Forbear, and be gone,” said Matilda. “How would Isabellaapprove of seeing thee at my feet?”

“Who is Isabella?” said the young man with surprise.

“Ah, me! I fear,” said the Princess, “I am serving adeceitful one. Hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?”

“Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation ofdivinity,” said Theodore; “but thy words are dark and mysterious.Speak, Lady; speak to thy servant’s comprehension.”

“Thou understandest but too well!” said Matilda; “but oncemore I command thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on myhead, if I waste the time in vain discourse.”

“I go, Lady,” said Theodore, “because it is thy will, andbecause I would not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave.Say but, adored Lady, that I have thy gentle pity.”

“Stay,” said Matilda; “I will conduct thee to thesubterraneous vault by which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the churchof St. Nicholas, where thou mayst take sanctuary.”

“What!” said Theodore, “was it another, and not thy lovelyself that I assisted to find the subterraneous passage?”

“It was,” said Matilda; “but ask no more; I tremble to seethee still abide here; fly to the sanctuary.”

“To sanctuary,” said Theodore; “no, Princess; sanctuaries arefor helpless damsels, or for criminals. Theodore’s soul is free fromguilt, nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a sword, Lady, and thyfather shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight.”

“Rash youth!” said Matilda; “thou wouldst not dare to liftthy presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?”

“Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not,” said Theodore.“Excuse me, Lady; I had forgotten. But could I gaze on thee, and rememberthou art sprung from the tyrant Manfred! But he is thy father, and from thismoment my injuries are buried in oblivion.”

A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the Princessand Theodore.

“Good heaven! we are overheard!” said the Princess. They listened;but perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-upvapours. And the Princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to herfather’s armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he wasconducted by Matilda to the postern-gate.

“Avoid the town,” said the Princess, “and all the westernside of the castle. ’Tis there the search must be making by Manfred andthe strangers; but hie thee to the opposite quarter. Yonder behind that forestto the east is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns thatreach to the sea coast. There thou mayst lie concealed, till thou canst makesigns to some vessel to put on shore, and take thee off. Go! heaven be thyguide!—and sometimes in thy prayers remember—Matilda!”

Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which withstruggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to gethimself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear himselfeternally her knight. Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of thunder wassuddenly heard that shook the battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest,would have urged his suit: but the Princess, dismayed, retreated hastily intothe castle, and commanded the youth to be gone with an air that would not bedisobeyed. He sighed, and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate, untilMatilda, closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of bothhad drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the first time.

Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with hisdeliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit that wasmaking after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose story he nowfirst became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his nature prompted him towish to assist her; but the Monks could lend him no lights to guess at theroute she had taken. He was not tempted to wander far in search of her, for theidea of Matilda had imprinted itself so strongly on his heart, that he couldnot bear to absent himself at much distance from her abode. The tendernessJerome had expressed for him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he evenpersuaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause of his hoveringbetween the castle and monastery.

Until Jerome should return at night, Theodore at length determined to repair tothe forest that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he sought thegloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that reigned in hismind. In this mood he roved insensibly to the caves which had formerly servedas a retreat to hermits, and were now reported round the country to be hauntedby evil spirits. He recollected to have heard this tradition; and being of abrave and adventurous disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity inexploring the secret recesses of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated farbefore he thought he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreatbefore him.

Theodore, though firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be believed,had no apprehension that good men were abandoned without cause to the malice ofthe powers of darkness. He thought the place more likely to be infested byrobbers than by those infernal agents who are reported to molest and bewildertravellers. He had long burned with impatience to approve his valour. Drawinghis sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing his steps as theimperfect rustling sound before him led the way. The armour he wore was a likeindication to the person who avoided him. Theodore, now convinced that he wasnot mistaken, redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the person that fled,whose haste increasing, Theodore came up just as a woman fell breathless beforehim. He hasted to raise her, but her terror was so great that he apprehendedshe would faint in his arms. He used every gentle word to dispel her alarms,and assured her that far from injuring, he would defend her at the peril of hislife. The Lady recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour, and gazingon her protector, said—

“Sure, I have heard that voice before!”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Theodore; “unless, as Iconjecture, thou art the Lady Isabella.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried she. “Thou art not sent in quest ofme, art thou?” And saying those words, she threw herself at his feet, andbesought him not to deliver her up to Manfred.

“To Manfred!” cried Theodore—“no, Lady; I have oncealready delivered thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now,but I will place thee out of the reach of his daring.”

“Is it possible,” said she, “that thou shouldst be thegenerous unknown whom I met last night in the vault of the castle? Sure thouart not a mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees, let methank—”

“Hold! gentle Princess,” said Theodore, “nor demean thyselfbefore a poor and friendless young man. If heaven has selected me for thydeliverer, it will accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy cause. Butcome, Lady, we are too near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its inmostrecesses. I can have no tranquillity till I have placed thee beyond the reachof danger.”

“Alas! what mean you, sir?” said she. “Though all youractions are noble, though your sentiments speak the purity of your soul, is itfitting that I should accompany you alone into these perplexed retreats? Shouldwe be found together, what would a censorious world think of my conduct?”

“I respect your virtuous delicacy,” said Theodore; “nor doyou harbour a suspicion that wounds my honour. I meant to conduct you into themost private cavity of these rocks, and then at the hazard of my life to guardtheir entrance against every living thing. Besides, Lady,” continued he,drawing a deep sigh, “beauteous and all perfect as your form is, andthough my wishes are not guiltless of aspiring, know, my soul is dedicated toanother; and although—” A sudden noise prevented Theodore fromproceeding. They soon distinguished these sounds—

“Isabella! what, ho! Isabella!” The trembling Princess relapsedinto her former agony of fear. Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but invain. He assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return underManfred’s power; and begging her to remain concealed, he went forth toprevent the person in search of her from approaching.

At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with apeasant, who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock. TheKnight was preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in his way,with his sword drawn, sternly forbad him at his peril to advance.

“And who art thou, who darest to cross my way?” said the Knight,haughtily.

“One who does not dare more than he will perform,” said Theodore.

“I seek the Lady Isabella,” said the Knight, “and understandshe has taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repenthaving provoked my resentment.”

“Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible,” saidTheodore. “Return whence thou camest, or we shall soon know whoseresentment is most terrible.”

The stranger, who was the principal Knight that had arrived from the Marquis ofVicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting information ofthe Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into the powerof the three Knights. Their chief had suspected Manfred of being privy to thePrincess’s absconding, and this insult from a man, who he concluded wasstationed by that Prince to secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made noreply, but discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore, would soon haveremoved all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred’scaptains, and who had no sooner given the provocation than prepared to supportit, had not received the stroke on his shield. The valour that had so long beensmothered in his breast broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on theKnight, whose pride and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy deeds.The combat was furious, but not long. Theodore wounded the Knight in threeseveral places, and at last disarmed him as he fainted by the loss of blood.

The peasant, who had fled on the first onset, had given the alarm to some ofManfred’s domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through theforest in pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the Knight fell, whom they soondiscovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding his hatred toManfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without emotions of pityand generosity. But he was more touched when he learned the quality of hisadversary, and was informed that he was no retainer, but an enemy, of Manfred.He assisted the servants of the latter in disarming the Knight, and inendeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his wounds. The Knightrecovering his speech, said, in a faint and faltering voice—

“Generous foe, we have both been in an error. I took thee for aninstrument of the tyrant; I perceive thou hast made the like mistake. It is toolate for excuses. I faint. If Isabella is at hand—call her—I haveimportant secrets to—”

“He is dying!” said one of the attendants; “has nobody acrucifix about them? Andrea, do thou pray over him.”

“Fetch some water,” said Theodore, “and pour it down histhroat, while I hasten to the Princess.”

Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her modestly that hehad been so unfortunate by mistake as to wound a gentleman from herfather’s court, who wished, ere he died, to impart something ofconsequence to her.

The Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore, as hecalled to her to come forth, was astonished at what she heard. Sufferingherself to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose valour recalled herdispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding Knight lay speechless on theground. But her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of Manfred. Shewould again have fled if Theodore had not made her observe that they wereunarmed, and had not threatened them with instant death if they should dare toseize the Princess.

The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, “Artthou—pray tell me truly—art thou Isabella of Vicenza?”

“I am,” said she: “good heaven restore thee!”

“Then thou—then thou”—said the Knight, struggling forutterance—“seest—thy father. Give me one—”

“Oh! amazement! horror! what do I hear! what do I see!” criedIsabella. “My father! You my father! How came you here, Sir? Forheaven’s sake, speak! Oh! run for help, or he will expire!”

“’Tis most true,” said the wounded Knight, exerting all hisforce; “I am Frederic thy father. Yes, I came to deliver thee. It willnot be. Give me a parting kiss, and take—”

“Sir,” said Theodore, “do not exhaust yourself; suffer us toconvey you to the castle.”

“To the castle!” said Isabella. “Is there no help nearer thanthe castle? Would you expose my father to the tyrant? If he goes thither, Idare not accompany him; and yet, can I leave him!”

“My child,” said Frederic, “it matters not for me whither Iam carried. A few minutes will place me beyond danger; but while I have eyes todote on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave Knight—I know notwho he is—will protect thy innocence. Sir, you will not abandon my child,will you?”

Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the Princess atthe expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be conductedto the castle. They placed him on a horse belonging to one of the domestics,after binding up his wounds as well as they were able. Theodore marched by hisside; and the afflicted Isabella, who could not bear to quit him, followedmournfully behind.

CHAPTER IV.

The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle, than they were met byHippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics before toadvertise of their approach. The ladies causing Frederic to be conveyed intothe nearest chamber, retired, while the surgeons examined his wounds. Matildablushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together; but endeavoured to conceal itby embracing the latter, and condoling with her on her father’smischance. The surgeons soon came to acquaint Hippolita that none of theMarquis’s wounds were dangerous; and that he was desirous of seeing hisdaughter and the Princesses.

Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from hisapprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist theimpulse of following Matilda. Her eyes were so often cast down on meeting his,that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he gazed on Matilda,soon divined who the object was that he had told her in the cave engaged hisaffections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita demanded of Frederic thecause of his having taken that mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter;and threw in various apologies to excuse her Lord for the match contractedbetween their children.

Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the courtesyand benevolence of Hippolita: but he was still more struck with the lovely formof Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bedside, he informed Hippolita of hisstory. He told her that, while prisoner to the infidels, he had dreamed thathis daughter, of whom he had learned no news since his captivity, was detainedin a castle, where she was in danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and thatif he obtained his liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learnmore. Alarmed at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given byit, his chains became more grievous than ever. But while his thoughts wereoccupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he received the agreeable newsthat the confederate Princes who were warring in Palestine had paid his ransom.He instantly set out for the wood that had been marked in his dream.

For three days he and his attendants had wandered in the forest without seeinga human form: but on the evening of the third they came to a cell, in whichthey found a venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying rich cordials,they brought the fainting man to his speech.

“My sons,” said he, “I am bounden to your charity—butit is in vain—I am going to my eternal rest—yet I die with thesatisfaction of performing the will of heaven. When first I repaired to thissolitude, after seeing my country become a prey to unbelievers—it isalas! above fifty years since I was witness to that dreadful scene! St.Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a secret, which he bade me never discloseto mortal man, but on my death-bed. This is that tremendous hour, and ye are nodoubt the chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon asye have done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventhtree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will—Oh! goodheaven receive my soul!” With those words the devout man breathed hislast.

“By break of day,” continued Frederic, “when we had committedthe holy relics to earth, we dug according to direction. But what was ourastonishment when about the depth of six feet we discovered an enormoussabre—the very weapon yonder in the court. On the blade, which was thenpartly out of the scabbard, though since closed by our efforts in removing it,were written the following lines—no; excuse me, Madam,” added theMarquis, turning to Hippolita; “if I forbear to repeat them: I respectyour sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your ear with soundsinjurious to aught that is dear to you.”

He paused. Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but Frederic was destined byheaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to threaten her house. Looking withanxious fondness at Matilda, a silent tear stole down her cheek: butrecollecting herself, she said—

“Proceed, my Lord; heaven does nothing in vain; mortals must receive itsdivine behests with lowliness and submission. It is our part to deprecate itswrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my Lord; we listenresigned.”

Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and patientfirmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect, and the tender silentaffection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded each other, meltedhim almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that his forbearance to obey would bemore alarming, he repeated in a faltering and low voice the following lines:

“Where’er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compass’d round;
Alfonso’sblood alone can save the maid,
And quiet a long restless Prince’s shade.”

“What is there in these lines,” said Theodore impatiently,“that affects these Princesses? Why were they to be shocked by amysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation?”

“Your words are rude, young man,” said the Marquis; “andthough fortune has favoured you once—”

“My honoured Lord,” said Isabella, who resented Theodore’swarmth, which she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for Matilda,“discompose not yourself for the glosing of a peasant’s son: heforgets the reverence he owes you; but he is not accustomed—”

Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for hisboldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing theconversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord? As the Marquiswas going to reply, they heard a noise without, and rising to inquire thecause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an imperfect rumourof what had happened, entered the chamber. Manfred advanced hastily towardsFrederic’s bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to learn thecircumstances of the combat, when starting in an agony of terror and amazement,he cried—

“Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my hour come?”

“My dearest, gracious Lord,” cried Hippolita, clasping him in herarms, “what is it you see! Why do you fix your eye-balls thus?”

“What!” cried Manfred breathless; “dost thou see nothing,Hippolita? Is this ghastly phantom sent to me alone—to me, who didnot—”

“For mercy’s sweetest self, my Lord,” said Hippolita,“resume your soul, command your reason. There is none here, but us, yourfriends.”

“What, is not that Alfonso?” cried Manfred. “Dost thou notsee him? can it be my brain’s delirium?”

“This! my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this is Theodore, the youthwho has been so unfortunate.”

“Theodore!” said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead;“Theodore or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred. But howcomes he here? and how comes he in armour?”

“I believe he went in search of Isabella,” said Hippolita.

“Of Isabella!” said Manfred, relapsing into rage; “yes, yes,that is not doubtful—. But how did he escape from durance in which I lefthim? Was it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that procured hisenlargement?”

“And would a parent be criminal, my Lord,” said Theodore, “ifhe meditated the deliverance of his child?”

Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and withoutfoundation, knew not what to think. He could not comprehend how Theodore hadescaped, how he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederic. Still he would notventure to ask any questions that might tend to inflame Manfred’s wrathagainst his son. Jerome’s silence convinced Manfred that he had contrivedTheodore’s release.

“And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man,” said the Prince,addressing himself to the Friar, “that thou repayest mine andHippolita’s bounties? And not content with traversing my heart’snearest wishes, thou armest thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle toinsult me!”

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “you wrong my father: neither henor I are capable of harbouring a thought against your peace. Is it insolencethus to surrender myself to your Highness’s pleasure?” added he,laying his sword respectfully at Manfred’s feet. “Behold my bosom;strike, my Lord, if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there. Thereis not a sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you andyours.”

The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested everyperson present in his favour. Even Manfred was touched—yet stillpossessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed withsecret horror.

“Rise,” said he; “thy life is not my present purpose. Buttell me thy history, and how thou camest connected with this old traitorhere.”

“My Lord,” said Jerome eagerly.

“Peace! impostor!” said Manfred; “I will not have himprompted.”

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “I want no assistance; my story isvery brief. I was carried at five years of age to Algiers with my mother, whohad been taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily. She died of grief in lessthan a twelvemonth;” the tears gushed from Jerome’s eyes, on whosecountenance a thousand anxious passions stood expressed. “Before shedied,” continued Theodore, “she bound a writing about my arm undermy garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara.”

“It is most true,” said Jerome; “I am that wretchedfather.”

“Again I enjoin thee silence,” said Manfred: “proceed.”

“I remained in slavery,” said Theodore, “until within thesetwo years, when attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by aChristian vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to thecaptain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily; but alas! instead of findinga father, I learned that his estate, which was situated on the coast, had,during his absence, been laid waste by the Rover who had carried my mother andme into captivity: that his castle had been burnt to the ground, and that myfather on his return had sold what remained, and was retired into religion inthe kingdom of Naples, but where no man could inform me. Destitute andfriendless, hopeless almost of attaining the transport of a parent’sembrace, I took the first opportunity of setting sail for Naples, from whence,within these six days, I wandered into this province, still supporting myselfby the labour of my hands; nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven hadreserved any lot for me but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord,is Theodore’s story. I am blessed beyond my hope in finding a father; Iam unfortunate beyond my desert in having incurred your Highness’sdispleasure.”

He ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience.

“This is not all,” said Frederic; “I am bound in honour toadd what he suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be generous; he is one ofthe bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and from the shortknowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity: if what hereports of himself were not true, he would not utter it—and for me,youth, I honour a frankness which becomes thy birth; but now, and thou didstoffend me: yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins, may well be allowed toboil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its source. Come, myLord,” (turning to Manfred), “if I can pardon him, surely you may;it is not the youth’s fault, if you took him for a spectre.”

This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred.

“If beings from another world,” replied he haughtily, “havepower to impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor coulda stripling’s arm.”

“My Lord,” interrupted Hippolita, “your guest has occasionfor repose: shall we not leave him to his rest?” Saying this, and takingManfred by the hand, she took leave of Frederic, and led the company forth.

The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind thediscovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to beconducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though underengagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the young mangladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda andIsabella were too much occupied with their own reflections, and too littlecontent with each other, to wish for farther converse that night. Theyseparated each to her chamber, with more expressions of ceremony and fewer ofaffection than had passed between them since their childhood.

If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greaterimpatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a situation thatexcluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions which she wished shehad put to the other overnight. Matilda reflected that Isabella had been twicedelivered by Theodore in very critical situations, which she could not believeaccidental. His eyes, it was true, had been fixed on her in Frederic’schamber; but that might have been to disguise his passion for Isabella from thefathers of both. It were better to clear this up. She wished to know the truth,lest she should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella’slover. Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed an excuse fromfriendship to justify its curiosity.

Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her suspicions. BothTheodore’s tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged; it wastrue—yet, perhaps, Matilda might not correspond to his passion; she hadever appeared insensible to love: all her thoughts were set on heaven.

“Why did I dissuade her?” said Isabella to herself; “I ampunished for my generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be; I havedeceived myself; perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld eachother; it must be some other object that has prepossessed hisaffections—if it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not myfriend Matilda—how! Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man, whorudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and that at thevery moment in which common courtesy demanded at least expressions of civility.I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this becoming pride. Manis false—I will advise with her on taking the veil: she will rejoice tofind me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her that I no longer opposeher inclination for the cloister.”

In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart entirely to Matilda,she went to that Princess’s chamber, whom she found already dressed, andleaning pensively on her arm. This attitude, so correspondent to what she feltherself, revived Isabella’s suspicions, and destroyed the confidence shehad purposed to place in her friend. They blushed at meeting, and were too muchnovices to disguise their sensations with address. After some unmeaningquestions and replies, Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight?The latter, who had almost forgotten Manfred’s passion, so entirely wasshe occupied by her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escapefrom the convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening,replied—

“Martelli brought word to the convent that your mother was dead.”

“Oh!” said Matilda, interrupting her, “Bianca has explainedthat mistake to me: on seeing me faint, she cried out, ‘The Princess isdead!’ and Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to thecastle—”

“And what made you faint?” said Isabella, indifferent to the rest.Matilda blushed and stammered—

“My father—he was sitting in judgment on a criminal—”

“What criminal?” said Isabella eagerly.

“A young man,” said Matilda; “I believe—I think it was that young man that—”

“What, Theodore?” said Isabella.

“Yes,” answered she; “I never saw him before; I do not knowhow he had offended my father, but as he has been of service to you, I am gladmy Lord has pardoned him.”

“Served me!” replied Isabella; “do you term it serving me, towound my father, and almost occasion his death? Though it is but sinceyesterday that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does notthink I am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldnessof that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel anyaffection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my being. No,Matilda, my heart abhors him; and if you still retain the friendship for methat you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest a man who has been onthe point of making me miserable for ever.”

Matilda held down her head and replied: “I hope my dearest Isabella doesnot doubt her Matilda’s friendship: I never beheld that youth untilyesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have pronouncedyour father out of danger, you ought not to harbour uncharitable resentmentagainst one, who I am persuaded did not know the Marquis was related toyou.”

“You plead his cause very pathetically,” said Isabella,“considering he is so much a stranger to you! I am mistaken, or hereturns your charity.”

“What mean you?” said Matilda.

“Nothing,” said Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda ahint of Theodore’s inclination for her. Then changing the discourse, sheasked Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre?

“Bless me,” said Matilda, “did not you observe his extremeresemblance to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice of it toBianca even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on, he is the veryimage of that picture.”

“I do not much observe pictures,” said Isabella: “much lesshave I examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done. Ah?Matilda, your heart is in danger, but let me warn you as a friend, he has ownedto me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was the firsttime you ever met—was it not?”

“Certainly,” replied Matilda; “but why does my dearestIsabella conclude from anything I have said, that”—shepaused—then continuing: “he saw you first, and I am far from havingthe vanity to think that my little portion of charms could engage a heartdevoted to you; may you be happy, Isabella, whatever is the fate ofMatilda!”

“My lovely friend,” said Isabella, whose heart was too honest toresist a kind expression, “it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it; Iam persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me tointerfere with yours.”

This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda; and jealousy that for amoment had raised a coolness between these amiable maidens soon gave way to thenatural sincerity and candour of their souls. Each confessed to the other theimpression that Theodore had made on her; and this confidence was followed by astruggle of generosity, each insisting on yielding her claim to her friend. Atlength the dignity of Isabella’s virtue reminding her of the preferencewhich Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her determine to conquerher passion, and cede the beloved object to her friend.

During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter’s chamber.

“Madam,” said she to Isabella, “you have so much tendernessfor Matilda, and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretchedhouse, that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you tohear.”

The princesses were all attention and anxiety.

“Know then, Madam,” continued Hippolita, “and you my dearestMatilda, that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days,that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred’shands into those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps inspired with thethought of averting our total destruction by the union of our rival houses.With this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord, to tender this dear,dear child to Frederic, your father.”

“Me to Lord Frederic!” cried Matilda; “good heavens! mygracious mother—and have you named it to my father?”

“I have,” said Hippolita; “he listened benignly to myproposal, and is gone to break it to the Marquis.”

“Ah! wretched princess!” cried Isabella; “what hast thoudone! what ruin has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, forme, and for Matilda!”

“Ruin from me to you and to my child!” said Hippolita “whatcan this mean?”

“Alas!” said Isabella, “the purity of your own heart preventsyour seeing the depravity of others. Manfred, your lord, that impiousman—”

“Hold,” said Hippolita; “you must not in my presence, younglady, mention Manfred with disrespect: he is my lord and husband,and—”

“Will not long be so,” said Isabella, “if his wicked purposescan be carried into execution.”

“This language amazes me,” said Hippolita. “Your feeling,Isabella, is warm; but until this hour I never knew it betray you intointemperance. What deed of Manfred authorises you to treat him as a murderer,an assassin?”

“Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess!” replied Isabella;“it is not thy life he aims at—it is to separate himself from thee!to divorce thee! to—”

“To divorce me!” “To divorce my mother!” criedHippolita and Matilda at once.

“Yes,” said Isabella; “and to complete his crime, hemeditates—I cannot speak it!”

“What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?” said Matilda.

Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech; and the recollection ofManfred’s late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard.

“Excellent, dear lady! madam! mother!” cried Isabella, flingingherself at Hippolita’s feet in a transport of passion; “trust me,believe me, I will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you,than yield to so odious—oh!—”

“This is too much!” cried Hippolita: “What crimes does onecrime suggest! Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue. Oh! Matilda,this stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, Icharge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!”

“But you are my mother too,” said Matilda fervently; “and youare virtuous, you are guiltless!—Oh! must not I, must not Icomplain?”

“You must not,” said Hippolita—“come, all will yet bewell. Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said;perhaps Isabella misunderstood him; his heart is good—and, my child, thouknowest not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence isstretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck! Yes,” continuedshe in a firmer tone, “perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all;I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes ofme. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder oflife in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince!”

“Thou art as much too good for this world,” said Isabella,“as Manfred is execrable; but think not, lady, that thy weakness shalldetermine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels—”

“Stop, I adjure thee,” cried Hippolita: “remember thou dostnot depend on thyself; thou hast a father.”

“My father is too pious, too noble,” interrupted Isabella,“to command an impious deed. But should he command it; can a fatherenjoin a cursed act? I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father? No,madam, no; force should not drag me to Manfred’s hated bed. I loathe him,I abhor him: divine and human laws forbid—and my friend, my dearestMatilda! would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my ownmother—I never have known another”—

“Oh! she is the mother of both!” cried Matilda: “can we, canwe, Isabella, adore her too much?”

“My lovely children,” said the touched Hippolita, “yourtenderness overpowers me—but I must not give way to it. It is not ours tomake election for ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decidefor us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have determined.If the Marquis accepts Matilda’s hand, I know she will readily obey.Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my child?”continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of speechlesstears—“But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a wordagainst the pleasure of thy father.”

“Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and toyou!” said Matilda. “But can I, most respected of women, can Iexperience all this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thoughtfrom the best of mothers?”

“What art thou going to utter?” said Isabella trembling.“Recollect thyself, Matilda.”

“No, Isabella,” said the Princess, “I should not deserve thisincomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a thoughtwithout her permission—nay, I have offended her; I have suffered apassion to enter my heart without her avowal—but here I disclaim it; hereI vow to heaven and her—”

“My child! my child;” said Hippolita, “what words are these!what new calamities has fate in store for us! Thou, a passion? Thou, in thishour of destruction—”

“Oh! I see all my guilt!” said Matilda. “I abhor myself, if Icost my mother a pang. She is the dearest thing I have on earth—Oh! Iwill never, never behold him more!”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita, “thou art conscious to thisunhappy secret, whatever it is. Speak!”

“What!” cried Matilda, “have I so forfeited my mother’slove, that she will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh! wretched,wretched Matilda!”

“Thou art too cruel,” said Isabella to Hippolita: “canst thoubehold this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?”

“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in herarms—“Oh! I know she is good, she is all virtue, all tenderness,and duty. I do forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!”

The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination forTheodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda. Hippolitablamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that either fatherwould consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born. Somecomfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and thatTheodore had had but little cause to suspect it in either. She strictlyenjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him. This Matilda ferventlypromised: but Isabella, who flattered herself that she meant no more than topromote his union with her friend, could not determine to avoid him; and madeno reply.

“I will go to the convent,” said Hippolita, “and order newmasses to be said for a deliverance from these calamities.”

“Oh! my mother,” said Matilda, “you mean to quit us: you meanto take sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatalintention. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear; will you leave me aprey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent.”

“Be at peace, my child,” said Hippolita: “I will returninstantly. I will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of heaven,and for thy benefit.”

“Do not deceive me,” said Matilda. “I will not marry Fredericuntil thou commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?”

“Why that exclamation?” said Hippolita. “I have promised theeto return—”

“Ah! my mother,” replied Matilda, “stay and save me frommyself. A frown from thee can do more than all my father’s severity. Ihave given away my heart, and you alone can make me recall it.”

“No more,” said Hippolita; “thou must not relapse,Matilda.”

“I can quit Theodore,” said she, “but must I wed another? letme attend thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.”

“Thy fate depends on thy father,” said Hippolita; “I haveill-bestowed my tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him.Adieu! my child: I go to pray for thee.”

Hippolita’s real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscienceshe might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to resign theprincipality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an hourly burthento her. These scruples concurred to make the separation from her husband appearless dreadful to her than it would have seemed in any other situation.

Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore severely whyhe had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape. Theodore owned ithad been with design to prevent Manfred’s suspicion from alighting onMatilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome’s life and character securedhim from the tyrant’s wrath. Jerome was heartily grieved to discover hisson’s inclination for that princess; and leaving him to his rest,promised in the morning to acquaint him with important reasons for conqueringhis passion.

Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental authority tosubmit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart. He had littlecuriosity to learn the Friar’s reasons, and less disposition to obeythem. The lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on him than filialaffection. All night he pleased himself with visions of love; and it was nottill late after the morning-office, that he recollected the Friar’scommands to attend him at Alfonso’s tomb.

“Young man,” said Jerome, when he saw him, “this tardinessdoes not please me. Have a father’s commands already so littleweight?”

Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having overslepthimself.

“And on whom were thy dreams employed?” said the Friar sternly. Hisson blushed. “Come, come,” resumed the Friar, “inconsiderateyouth, this must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thybreast—”

“Guilty passion!” cried Theodore: “Can guilt dwell withinnocent beauty and virtuous modesty?”

“It is sinful,” replied the Friar, “to cherish those whomheaven has doomed to destruction. A tyrant’s race must be swept from theearth to the third and fourth generation.”

“Will heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?” saidTheodore. “The fair Matilda has virtues enough—”

“To undo thee:” interrupted Jerome. “Hast thou so soonforgotten that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?”

“Nor have I forgotten, sir,” said Theodore, “that the charityof his daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget injuries, but neverbenefits.”

“The injuries thou hast received from Manfred’s race,” saidthe Friar, “are beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, but view thisholy image! Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso; aprince adorned with every virtue: the father of his people! the delight ofmankind! Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a tale ofhorror that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but sensations of sacredvengeance—Alfonso! much injured prince! let thy unsatisfied shade sitawful on the troubled air, while these trembling lips—Ha! who comesthere?—”

“The most wretched of women!” said Hippolita, entering the choir.“Good Father, art thou at leisure?—but why this kneeling youth?what means the horror imprinted on each countenance? why at this venerabletomb—alas! hast thou seen aught?”

“We were pouring forth our orisons to heaven,” replied the Friar,with some confusion, “to put an end to the woes of this deplorableprovince. Join with us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption fromthe judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounceagainst thy house.”

“I pray fervently to heaven to divert them,” said the piousPrincess. “Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life to wrest ablessing for my Lord and my harmless children.—One alas! is taken fromme! would heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father! intercede forher!”

“Every heart will bless her,” cried Theodore with rapture.

“Be dumb, rash youth!” said Jerome. “And thou, fond Princess,contend not with the Powers above! the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away:bless His holy name, and submit to his decrees.”

“I do most devoutly,” said Hippolita; “but will He not sparemy only comfort? must Matilda perish too?—ah! Father, I came—butdismiss thy son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter.”

“May heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent Princess!” saidTheodore retiring. Jerome frowned.

Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the proposal she had suggested toManfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was gone tomake to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the notion, which hecovered under pretence of the improbability that Frederic, the nearest of bloodto Alfonso, and who was come to claim his succession, would yield to analliance with the usurper of his right. But nothing could equal the perplexityof the Friar, when Hippolita confessed her readiness not to oppose theseparation, and demanded his opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. TheFriar caught eagerly at her request of his advice, and without explaining hisaversion to the proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted toHippolita in the most alarming colours the sinfulness of her consent, denouncedjudgments against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the severest termsto treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and refusal.

Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Frederic, and proposed thedouble marriage. That weak Prince, who had been struck with the charms ofMatilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer. He forgot his enmity toManfred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by force; and flatteringhimself that no issue might succeed from the union of his daughter with thetyrant, he looked upon his own succession to the principality as facilitated bywedding Matilda. He made faint opposition to the proposal; affecting, for formonly, not to acquiesce unless Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfredtook that upon himself.

Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation toexpect sons, he hastened to his wife’s apartment, determined to extorther compliance. He learned with indignation that she was absent at the convent.His guilt suggested to him that she had probably been informed by Isabella ofhis purpose. He doubted whether her retirement to the convent did not import anintention of remaining there, until she could raise obstacles to their divorce;and the suspicions he had already entertained of Jerome, made him apprehendthat the Friar would not only traverse his views, but might have inspiredHippolita with the resolution of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel thisclue, and to defeat its success, Manfred hastened to the convent, and arrivedthere as the Friar was earnestly exhorting the Princess never to yield to thedivorce.

“Madam,” said Manfred, “what business drew you hither? whydid you not await my return from the Marquis?”

“I came to implore a blessing on your councils,” replied Hippolita.

“My councils do not need a Friar’s intervention,” saidManfred; “and of all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whomyou delight to confer with?”

“Profane Prince!” said Jerome; “is it at the altar that thouchoosest to insult the servants of the altar?—but, Manfred, thy impiousschemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them—nay, frownnot, Prince. The Church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard abovethy wrath. Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until hersentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head.”

“Audacious rebel!” said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awewith which the Friar’s words inspired him. “Dost thou presume tothreaten thy lawful Prince?”

“Thou art no lawful Prince,” said Jerome; “thou art noPrince—go, discuss thy claim with Frederic; and when that isdone—”

“It is done,” replied Manfred; “Frederic acceptsMatilda’s hand, and is content to waive his claim, unless I have no maleissue”—as he spoke those words three drops of blood fell from thenose of Alfonso’s statue. Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank onher knees.

“Behold!” said the Friar; “mark this miraculous indicationthat the blood of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred!”

“My gracious Lord,” said Hippolita, “let us submit ourselvesto heaven. Think not thy ever obedient wife rebels against thy authority. Ihave no will but that of my Lord and the Church. To that revered tribunal letus appeal. It does not depend on us to burst the bonds that unite us. If theChurch shall approve the dissolution of our marriage, be it so—I have butfew years, and those of sorrow, to pass. Where can they be worn away so well asat the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda’ssafety?”

“But thou shalt not remain here until then,” said Manfred.“Repair with me to the castle, and there I will advise on the propermeasures for a divorce;—but this meddling Friar comes not thither; myhospitable roof shall never more harbour a traitor—and for thyReverence’s offspring,” continued he, “I banish him from mydominions. He, I ween, is no sacred personage, nor under the protection of theChurch. Whoever weds Isabella, it shall not be Father Falconara’sstarted-up son.”

“They start up,” said the Friar, “who are suddenly beheld inthe seat of lawful Princes; but they wither away like the grass, and theirplace knows them no more.”

Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the Friar, led Hippolita forth; but at thedoor of the church whispered one of his attendants to remain concealed aboutthe convent, and bring him instant notice, if any one from the castle shouldrepair thither.

CHAPTER V.

Every reflection which Manfred made on the Friar’s behaviour, conspiredto persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella andTheodore. But Jerome’s new presumption, so dissonant from his formermeekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions. The Prince even suspected thatthe Friar depended on some secret support from Frederic, whose arrival,coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore, seemed to bespeak acorrespondence. Still more was he troubled with the resemblance of Theodore toAlfonso’s portrait. The latter he knew had unquestionably died withoutissue. Frederic had consented to bestow Isabella on him. These contradictionsagitated his mind with numberless pangs.

He saw but two methods of extricating himself from his difficulties. The onewas to resign his dominions to the Marquis—pride, ambition, and hisreliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed out a possibility of hispreserving them to his posterity, combated that thought. The other was to presshis marriage with Isabella. After long ruminating on these anxious thoughts, ashe marched silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed withthat Princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every insinuating andplausible argument to extract her consent to, even her promise of promoting thedivorce. Hippolita needed little persuasions to bend her to his pleasure. Sheendeavoured to win him over to the measure of resigning his dominions; butfinding her exhortations fruitless, she assured him, that as far as herconscience would allow, she would raise no opposition to a separation, thoughwithout better founded scruples than what he yet alleged, she would not engageto be active in demanding it.

This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise Manfred’shopes. He trusted that his power and wealth would easily advance his suit atthe court of Rome, whither he resolved to engage Frederic to take a journey onpurpose. That Prince had discovered so much passion for Matilda, that Manfredhoped to obtain all he wished by holding out or withdrawing hisdaughter’s charms, according as the Marquis should appear more or lessdisposed to co-operate in his views. Even the absence of Frederic would be amaterial point gained, until he could take further measures for his security.

Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of the Marquis; butcrossing the great hall through which he was to pass he met Bianca. The damselhe knew was in the confidence of both the young ladies. It immediately occurredto him to sift her on the subject of Isabella and Theodore. Calling her asideinto the recess of the oriel window of the hall, and soothing her with manyfair words and promises, he demanded of her whether she knew aught of the stateof Isabella’s affections.

“I! my Lord! no my Lord—yes my Lord—poor Lady! she iswonderfully alarmed about her father’s wounds; but I tell her he will dowell; don’t your Highness think so?”

“I do not ask you,” replied Manfred, “what she thinks abouther father; but you are in her secrets. Come, be a good girl and tell me; isthere any young man—ha!—you understand me.”

“Lord bless me! understand your Highness? no, not I. I told her a fewvulnerary herbs and repose—”

“I am not talking,” replied the Prince, impatiently, “abouther father; I know he will do well.”

“Bless me, I rejoice to hear your Highness say so; for though I thoughtit not right to let my young Lady despond, methought his greatness had a wanlook, and a something—I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded by theVenetian—”

“Thou answerest from the point,” interrupted Manfred; “buthere, take this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention—nay, noreverences; my favour shall not stop here—come, tell me truly; how standsIsabella’s heart?”

“Well! your Highness has such a way!” said Bianca, “to besure—but can your Highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out ofyour lips—”

“It shall not, it shall not,” cried Manfred.

“Nay, but swear, your Highness.”

“By my halidame, if it should ever be known that I said it—”

“Why, truth is truth, I do not think my Lady Isabella ever muchaffectioned my young Lord your son; yet he was a sweet youth as one should see;I am sure, if I had been a Princess—but bless me! I must attend my LadyMatilda; she will marvel what is become of me.”

“Stay,” cried Manfred; “thou hast not satisfied my question.Hast thou ever carried any message, any letter?”

“I! good gracious!” cried Bianca; “I carry a letter? I wouldnot to be a Queen. I hope your Highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest.Did your Highness never hear what Count Marsigli offered me, when he came awooing to my Lady Matilda?”

“I have not leisure,” said Manfred, “to listen to thy tale. Ido not question thy honesty. But it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me. Howlong has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore?”

“Nay, there is nothing can escape your Highness!” said Bianca;“not that I know any thing of the matter. Theodore, to be sure, is aproper young man, and, as my Lady Matilda says, the very image of good Alfonso.Has not your Highness remarked it?”

“Yes, yes,—No—thou torturest me,” said Manfred.“Where did they meet? when?”

“Who! my Lady Matilda?” said Bianca.

“No, no, not Matilda: Isabella; when did Isabella first become acquaintedwith this Theodore!”

“Virgin Mary!” said Bianca, “how should I know?”

“Thou dost know,” said Manfred; “and I must know; Iwill—”

“Lord! your Highness is not jealous of young Theodore!” saidBianca.

“Jealous! no, no. Why should I be jealous? perhaps I mean to unitethem—If I were sure Isabella would have no repugnance.”

“Repugnance! no, I’ll warrant her,” said Bianca; “he isas comely a youth as ever trod on Christian ground. We are all in love withhim; there is not a soul in the castle but would be rejoiced to have him forour Prince—I mean, when it shall please heaven to call your Highness toitself.”

“Indeed!” said Manfred, “has it gone so far! oh! this cursedFriar!—but I must not lose time—go, Bianca, attend Isabella; but Icharge thee, not a word of what has passed. Find out how she is affectedtowards Theodore; bring me good news, and that ring has a companion. Wait atthe foot of the winding staircase: I am going to visit the Marquis, and willtalk further with thee at my return.”

Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss the twoKnights, his companions, having to talk with him on urgent affairs.

As soon as they were alone, he began in artful guise to sound the Marquis onthe subject of Matilda; and finding him disposed to his wish, he let drop hintson the difficulties that would attend the celebration of their marriage,unless—At that instant Bianca burst into the room with a wildness in herlook and gestures that spoke the utmost terror.

“Oh! my Lord, my Lord!” cried she; “we are all undone! it iscome again! it is come again!”

“What is come again?” cried Manfred amazed.

“Oh! the hand! the Giant! the hand!—support me! I am terrified outof my senses,” cried Bianca. “I will not sleep in the castleto-night. Where shall I go? my things may come after me to-morrow—would Ihad been content to wed Francesco! this comes of ambition!”

“What has terrified thee thus, young woman?” said the Marquis.“Thou art safe here; be not alarmed.”

“Oh! your Greatness is wonderfully good,” said Bianca, “but Idare not—no, pray let me go—I had rather leave everything behindme, than stay another hour under this roof.”

“Go to, thou hast lost thy senses,” said Manfred. “Interruptus not; we were communing on important matters—My Lord, this wench issubject to fits—Come with me, Bianca.”

“Oh! the Saints! No,” said Bianca, “for certain it comes towarn your Highness; why should it appear to me else? I say my prayers morningand evening—oh! if your Highness had believed Diego! ’Tis the samehand that he saw the foot to in the gallery-chamber—Father Jerome hasoften told us the prophecy would be out one of thesedays—‘Bianca,’ said he, ‘mark mywords—’”

“Thou ravest,” said Manfred, in a rage; “be gone, and keepthese fooleries to frighten thy companions.”

“What! my Lord,” cried Bianca, “do you think I have seennothing? go to the foot of the great stairs yourself—as I live I sawit.”

“Saw what? tell us, fair maid, what thou hast seen,” said Frederic.

“Can your Highness listen,” said Manfred, “to the delirium ofa silly wench, who has heard stories of apparitions until she believesthem?”

“This is more than fancy,” said the Marquis; “her terror istoo natural and too strongly impressed to be the work of imagination. Tell us,fair maiden, what it is has moved thee thus?”

“Yes, my Lord, thank your Greatness,” said Bianca; “I believeI look very pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself—I wasgoing to my Lady Isabella’s chamber, by his Highness’sorder—”

“We do not want the circumstances,” interrupted Manfred.“Since his Highness will have it so, proceed; but be brief.”

“Lord! your Highness thwarts one so!” replied Bianca; “I fearmy hair—I am sure I never in my life—well! as I was telling yourGreatness, I was going by his Highness’s order to my LadyIsabella’s chamber; she lies in the watchet-coloured chamber, on theright hand, one pair of stairs: so when I came to the great stairs—I waslooking on his Highness’s present here—”

“Grant me patience!” said Manfred, “will this wench nevercome to the point? what imports it to the Marquis, that I gave thee a baublefor thy faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know what thousawest.”

“I was going to tell your Highness,” said Bianca, “if youwould permit me. So as I was rubbing the ring—I am sure I had not gone upthree steps, but I heard the rattling of armour; for all the world such aclatter as Diego says he heard when the Giant turned him about in thegallery-chamber.”

“What Giant is this, my Lord?” said the Marquis; “is yourcastle haunted by giants and goblins?”

“Lord! what, has not your Greatness heard the story of the Giant in thegallery-chamber?” cried Bianca. “I marvel his Highness has not toldyou; mayhap you do not know there is a prophecy—”

“This trifling is intolerable,” interrupted Manfred. “Let usdismiss this silly wench, my Lord! we have more important affairs todiscuss.”

“By your favour,” said Frederic, “these are no trifles. Theenormous sabre I was directed to in the wood, yon casque, its fellow—arethese visions of this poor maiden’s brain?”

“So Jaquez thinks, may it please your Greatness,” said Bianca.“He says this moon will not be out without our seeing some strangerevolution. For my part, I should not be surprised if it was to happento-morrow; for, as I was saying, when I heard the clattering of armour, I wasall in a cold sweat. I looked up, and, if your Greatness will believe me, I sawupon the uppermost banister of the great stairs a hand in armour as big as big.I thought I should have swooned. I never stopped until I camehither—would I were well out of this castle. My Lady Matilda told me butyester-morning that her Highness Hippolita knows something.”

“Thou art an insolent!” cried Manfred. “Lord Marquis, it muchmisgives me that this scene is concerted to affront me. Are my own domesticssuborned to spread tales injurious to my honour? Pursue your claim by manlydaring; or let us bury our feuds, as was proposed, by the intermarriage of ourchildren. But trust me, it ill becomes a Prince of your bearing to practise onmercenary wenches.”

“I scorn your imputation,” said Frederic. “Until this hour Inever set eyes on this damsel: I have given her no jewel. My Lord, my Lord,your conscience, your guilt accuses you, and would throw the suspicion on me;but keep your daughter, and think no more of Isabella. The judgments alreadyfallen on your house forbid me matching into it.”

Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which Frederic delivered these words,endeavoured to pacify him. Dismissing Bianca, he made such submissions to theMarquis, and threw in such artful encomiums on Matilda, that Frederic was oncemore staggered. However, as his passion was of so recent a date, it could notat once surmount the scruples he had conceived. He had gathered enough fromBianca’s discourse to persuade him that heaven declared itself againstManfred. The proposed marriages too removed his claim to a distance; and theprincipality of Otranto was a stronger temptation than the contingent reversionof it with Matilda. Still he would not absolutely recede from his engagements;but purposing to gain time, he demanded of Manfred if it was true in fact thatHippolita consented to the divorce. The Prince, transported to find no otherobstacle, and depending on his influence over his wife, assured the Marquis itwas so, and that he might satisfy himself of the truth from her own mouth.

As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the banquet was prepared.Manfred conducted Frederic to the great hall, where they were received byHippolita and the young Princesses. Manfred placed the Marquis next to Matilda,and seated himself between his wife and Isabella. Hippolita comported herselfwith an easy gravity; but the young ladies were silent and melancholy. Manfred,who was determined to pursue his point with the Marquis in the remainder of theevening, pushed on the feast until it waxed late; affecting unrestrainedgaiety, and plying Frederic with repeated goblets of wine. The latter, moreupon his guard than Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, onpretence of his late loss of blood; while the Prince, to raise his owndisordered spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged himself in plentifuldraughts, though not to the intoxication of his senses.

The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded. Manfred would havewithdrawn with Frederic; but the latter pleading weakness and want of repose,retired to his chamber, gallantly telling the Prince that his daughter shouldamuse his Highness until himself could attend him. Manfred accepted the party,and to the no small grief of Isabella, accompanied her to her apartment.Matilda waited on her mother to enjoy the freshness of the evening on theramparts of the castle.

Soon as the company were dispersed their several ways, Frederic, quitting hischamber, inquired if Hippolita was alone, and was told by one of herattendants, who had not noticed her going forth, that at that hour shegenerally withdrew to her oratory, where he probably would find her. TheMarquis, during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase of passion. He nowwished to find Hippolita in the disposition her Lord had promised. The portentsthat had alarmed him were forgotten in his desires. Stealing softly andunobserved to the apartment of Hippolita, he entered it with a resolution toencourage her acquiescence to the divorce, having perceived that Manfred wasresolved to make the possession of Isabella an unalterable condition, before hewould grant Matilda to his wishes.

The Marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in thePrincess’s apartment. Concluding her, as he had been advertised, in heroratory, he passed on. The door was ajar; the evening gloomy and overcast.Pushing open the door gently, he saw a person kneeling before the altar. As heapproached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a long woollen weed, whoseback was towards him. The person seemed absorbed in prayer. The Marquis wasabout to return, when the figure, rising, stood some moments fixed inmeditation, without regarding him. The Marquis, expecting the holy person tocome forth, and meaning to excuse his uncivil interruption, said,

“Reverend Father, I sought the Lady Hippolita.”

“Hippolita!” replied a hollow voice; “camest thou to thiscastle to seek Hippolita?” and then the figure, turning slowly round,discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton,wrapt in a hermit’s cowl.

“Angels of grace protect me!” cried Frederic, recoiling.

“Deserve their protection!” said the Spectre. Frederic, falling onhis knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him.

“Dost thou not remember me?” said the apparition. “Rememberthe wood of Joppa!”

“Art thou that holy hermit?” cried Frederic, trembling. “CanI do aught for thy eternal peace?”

“Wast thou delivered from bondage,” said the spectre, “topursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest ofHeaven engraven on it?”

“I have not, I have not,” said Frederic; “but say, blestspirit, what is thy errand to me? What remains to be done?”

“To forget Matilda!” said the apparition; and vanished.

Frederic’s blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he remainedmotionless. Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he besoughtthe intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of tears succeeded to thistransport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing in spite of him onhis thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. Erehe could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with ataper in her hand entered the oratory alone. Seeing a man without motion on thefloor, she gave a shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederic tohimself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushedfrom her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the mostplaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strangechance she had found him there in that posture.

“Ah, virtuous Princess!” said the Marquis, penetrated with grief,and stopped.

“For the love of Heaven, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “disclosethe cause of this transport! What mean these doleful sounds, this alarmingexclamation on my name? What woes has heaven still in store for the wretchedHippolita? Yet silent! By every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noblePrince,” continued she, falling at his feet, “to disclose thepurport of what lies at thy heart. I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest thesharp pangs that thou inflictest—speak, for pity! Does aught thou knowestconcern my child?”

“I cannot speak,” cried Frederic, bursting from her. “Oh,Matilda!”

Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own apartment. At thedoor of it he was accosted by Manfred, who flushed by wine and love had come toseek him, and to propose to waste some hours of the night in music andrevelling. Frederic, offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood ofhis soul, pushed him rudely aside, and entering his chamber, flung the doorintemperately against Manfred, and bolted it inwards. The haughty Prince,enraged at this unaccountable behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable ofthe most fatal excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met by the domesticwhom he had planted at the convent as a spy on Jerome and Theodore. This man,almost breathless with the haste he had made, informed his Lord that Theodore,and some lady from the castle were, at that instant, in private conference atthe tomb of Alfonso in St. Nicholas’s church. He had dogged Theodorethither, but the gloominess of the night had prevented his discovering who thewoman was.

Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella had driven from her onhis urging his passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but theinquietude she had expressed had been occasioned by her impatience to meetTheodore. Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he hastenedsecretly to the great church. Gliding softly between the aisles, and guided byan imperfect gleam of moonshine that shone faintly through the illuminatedwindows, he stole towards the tomb of Alfonso, to which he was directed byindistinct whispers of the persons he sought. The first sounds he coulddistinguish were—

“Does it, alas! depend on me? Manfred will never permit our union.”

“No, this shall prevent it!” cried the tyrant, drawing his dagger,and plunging it over her shoulder into the bosom of the person that spoke.

“Ah, me, I am slain!” cried Matilda, sinking. “Good heaven,receive my soul!”

“Savage, inhuman monster, what hast thou done!” cried Theodore,rushing on him, and wrenching his dagger from him.

“Stop, stop thy impious hand!” cried Matilda; “it is myfather!”

Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast, twisted his hands in hislocks, and endeavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore to despatch himself.Theodore, scarce less distracted, and only mastering the transports of hisgrief to assist Matilda, had now by his cries drawn some of the monks to hisaid. While part of them endeavoured, in concert with the afflicted Theodore, tostop the blood of the dying Princess, the rest prevented Manfred from layingviolent hands on himself.

Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, acknowledged with looks ofgrateful love the zeal of Theodore. Yet oft as her faintness would permit herspeech its way, she begged the assistants to comfort her father. Jerome, bythis time, had learnt the fatal news, and reached the church. His looks seemedto reproach Theodore, but turning to Manfred, he said,

“Now, tyrant! behold the completion of woe fulfilled on thy impious anddevoted head! The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven for vengeance; and heavenhas permitted its altar to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightestshed thy own blood at the foot of that Prince’s sepulchre!”

“Cruel man!” cried Matilda, “to aggravate the woes of aparent; may heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My Lord, mygracious Sire, dost thou forgive thy child? Indeed, I came not hither to meetTheodore. I found him praying at this tomb, whither my mother sent me tointercede for thee, for her—dearest father, bless your child, and say youforgive her.”

“Forgive thee! Murderous monster!” cried Manfred, “canassassins forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but heaven directed my bloody handto the heart of my child. Oh, Matilda!—I cannot utter it—canst thouforgive the blindness of my rage?”

“I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda; “butwhile I have life to ask it—oh! my mother! what will she feel? Will youcomfort her, my Lord? Will you not put her away? Indeed she loves you! Oh, I amfaint! bear me to the castle. Can I live to have her close my eyes?”

Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be borneinto the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried to thecastle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as sherequested. Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her inan agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with hopes oflife. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with discourses of heaven, andholding a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, preparedher for her passage to immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction,followed the litter in despair.

Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful catastrophe,had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the afflictedprocession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her senses, and shefell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and Frederic, who attended her,were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to herown situation: every thought was lost in tenderness for her mother.

Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself, sheasked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his handand her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to herheart. Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety. He dashed himselfon the ground, and cursed the day he was born. Isabella, apprehensive thatthese struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took uponherself to order Manfred to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matildato be conveyed to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than herdaughter, was regardless of everything but her; but when the tenderIsabella’s care would have likewise removed her, while the surgeonsexamined Matilda’s wound, she cried,

“Remove me! never, never! I lived but in her, and will expire withher.”

Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them againwithout speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand soondispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outerchamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with a transport equal tofrenzy.

“Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shallbe mine in death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried heto the Friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons.

“What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome. “Is thisan hour for marriage?”

“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Alas! there is noother!”

“Young man, thou art too unadvised,” said Frederic. “Dostthou think we are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? Whatpretensions hast thou to the Princess?”

“Those of a Prince,” said Theodore; “of the sovereign ofOtranto. This reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.”

“Thou ravest,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince ofOtranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, hasforfeited all pretensions.”

“My Lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tellsyou true. It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon,but fate presses onward to its work. What his hot-headed passion has revealed,my tongue confirms. Know, Prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the HolyLand—”

“Is this a season for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father,come and unite me to the Princess; she shall be mine! In every other thing Iwill dutifully obey you. My life! my adored Matilda!” continued Theodore,rushing back into the inner chamber, “will you not be mine? Will you notbless your—”

Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was near herend.

“What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible!”

The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up hereyes, she looked round for her mother.

“Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not Iwill quit thee!”

“Oh! you are too good,” said Matilda. “But weep not for me,my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells—Isabella, thou hast lovedme; wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman? Indeed I amfaint!”

“Oh! my child! my child!” said Hippolita in a flood of tears,“can I not withhold thee a moment?”

“It will not be,” said Matilda; “commend me toheaven—Where is my father? forgive him, dearest mother—forgive himmy death; it was an error. Oh! I had forgotten—dearest mother, I vowednever to see Theodore more—perhaps that has drawn down thiscalamity—but it was not intentional—can you pardon me?”

“Oh! wound not my agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thounever couldst offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “butit cannot be—Isabella—Theodore—for mysake—Oh!—” she expired.

Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threateneddestruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He printed a thousandkisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every expression that despairinglove could dictate.

Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to herapartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred, who,distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter,was advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon was now at its height,he read in the countenances of this unhappy company the event he dreaded.

“What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunderat that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and theclank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and Jerome thoughtthe last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, rushedinto the court. The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle behindManfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilatedto an immense magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins.

“Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: Andhaving pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it ascendedsolemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the form of St.Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were soon wraptfrom mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine will. Thefirst that broke silence was Hippolita.

“My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold thevanity of human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore weview the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I knownot—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we butdedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the furtherwrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon holycells that yet offer us a retreat.”

“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” repliedManfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh!could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at lastdo justice on myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction Ihave left to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and amurdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and maythis bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”

“Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would interrupt me;ye would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true—why elsethis bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my grandfather,was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’scrimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious willdeclared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no Conrad,no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook him.Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and twoconvents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saintappeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s posterity shouldreign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabitthe castle, and as long as issue male from Ricardo’s loins should remainto enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains ofall his wretched race! I have done—the woes of these three days speak therest. How this young man can be Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I donot doubt it. His are these dominions; I resign them—yet I knew notAlfonso had an heir—I question not the will of heaven—poverty andprayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned toRicardo.”

“What remains is my part to declare,” said Jerome. “WhenAlfonso set sail for the Holy Land he was driven by a storm to the coast ofSicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordshipmust have heard, was separated from him.”

“It is most true,” said Manfred; “and the title you give meis more than an outcast can claim—well! be it so—proceed.”

Jerome blushed, and continued. “For three months Lord Alfonso waswind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin namedVictoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They weremarried. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by whichhe was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials until his return from theCrusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife. Heleft her pregnant. During his absence she was delivered of a daughter. Butscarce had she felt a mother’s pangs ere she heard the fatal rumour ofher Lord’s death, and the succession of Ricardo. What could a friendless,helpless woman do? Would her testimony avail?—yet, my lord, I have anauthentic writing—”

“It needs not,” said Manfred; “the horrors of these days, thevision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousandparchments. Matilda’s death and my expulsion—”

“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man didnot mean to recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded.

“I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoriawas delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria died;and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative hastold the rest.”

The Friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of thecastle. In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the principality, withthe approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion inthe neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince,which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella concurred to promote. ButTheodore’s grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love; andit was not until after frequent discourses with Isabella of his dear Matilda,that he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one withwhom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of hissoul.

Related articles