The

Castle of Otranto

INTRODUCTION

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

Horace Walpole idled, and amused himself with the small life of the fashionable
world to which he was proud of belonging, though he had a quick eye for its
vanities. He had social wit, and liked to put it to small uses. But he was not
an empty idler, and there were seasons when he could become a sharp judge of
himself. “I am sensible,” he wrote to his most intimate friend,
“I am sensible of having more follies and weaknesses and fewer real good
qualities than most men. I sometimes reflect on this, though, I own, too
seldom. I always want to begin acting like a man, and a sensible one, which I
think I might be if I would.” He had deep home affections, and, under
many polite affectations, plenty of good sense.

Horace Walpole’s father died in 1745. The eldest son, who succeeded to
the 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 to
Horace 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 his
life. As to the title, he said that he felt himself being called names in his
old 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 by
spending freely upon its adornment with such things as were then fashionable as
objects of taste. But he delighted also in his flowers and his trellises of
roses, and the quiet Thames. When confined by gout to his London house in
Arlington Street, flowers from Strawberry Hill and a bird were necessary
consolations. He set up also at Strawberry Hill a private printing press, at
which he printed his friend Gray’s poems, also in 1758 his own
“Catalogue of the Royal and Noble Authors of England,” and five
volumes of “Anecdotes of Painting in England,” between 1762 and
1771.

Horace Walpole produced The Castle of Otranto in 1765, at the mature age
of forty-eight. It was suggested by a dream from which he said he waked one
morning, and of which “all I could recover was, that I had thought myself
in an ancient castle (a very natural dream for a head like mine, filled with
Gothic story), and that on the uppermost banister of a great staircase I saw a
gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat down and began to write, without
knowing in the least what I intended to say or relate.” So began the tale
which professed to be translated by “William Marshal, gentleman, from the
Italian of Onuphro Muralto, canon of the Church of St. Nicholas, at
Otranto.” It was written in two months. Walpole’s friend Gray
reported to him that at Cambridge the book made “some of them cry a
little, and all in general afraid to go to bed o’ nights.” The
Castle of Otranto was, in its own way, an early sign of the reaction
towards 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 he
reads 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 in
the north of England. It was printed at Naples, in the black letter, in the
year 1529. How much sooner it was written does not appear. The principal
incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of Christianity; but
the language and conduct have nothing that savours of barbarism. The style is
the purest Italian.

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

This solution of the author’s motives is, however, offered as a mere
conjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution of them
might have, his work can only be laid before the public at present as a matter
of entertainment. Even as such, some apology for it is necessary. Miracles,
visions, necromancy, dreams, and other preternatural events, are exploded now
even from romances. That was not the case when our author wrote; much less when
the story itself is supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigy
was so established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to
the manners of the times, who should omit all mention of them. He is not bound
to 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 else
unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and all the actors
comport themselves as persons would do in their situation. There is no bombast,
no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends
directly to the catastrophe. Never is the reader’s attention relaxed. The
rules of the drama are almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The
characters are well drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, the
author’s principal engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and
it is so often contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant
vicissitude of interesting passions.

Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little
serious for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition to the
principal personages, the art of the author is very observable in his conduct
of the subalterns. They discover many passages essential to the story, which
could not be well brought to light but by their naïveté and
simplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles of Bianca, in the
last 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 this
piece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author’s defects. I could wish
he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this: that “the sins
of fathers are visited on their children to the third and fourth
generation.” I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at present,
ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so remote a
punishment. And yet this moral is weakened by that less direct insinuation,
that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St. Nicholas. Here the
interest 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 be
pleased with a sight of this performance. The piety that reigns throughout, the
lessons 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. Should
it meet with the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the
original Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our language
falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and harmony. The
latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It is difficult in English
to relate without falling too low or rising too high; a fault obviously
occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure language in common
conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank piques himself on speaking
his own tongue correctly and with choice. I cannot flatter myself with having
done justice to my author in this respect: his style is as elegant as his
conduct of the passions is masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his
talents to what they were evidently proper for—the theatre.

I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though the
machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I cannot but
believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth. The scene is
undoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems frequently, without
design, 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:” these
and other passages are strong presumptions that the author had some certain
building in his eye. Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such
researches, may possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on
which our author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he
describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute to
interest the reader, and will make the “Castle of Otranto” a still
more 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 most
beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three
years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he
was the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection to
Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of
Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had already been delivered by her
guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as
soon as Conrad’s infirm state of health would permit.

Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and
neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their
Prince’s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this
precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to
represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great
youth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any other answer than
reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants
and subjects were less cautious in their discourses. They attributed this hasty
wedding 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 be
grown too large to inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense of
this prophecy; and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the
marriage in question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the
populace adhere the less to their opinion.

Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was
assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning the
divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least
delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of his
attendants to summon the young Prince. The servant, who had not stayed long
enough to have crossed the court to Conrad’s apartment, came running back
breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He
said 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? The
fellow made no answer, but continued pointing towards the courtyard; and at
last, 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 was
heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to
be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get information of what
occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained endeavouring to assist her
mother, and Isabella stayed for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any
impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little
affection.

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

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

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

Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he
advanced hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—he
beheld 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, and
shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune
had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away
the Prince’s speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could
occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; and
seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation on the stupendous
object that had occasioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor
could even the bleeding mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of
Manfred from the portent before him.

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

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided
by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to
her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber
more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she
heard, except the death of her son.

Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and
thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella,
who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who returned that
tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous about the
Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight of
sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the
warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her own situation could not help finding
its 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 marriage
which had promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or
from the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by
great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigour
to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred
remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of the
crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around him. The few
words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew from
whence 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 so
to the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable,
as the catastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless
guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring
village, observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the
figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the
church of St. Nicholas.

“Villain! What sayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from his
trance 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 fury
as 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 had
offended the Prince. Yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and
humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred’s grip, and then with an
obeisance, 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, if
he 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 great
church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring that
the helmet was missing from Alfonso’s statue. Manfred, at this news, grew
perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest
within him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying—

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

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

“Ay, ay; ’tis he, ’tis he: he has stolen the helmet from good
Alfonso’s tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with
it,” never reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the
marble 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 of
armour of so prodigious a weight.

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether
provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two
helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that in the
church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition,
he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necromancer, and that
till the Church could take cognisance of the affair, he would have the
Magician, 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 art
might 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 savage
and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed with their
lord’s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great appearance
of justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very instrument with
which he had offended: nor were they struck with the least compunction at the
probability of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed that, by his
diabolic skill, he could easily supply himself with nutriment.

Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a guard
with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the prisoner, he
dismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his own chamber, after
locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics to
remain.

In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the Princess
Hippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own sorrow frequently
demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her attendants to watch over
him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort her
father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred, though she
trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly
recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of the domestics for her father, was
informed that he was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobody
should have admittance to him. Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for
the death of her brother, and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his
sole remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in upon his
affliction; yet solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother,
encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had
never 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 disordered
steps; a mood which increased her apprehensions. She was, however, just going
to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the door; and as it was now
twilight, concurring with the disorder of his mind, he did not distinguish the
person, 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 a
daughter;” and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the
terrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with her father’s impetuosity to venture a
second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter a
reception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that the
knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the most anxious
terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda assured her
he 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 a
mother’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? has
he not sunk under it? You do not answer me—alas! I dread the
worst!—Raise me, my maidens; I will, I will see my Lord. Bear me to him
instantly: he is dearer to me even than my children.”

Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita’s rising; and both
those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the
Princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and told Isabella
that 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 less
disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him, dear
Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add to
his.”

As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch before
her. 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 the
wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling.

“I sent for you, Lady,” said he—and then stopped under great
appearance 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 of
your beauty.”

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

“Think no more of him,” interrupted Manfred; “he was a
sickly, puny child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not
trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred
calls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes
of my prudence—but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have
reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.”

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

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

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

“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella, “my mind is too sadly
engrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of another
marriage. If ever my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall
obey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his
return, permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the
melancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita’s, and the fair
Matilda’s affliction.”

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

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

“I tell you,” said Manfred imperiously, “Hippolita is no
longer my wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her
unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust will
give a new date to my hopes.”

At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead with
fright and horror. She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose to pursue
her, 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 height
of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, and
accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage
from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred’s pursuit
of his declaration, cried—

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

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

At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench
where 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 knew
whence the sound came, but started, and said—

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

Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached the
stairs, 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 the
portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave
and melancholy air.

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

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

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

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

The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted
Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase. There
she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from
the 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 and
prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but
Manfred would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to double
the injury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity
of his passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he
had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she
could—for that night, at least—avoid his odious purpose. Yet where
conceal herself? How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout the
castle?

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

The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; and
it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into
the 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 long
labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with new terror; yet more she
dreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue
her.

She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stopped
and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought
she heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she
thought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she concluded it
was 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 a
place where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yet
the sound seemed not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was, he
must have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps
she had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come. Cheered
with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not the
Prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at some distance
to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she held up, could
discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing the light.

Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she
should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror. The
very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. It
could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Her
gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence made her hope
that, unless sent by the Prince’s order to seek her, his servants would
rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these
reflections, and believing by what she could observe that she was near the
mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had been
opened; but a sudden gust of wind that met her at the door extinguished her
lamp, and left her in total darkness.

Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in so
dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day,
hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far
from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom,
who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all these thoughts crowded on
her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She
addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their
assistance. 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 clouded
moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and
from whence hung a fragment of earth or building, she could not distinguish
which, that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards
this 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 the
brink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in a few
moments I may be made miserable for ever.”

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

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

Saying these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the stranger
to 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, of
which 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: Manfred
will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to
his resentment.”

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

“Generous youth,” said Isabella, “how shall I ever
requite—”

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

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

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

“We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me; dark and
dismal 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 no
reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service; in a
few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage—only let me know to
whom I am so much obliged.”

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

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

“Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I
will 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 stranger
hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell, and the
spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having observed
Isabella’s method of touching the spring; nor had he many moments to make
an 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 got
far.”

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

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

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

“Presumptuous villain!” cried Manfred; “dost thou provoke my
wrath? Tell me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy
guards, 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, and
but too willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed upon
them.”

“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 thy
accomplices.”

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

Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeks
of 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 into
the vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant had pressed himself some
minutes 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 I
entered the cloister?”

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

“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 part
of it within which I ever was.”

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

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

“Peace, blockhead!” said the Prince angrily; “if he was going
to escape, how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what
noise 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 death
instantly 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-door
that I heard?”

“It was,” said the youth.

“It was!” said the Prince; “and how didst thou come to know
there 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 didst
thou discover the secret of opening it?”

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

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

“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I, totally
unacquainted 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 I
should have explored the way—I could not be in a worse situation than I
was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your immediate arrival
followed. I had given the alarm—what imported it to me whether I was
seized 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 not
yet told me how thou didst open the lock.”

“That I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant; and, taking up a
fragment 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 time
for the escape of the Princess. This presence of mind, joined to the frankness
of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even felt a disposition towards pardoning
one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage
tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had
given an asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues
were always ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.

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

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

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

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

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

“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 still
greater consternation.

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

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

“So I think, blockheads,” said Manfred; “what is it has
scared 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 a
direct answer, or, by Heaven—”

“Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,” said the
poor 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 thou
art; what is the matter?”

“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if it please your Highness
to hear me; Diego and I, according to your Highness’s orders, went to
search for the young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghost
of my young Lord, your Highness’s son, God rest his soul, as he has not
received 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 have
seen ten whole ghosts.”

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

“Why, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going to
tell your Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, God
rest his precious soul! not one of us your Highness’s faithful
servants—indeed we are, my Lord, though poor men—I say, not one of
us 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 to
look for her, and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to
her.”

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

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

“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it is
has terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will
see 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 next
to 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 the
portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end of the gallery. His
voice faltered, and he asked with disorder—

“What is in the great chamber?”

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

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

“Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think of
looking 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!” replied
he—“nay, it was not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown
foolhardy, and would go on, though I advised him not—if ever I open a
door that is shut again—”

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

“I, my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heard
the 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 was
it 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 he
cried out, and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is it the
ghost?’ ‘The ghost! no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stood
on end—‘it is a giant, I believe; he is all clad in armour, for I
saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the helmet below in
the court.’ As he said these words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion
and the rattling of armour, as if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me
since that he believes the giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were
stretched at length on the floor. Before we could get to the end of the
gallery, we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not
dare turn back to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on
it, we must have heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’s
sake, 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, “or
we must leave your Highness’s service.”

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

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

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

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

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone directly to
the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had retired thither.
Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious fondness to meet her Lord, whom
she had not seen since the death of their son. She would have flown in a
transport 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 want
Isabella.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a few of
his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended the staircase
without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met
Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he had
gone directly to the Princess’s apartment with the alarm of what he had
seen. That excellent Lady, who no more than Manfred doubted of the reality of
the 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 series
of griefs not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself
the 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 to
accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visited
the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul than she had
felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that the vision of the
gigantic 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. She
and the chaplain had examined the chamber, and found everything in the usual
order.

Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no work of
fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strange
events had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a Princess who
returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he felt returning
love forcing itself into his eyes; but not less ashamed of feeling remorse
towards 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 towards
pity. The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy.

Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself that
she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it
was his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him her
hand—but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabella
was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the
castle should be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain of their
lives to suffer nobody to pass out. The young peasant, to whom he spoke
favourably, he ordered to remain in a small chamber on the stairs, in which
there was a pallet-bed, and the key of which he took away himself, telling the
youth 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 own
chamber.

CHAPTER II.

Matilda, who by Hippolita’s order had retired to her apartment, was
ill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had deeply
affected her. She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the strange words
which had fallen from her father, and his obscure menace to the Princess his
wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind
with terror and alarm. She waited anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young
damsel that attended her, whom she had sent to learn what was become of
Isabella. Bianca soon appeared, and informed her mistress of what she had
gathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be found. She related
the adventure of the young peasant who had been discovered in the vault, though
with many simple additions from the incoherent accounts of the domestics; and
she dwelt principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the
gallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she
was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but would
watch 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 he
have so urgent with the chaplain?” said Matilda, “Does he intend to
have my brother’s body interred privately in the chapel?”

“Oh, Madam!” said Bianca, “now I guess. As you are become his
heiress, he is impatient to have you married: he has always been raving for
more 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 cast
off your faithful Bianca: you won’t put Donna Rosara over me now you are
a great Princess.”

“My poor Bianca,” said Matilda, “how fast your thoughts
amble! I a great princess! What hast thou seen in Manfred’s behaviour
since 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, and
I 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 dear
mother! yes, Bianca, ’tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I
can support his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I am
witness to his causeless severity towards her.”

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

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

“I would have you a great Lady,” replied Bianca, “come what
will. I do not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had
your will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is better
than 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 the
battlements in the tower above: you have heard it a thousand times.”

“Nay,” said Bianca, “there was no harm neither in what I
said: 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 the
veil?”

“Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger,” said Matilda: “you
know 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 council
chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young Prince, with
large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like jet; in
short, Madam, a young hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in the
gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours together—”

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

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

“Perhaps my mind would be less affected,” said Matilda, “if
my 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 acts
from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know
there is: in her agony of grief for my brother’s death she dropped some
words that intimated as much.”

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

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

“What! was she sorry for what she had said?” asked Bianca; “I
am 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 eyes
but as a parent directs.”

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

“Bianca,” said the Princess, “I do not allow you to mention
my friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul
is pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps has
now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the solitude in
which 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 a
voice—but it must be fancy: your terrors, I suppose, have infected
me.”

“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 the
great astrologer, that was your brother’s tutor, drowned himself. For
certain, Madam, his ghost and the young Prince’s are now met in the
chamber below—for Heaven’s sake let us fly to your mother’s
apartment!”

“I charge you not to stir,” said Matilda. “If they are
spirits in pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning them. They can
mean 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; we
will say a prayer, and then speak to them.”

“Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!” cried
Bianca. As she said those words they heard the casement of the little chamber
below Matilda’s open. They listened attentively, and in a few minutes
thought 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 shall
know the voice.”

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

“Thou art a very fool,” said Matilda, opening the window gently
herself. 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 at
this unusual hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?”

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

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

“I am indeed unhappy,” said the stranger; “and I know not
what 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 to
myself—yet think me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. I
will remember you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious
self and your noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for others, not for
myself.”

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

“Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!” said the Princess. “What
right have we to pry into the secrets of this young man’s heart? He seems
virtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances that
authorise us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to his
confidence?”

“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 me become a peasant’s confidante?”
said the Princess.

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

“Peace, simpleton!” said the Princess. “Though he said he was
unhappy, it does not follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has
happened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what love
causes.—Stranger,” resumed the Princess, “if thy misfortunes
have not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of the
Princess Hippolita’s power to redress, I will take upon me to answer that
she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair
to 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 fail
to 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 this
unwonted hour.”

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

“Speak quickly,” said Matilda; “the morning dawns apace:
should the labourers come into the fields and perceive us—What wouldst
thou 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 me
emboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?”

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

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

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

“I had acted more wisely,” said the Princess to Bianca, with some
sharpness, “if I had let thee converse with this peasant; his
inquisitiveness 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 more
to the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him.”

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

“A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play,”
answered Bianca. “Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question
about my Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, there
is more in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the
servants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella’s escape;
now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know that my Lady Isabella never much
fancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is killed just in a critical
minute—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 a
magician, 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 very
particular 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. I
accuse nobody; but if my young Lord came honestly by his death—”

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

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

“To be sure,” said Matilda, “thy observations are not totally
without foundation—Isabella’s flight amazes me. The curiosity of
the stranger is very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought from
me.”

“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 knows
aught 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 the
postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower, where
Matilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing the conversation with
the stranger.

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

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

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

“As for that, Madam,” replied she, “if he could get from
under the helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father’s anger. I do
not doubt but he has some talisman or other about him.”

“You resolve everything into magic,” said Matilda; “but a man
who has any intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of
those tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with
what fervour he vowed to remember me to 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 to
elope!” said Bianca. “No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of another
guess mould than you take her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up her eyes
in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when your back was
turned—”

“You wrong her,” said Matilda; “Isabella is no hypocrite; she
has a due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the
contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and though I own
the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me; though it seems
inconsistent with the friendship between us; I cannot forget the disinterested
warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil. She wished to see me
married, though my dower would have been a loss to her and my brother’s
children. 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 the
Princess that the Lady Isabella was found.

“Where?” said Matilda.

“She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas’s church,” replied
the servant; “Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below
with 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’s
apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioning
her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little
suspecting the cause of the Friar’s arrival, and knowing he was employed
by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave
them 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 Lady
Isabella—”

“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 came
thither.”

“No, my Lord,” replied the good man, with an air of firmness and
authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help revering
the saint-like virtues of Jerome; “my commission is to both, and with
your 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 acquainted
with the cause of the Lady Isabella’s retirement from your castle.”

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

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

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

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

“The Lady Isabella,” resumed Jerome, “commends herself to
both your Highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been
treated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her own
misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes, whom
she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for uninterrupted union and
felicity between you” [Manfred’s colour changed]: “but as it
is no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to
remain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the
certainty 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 insist
on her return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to
her guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own.”

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

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

“The cause!” interrupted Jerome; “was a young man the
cause?”

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

“I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,”
said Jerome, “if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how
unjustly 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 as
discourses of love from any man.”

“Cant not to me,” said Manfred, “but return and bring the
Princess 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 of
this world; and nothing but a parent’s authority shall take her
thence.”

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

“She wished to have you for her parent,” said the Friar; “but
Heaven 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 my
displeasure.”

“Holy Father,” said Hippolita, “it is your office to be no
respecter of persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty
to hear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear. Attend the Prince to
his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the blessed Virgin to
inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the heart of my gracious
Lord to its wonted peace and gentleness.”

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

Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where shutting
the door, “I perceive, Father,” said he, “that Isabella has
acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of
state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that I
should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolita. I have made
choice of Isabella. You must bring her back; and you must do more. I know the
influence you have with Hippolita: her conscience is in your hands. She is, I
allow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little
grandeur of this world: you can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to
consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a
monastery—she shall endow one if she will; and she shall have the means
of being as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert
the calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving
the principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and though
the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honour
your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and the
preservation of my family.”

“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am but its
worthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy
unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have mounted to
the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of
repudiating her: by me thou art warned not to pursue the incestuous design on
thy contracted daughter. Heaven that delivered her from thy fury, when the
judgments so recently fallen on thy house ought to have inspired thee with
other thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised
Friar, am able to protect her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and
uncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not what
amours, scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine
honesty. I love my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy
Princess—but I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor
serve even the cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances—but
forsooth! 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 was
so great, so flourishing as Manfred’s?—where is young Conrad
now?—My Lord, I respect your tears—but I mean not to check
them—let them flow, Prince! They will weigh more with heaven toward the
welfare of thy subjects, than a marriage, which, founded on lust or policy,
could never prosper. The sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to
thine, cannot be preserved by a match which the church will never allow. If it
is the will of the Most High that Manfred’s name must perish, resign
yourself, my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can never pass
away. 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 alarm
you. 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 in
her 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 for
my soul’s health to tie faster the knot that has united us—but
alas! Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that I
have had scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me in
the fourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been
informed that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits
heavy at my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation
that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad!—ease my conscience of this
burden: dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness—which
your divine exhortations have commenced in my soul.”

How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived this
turn in the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was
determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, that
his impatience for a son would direct him to some other object, who might not
be equally proof against the temptation of Manfred’s rank. For some time
the holy man remained absorbed in thought. At length, conceiving some hopes
from delay, he thought the wisest conduct would be to prevent the Prince from
despairing of recovering Isabella. Her the Friar knew he could dispose, from
her affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for
Manfred’s addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the church
could be fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with
the Prince’s scruples, he at length said:

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

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

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

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

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

“Thou hardened young impostor!” said the Prince, as soon as he saw
the 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 to
thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast been
acquainted with the Princess—and take care to answer with less
equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the truth from
thee.”

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

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

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

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

“I may believe as much or as little as I please of this,” said
Manfred; “but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the truth
of 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 brink
of destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was in
danger 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 a
woman in distress puts herself under my protection.”

During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita. At
the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery with
latticed windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing her
father’s voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him, she stopped
to learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention: the steady and
composed 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 his
countenance soon engrossed her whole care.

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

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. Seize
him,” continued Manfred, “and bind him—the first news the
Princess hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her
sake.”

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

“This is a lover!” cried Manfred in a rage: “a peasant within
sight 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 to
expect for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity
farther.”

“Then thou wilt not speak?” said Manfred.

“I will not,” replied he.

“Bear him away into the courtyard,” said Manfred; “I will see
his 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 this
ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter! The young peasant, who heard it
too, was struck with horror, and asked eagerly the same question; but Manfred
ordered him to be hurried into the court, and kept there for execution, till he
had informed himself of the cause of Bianca’s shrieks. When he learned
the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be
carried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his
guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow.

The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that
touched every heart but Manfred’s. He wished earnestly to know the
meaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing to
exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he deigned
to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and make his peace
with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor’s means to come at the
youth’s history, readily granted his request; and being convinced that
Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be called and shrive
the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe that his
imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in the
most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood. He accused himself in the
bitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and
left no method untried to soften the tyrant’s rage. Manfred, more
incensed than appeased by Jerome’s intercession, whose retraction now
made him suspect he had been imposed upon by both, commanded the Friar to do
his duty, telling him he would not allow the prisoner many minutes for
confession.

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

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

“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hope
heaven will pardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy
blessing.”

“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome.
“Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou
forgive 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; “not
to plead for him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood be
upon 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 is
going!”

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

“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate could
have 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 sorrow
which 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 his
collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below
his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a bloody arrow.

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

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

Manfred’s heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his
astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even doubted
whether 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 it
consistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’s
offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours!”

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

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

“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I am
disposed 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 the
blood 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, and
Sicily 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 dust
whence we sprung, and whither we must return.”

“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are no
longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you
will have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the
grace of that sturdy criminal there.”

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

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

“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; but
aggravate not an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor
think of such vanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the
memory 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 is
happy! Thou art all my care now!—Most dread Lord! will you—will you
grant me my poor boy’s life?”

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

“Oh! my Lord,” said Jerome, “is my honesty the price I must
pay 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? Is
the 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 could
reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hung
without the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the same instant the
sable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end of
the court, were tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some
invisible wearer.

CHAPTER III.

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

“Father!” said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Count
of 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! will
you not assist me with your prayers?”

“My Lord,” replied Jerome, “heaven is no doubt displeased
with your mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the church; and cease to
persecute her ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to respect the
holy 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 spoke
the fulness of his soul.

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

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

“Go, dearest Sir,” said Theodore; “obey the Prince. I do not
deserve 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 the
very words it had been uttered. The first sounds struck Manfred with terror;
but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and all his
courage revived.

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

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

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

It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be conducted
to the postern-gate, and shut out from the castle. And he ordered some of his
attendants to carry Theodore to the top of the black tower, and guard him
strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to exchange a hasty embrace at
parting. 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 thou
with me?”

“I come,” replied he, “to thee, Manfred, usurper of the
principality of Otranto, from the renowned and invincible Knight, the Knight of
the Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his Lord, Frederic, Marquis of Vicenza, he
demands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prince, whom thou hast basely and
traitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians during his
absence; and he requires thee to resign the principality of Otranto, which thou
hast usurped from the said Lord Frederic, the nearest of blood to the last
rightful Lord, Alfonso the Good. If thou dost not instantly comply with these
just demands, he defies thee to single combat to the last extremity.” And
so 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 to
make good his Lord’s claim against thee, as he is a true knight, and thou
an usurper and ravisher.”

Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his interest
to provoke the Marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of Frederic was; nor
was this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic’s ancestors had
assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso the Good
without issue; but Manfred, his father, and grandfather, had been too powerful
for the house of Vicenza to dispossess them. Frederic, a martial and amorous
young Prince, had married a beautiful young lady, of whom he was enamoured, and
who had died in childbed of Isabella. Her death affected him so much that he
had taken the cross and gone to the Holy Land, where he was wounded in an
engagement against the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead. When
the news reached Manfred’s ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady
Isabella to deliver her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by which
alliance he had proposed to unite the claims of the two houses. This motive, on
Conrad’s death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve on
espousing her himself; and the same reflection determined him now to endeavour
at obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage. A like policy inspired
him with the thought of inviting Frederic’s champion into the castle,
lest he should be informed of Isabella’s flight, which he strictly
enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight’s retinue.

“Herald,” said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these
reflections, “return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our
differences by the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid him
welcome to my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have
courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we cannot
adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in safety, and
shall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms: So help me God and
His holy Trinity!”

The Herald made three obeisances and retired.

During this interview Jerome’s mind was agitated by a thousand contrary
passions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was to
persuade Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed at
the thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita’s unbounded
submission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt but he could
alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get access to her; yet
should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from him, it might be equally
fatal to Theodore. He was impatient to know whence came the Herald, who with so
little management had questioned the title of Manfred: yet he did not dare
absent himself from the convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight
be imputed to him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain on
what conduct to resolve. A Monk, who met him in the porch and observed his
melancholy air, said—

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

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

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

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

“Poor Gentlewoman!” replied the Friar; “I told her the sad
news, and offered her spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the transitory
condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the example
of the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon.”

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

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

Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she was not
in her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but could learn no
news of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church, and
despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get intelligence if she had
been seen; but to no purpose. Nothing could equal the good man’s
perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having precipitated
his wife’s death, had taken the alarm, and withdrawn herself to some more
secret place of concealment. This new flight would probably carry the
Prince’s fury to the height. The report of Hippolita’s death,
though it seemed almost incredible, increased his consternation; and though
Isabella’s escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred for a husband, Jerome
could feel no comfort from it, while it endangered the life of his son. He
determined to return to the castle, and made several of his brethren accompany
him to attest his innocence to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their
intercession with his for Theodore.

The Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the gates
of the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger Knight and his
train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First came two harbingers with
wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpets. Then a hundred
foot-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. Two
heralds on each side of a gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the arms
of Vicenza and Otranto quarterly—a circumstance that much offended
Manfred—but he stifled his resentment. Two more pages. The Knight’s
confessor telling his beads. Fifty more footmen clad as before. Two Knights
habited in complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal
Knight. The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. The
Knight’s own squire. A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of it. The Knight himself on a chestnut
steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face entirely concealed
by his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of scarlet and black
feathers. 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, read
again the words of the challenge. Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the
gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his attention
was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned and
beheld the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the same extraordinary
manner as before. It required intrepidity like Manfred’s not to sink
under a concurrence of circumstances that seemed to announce his fate. Yet
scorning in the presence of strangers to betray the courage he had always
manifested, he said boldly—

“Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal
mould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight, thou
wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be these omens from heaven or
hell, 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 repose
thyself. To-morrow thou shalt have a fair field, and heaven befriend the juster
side!”

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

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

“Sirs” said the Prince, “ye are the first guests I ever
treated within these walls who scorned to hold any intercourse with me: nor has
it oft been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and dignity
against strangers and mutes. You say you come in the name of Frederic of
Vicenza; I have ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous Knight; nor
would he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social converse with
a Prince that is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in arms. Still ye are
silent—well! be it as it may—by the laws of hospitality and
chivalry 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 of
your 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. I
shall constrain you in nothing: use your good liking. Since mirth is not your
mood, let us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better. Let us withdraw, and
hear if what I have to unfold may be better relished than the vain efforts I
have 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 chief
personage:—

“You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of
Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been contracted
in 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 for
the nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul God rest! I shall speak to
the latter article of your demands first. You must know, your Lord knows, that
I enjoy the principality of Otranto from my father, Don Manuel, as he received
it from his father, Don Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless in
the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in
consideration of his faithful services.” The stranger shook his head.

“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, warmly, “Ricardo was a valiant
and upright man; he was a pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the
adjoining church and two convents. He was peculiarly patronised by St.
Nicholas—my grandfather was incapable—I say, Sir, Don Ricardo was
incapable—excuse me, your interruption has disordered me. I venerate the
memory of my grandfather. Well, Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by his
good 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 in
blood. I have consented to put my title to the issue of the sword. Does that
imply a vicious title? I might have asked, where is Frederic your Lord? Report
speaks him dead in captivity. You say, your actions say, he lives—I
question it not—I might, Sirs, I might—but I do not. Other Princes
would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if he can: they would not
stake their dignity on a single combat: they would not submit it to the
decision of unknown mutes!—pardon me, gentlemen, I am too warm: but
suppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are stout Knights, would it not move
your choler to have your own and the honour of your ancestors called in
question?”
“But to the point. Ye require me to deliver up the Lady Isabella. Sirs, I
must ask if ye are authorised to receive her?”

The Knight nodded.

“Receive her,” continued Manfred; “well, you are authorised
to 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 to
offer. Ye see, gentlemen, before you, the most unhappy of men!” (he began
to 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—Conrad
died 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, breaking
silence.

“Afford me your patience,” said Manfred. “I rejoice to find,
by this testimony of your goodwill, that this matter may be adjusted without
blood. It is no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to say. Ye
behold in me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of my son has weaned me
from earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer any charms in my eyes. I
wished to transmit the sceptre I had received from my ancestors with honour to
my son—but that is over! Life itself is so indifferent to me, that I
accepted your defiance with joy. A good Knight cannot go to the grave with more
satisfaction 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 of
envy, 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 story
should be a secret to you? Have you heard nothing relating to me and the
Princess Hippolita?”

They shook their heads.

“No! Thus, then, Sirs, it is. You think me ambitious: ambition, alas! is
composed of more rugged materials. If I were ambitious, I should not for so
many years have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious scruples. But I
weary your patience: I will be brief. Know, then, that I have long been
troubled in mind on my union with the Princess Hippolita. Oh! Sirs, if ye were
acquainted with that excellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her like a
mistress, and cherish her as a friend—but man was not born for perfect
happiness! She shares my scruples, and with her consent I have brought this
matter before the church, for we are related within the forbidden degrees. I
expect every hour the definitive sentence that must separate us for
ever—I am sure you feel for me—I see you do—pardon these
tears!”

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, I
thought of nothing but resigning my dominions, and retiring for ever from the
sight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who would be
tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who is dear to me as
my own blood. I was willing to restore the line of Alfonso, even in his most
distant kindred. And though, pardon me, I am satisfied it was his will that
Ricardo’s lineage should take place of his own relations; yet where was I
to search for those relations? I knew of none but Frederic, your Lord; he was a
captive to the infidels, or dead; and were he living, and at home, would he
quit the flourishing State of Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality of
Otranto? 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, and
thank heaven am beloved by them. But ye will ask whither tends this long
discourse? Briefly, then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in your arrival seems to point out
a remedy for these difficulties and my misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is at
liberty; I shall soon be so. I would submit to anything for the good of my
people. Were it not the best, the only way to extinguish the feuds between our
families, if I was to take the Lady Isabella to wife? You start. But though
Hippolita’s virtues will ever be dear to me, a Prince must not consider
himself; he is born for his people.” A servant at that instant entering
the chamber apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of his brethren demanded
immediate access to him.

The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar would
discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was going to
forbid Jerome’s entrance. But recollecting that he was certainly arrived
to notify the Princess’s return, Manfred began to excuse himself to the
Knights for leaving them for a few moments, but was prevented by the arrival of
the Friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded them for their intrusion, and would
have forced them back from the chamber; but Jerome was too much agitated to be
repulsed. He declared aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of his
own innocence.

Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the knowledge of
the strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences, now upbraiding the
Friar, now apologising to the Knights, earnest to know what was become of
Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing; impatient to pursue her, yet
dreading to have them join in the pursuit. He offered to despatch messengers in
quest of her, but the chief Knight, no longer keeping silence, reproached
Manfred in bitter terms for his dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the
cause of Isabella’s first absence from the castle. Manfred, casting a
stern look at Jerome, implying a command of silence, pretended that on
Conrad’s death he had placed her in sanctuary until he could determine
how to dispose of her. Jerome, who trembled for his son’s life, did not
dare contradict this falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the same
anxiety, declared frankly that she had fled to their church in the preceding
night. The Prince in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed
him with shame and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at the
contradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had secreted
the Princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her flight, rushing
to 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 his
attendants. Manfred, finding it vain to divert him from the pursuit, offered to
accompany him and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome and some of the
Friars to guide them, they issued from the castle; Manfred privately giving
orders to have the Knight’s company secured, while to the knight he
affected to despatch a messenger to require their assistance.

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

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

“Thou art surely one of those angels!” said the enraptured
Theodore: “none but a blessed saint could speak, could act—could
look—like thee. May I not know the name of my divine protectress?
Methought thou namedst thy father. Is it possible? Can Manfred’s blood
feel 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 like
Theodore? Let us fly together: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to
thy defence.”

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

“Amazement!” said Theodore; “but last night I blessed myself
for yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me
now.”

“Still thou art in an error,” said the Princess; “but this is
no time for explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save
thee: should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to
tremble.”

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

“I run no risk,” said Matilda, “but by thy delay. Depart; it
cannot be known that I have assisted thy flight.”

“Swear by the saints above,” said Theodore, “that thou canst
not be suspected; else here I vow to await whatever can befall me.”

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

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

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

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

“Forbear, and be gone,” said Matilda. “How would Isabella
approve 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 a
deceitful one. Hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?”

“Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation of
divinity,” 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 once
more I command thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my
head, if I waste the time in vain discourse.”

“I go, Lady,” said Theodore, “because it is thy will, and
because 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 the
subterraneous vault by which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the church
of St. Nicholas, where thou mayst take sanctuary.”

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

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

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

“Rash youth!” said Matilda; “thou wouldst not dare to lift
thy 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 remember
thou art sprung from the tyrant Manfred! But he is thy father, and from this
moment my injuries are buried in oblivion.”

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

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

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

Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with
struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to get
himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear himself
eternally her knight. Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of thunder was
suddenly heard that shook the battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest,
would have urged his suit: but the Princess, dismayed, retreated hastily into
the castle, and commanded the youth to be gone with an air that would not be
disobeyed. He sighed, and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate, until
Matilda, closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of both
had 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 his
deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit that was
making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose story he now
first became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his nature prompted him to
wish to assist her; but the Monks could lend him no lights to guess at the
route she had taken. He was not tempted to wander far in search of her, for the
idea of Matilda had imprinted itself so strongly on his heart, that he could
not bear to absent himself at much distance from her abode. The tenderness
Jerome had expressed for him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he even
persuaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause of his hovering
between the castle and monastery.

Until Jerome should return at night, Theodore at length determined to repair to
the forest that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he sought the
gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that reigned in his
mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to the caves which had formerly served
as a retreat to hermits, and were now reported round the country to be haunted
by evil spirits. He recollected to have heard this tradition; and being of a
brave and adventurous disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity in
exploring the secret recesses of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated far
before he thought he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreat
before 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 of
the powers of darkness. He thought the place more likely to be infested by
robbers than by those infernal agents who are reported to molest and bewilder
travellers. He had long burned with impatience to approve his valour. Drawing
his sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing his steps as the
imperfect rustling sound before him led the way. The armour he wore was a like
indication to the person who avoided him. Theodore, now convinced that he was
not mistaken, redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the person that fled,
whose haste increasing, Theodore came up just as a woman fell breathless before
him. He hasted to raise her, but her terror was so great that he apprehended
she 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 his
life. The Lady recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour, and gazing
on her protector, said—

“Sure, I have heard that voice before!”

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

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

“To Manfred!” cried Theodore—“no, Lady; I have once
already 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 the
generous unknown whom I met last night in the vault of the castle? Sure thou
art not a mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees, let me
thank—”

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

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

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

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

At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with a
peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock. The
Knight 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 understand
she has taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent
having provoked my resentment.”

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

The stranger, who was the principal Knight that had arrived from the Marquis of
Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting information of
the Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into the power
of the three Knights. Their chief had suspected Manfred of being privy to the
Princess’s absconding, and this insult from a man, who he concluded was
stationed by that Prince to secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made no
reply, but discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore, would soon have
removed all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred’s
captains, and who had no sooner given the provocation than prepared to support
it, had not received the stroke on his shield. The valour that had so long been
smothered in his breast broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on the
Knight, whose pride and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy deeds.
The combat was furious, but not long. Theodore wounded the Knight in three
several 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 of
Manfred’s domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through the
forest in pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the Knight fell, whom they soon
discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding his hatred to
Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without emotions of pity
and generosity. But he was more touched when he learned the quality of his
adversary, 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 in
endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his wounds. The Knight
recovering his speech, said, in a faint and faltering voice—

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

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

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

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

The Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore, as he
called to her to come forth, was astonished at what she heard. Suffering
herself to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose valour recalled her
dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding Knight lay speechless on the
ground. But her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of Manfred. She
would again have fled if Theodore had not made her observe that they were
unarmed, and had not threatened them with instant death if they should dare to
seize the Princess.

The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, “Art
thou—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 for
utterance—“seest—thy father. Give me one—”

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

“’Tis most true,” said the wounded Knight, exerting all his
force; “I am Frederic thy father. Yes, I came to deliver thee. It will
not be. Give me a parting kiss, and take—”

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

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

“My child,” said Frederic, “it matters not for me whither I
am carried. A few minutes will place me beyond danger; but while I have eyes to
dote on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave Knight—I know not
who 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 at
the expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be conducted
to 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 his
side; and the afflicted Isabella, who could not bear to quit him, followed
mournfully behind.

CHAPTER IV.

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

Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from his
apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist the
impulse 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 his
affections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita demanded of Frederic the
cause of his having taken that mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter;
and threw in various apologies to excuse her Lord for the match contracted
between their children.

Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the courtesy
and benevolence of Hippolita: but he was still more struck with the lovely form
of Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bedside, he informed Hippolita of his
story. He told her that, while prisoner to the infidels, he had dreamed that
his daughter, of whom he had learned no news since his captivity, was detained
in a castle, where she was in danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and that
if he obtained his liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn
more. Alarmed at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by
it, his chains became more grievous than ever. But while his thoughts were
occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he received the agreeable news
that 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 seeing
a human form: but on the evening of the third they came to a cell, in which
they 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—but
it is in vain—I am going to my eternal rest—yet I die with the
satisfaction of performing the will of heaven. When first I repaired to this
solitude, after seeing my country become a prey to unbelievers—it is
alas! 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 disclose
to mortal man, but on my death-bed. This is that tremendous hour, and ye are no
doubt the chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon as
ye have done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh
tree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will—Oh! good
heaven receive my soul!” With those words the devout man breathed his
last.

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

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

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

Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and patient
firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect, and the tender silent
affection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded each other, melted
him almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that his forbearance to obey would be
more 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’s blood 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 a
mysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation?”

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

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

Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for his
boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the
conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord? As the Marquis
was going to reply, they heard a noise without, and rising to inquire the
cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an imperfect rumour
of what had happened, entered the chamber. Manfred advanced hastily towards
Frederic’s bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to learn the
circumstances 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 her
arms, “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 did
not—”

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

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

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

“Theodore!” said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead;
“Theodore or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred. But how
comes 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 left
him? Was it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that procured his
enlargement?”

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

Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and without
foundation, knew not what to think. He could not comprehend how Theodore had
escaped, how he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederic. Still he would not
venture to ask any questions that might tend to inflame Manfred’s wrath
against his son. Jerome’s silence convinced Manfred that he had contrived
Theodore’s release.

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

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “you wrong my father: neither he
nor I are capable of harbouring a thought against your peace. Is it insolence
thus 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. There
is not a sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you and
yours.”

The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested every
person present in his favour. Even Manfred was touched—yet still
possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed with
secret horror.

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

“My Lord,” said Jerome eagerly.

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

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

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

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

“I remained in slavery,” said Theodore, “until within these
two years, when attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by a
Christian vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to the
captain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily; but alas! instead of finding
a 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 and
me into captivity: that his castle had been burnt to the ground, and that my
father on his return had sold what remained, and was retired into religion in
the kingdom of Naples, but where no man could inform me. Destitute and
friendless, hopeless almost of attaining the transport of a parent’s
embrace, I took the first opportunity of setting sail for Naples, from whence,
within these six days, I wandered into this province, still supporting myself
by the labour of my hands; nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven had
reserved 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; I
am unfortunate beyond my desert in having incurred your Highness’s
displeasure.”

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

“This is not all,” said Frederic; “I am bound in honour to
add what he suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be generous; he is one of
the bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and from the short
knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity: if what he
reports 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 didst
offend me: yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins, may well be allowed to
boil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its source. Come, my
Lord,” (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, “have
power to impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor could
a stripling’s arm.”

“My Lord,” interrupted Hippolita, “your guest has occasion
for repose: shall we not leave him to his rest?” Saying this, and taking
Manfred 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 the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to be
conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though under
engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the young man
gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and
Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections, and too little
content with each other, to wish for farther converse that night. They
separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of ceremony and fewer of
affection than had passed between them since their childhood.

If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater
impatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a situation that
excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions which she wished she
had put to the other overnight. Matilda reflected that Isabella had been twice
delivered by Theodore in very critical situations, which she could not believe
accidental. His eyes, it was true, had been fixed on her in Frederic’s
chamber; but that might have been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the
fathers 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’s
lover. Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed an excuse from
friendship to justify its curiosity.

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

“Why did I dissuade her?” said Isabella to herself; “I am
punished for my generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be; I have
deceived myself; perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld each
other; it must be some other object that has prepossessed his
affections—if it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not my
friend Matilda—how! Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man, who
rudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and that at the
very 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. Man
is false—I will advise with her on taking the veil: she will rejoice to
find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her that I no longer oppose
her 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, and
leaning pensively on her arm. This attitude, so correspondent to what she felt
herself, revived Isabella’s suspicions, and destroyed the confidence she
had purposed to place in her friend. They blushed at meeting, and were too much
novices to disguise their sensations with address. After some unmeaning
questions and replies, Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight?
The latter, who had almost forgotten Manfred’s passion, so entirely was
she occupied by her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape
from 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 explained
that mistake to me: on seeing me faint, she cried out, ‘The Princess is
dead!’ and Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the
castle—”

“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 know
how he had offended my father, but as he has been of service to you, I am glad
my Lord has pardoned him.”

“Served me!” replied Isabella; “do you term it serving me, to
wound my father, and almost occasion his death? Though it is but since
yesterday that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not
think I am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness
of that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel any
affection 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 me
that you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest a man who has been on
the point of making me miserable for ever.”

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

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

“What mean you?” said Matilda.

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

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

“I do not much observe pictures,” said Isabella: “much less
have 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 owned
to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was the first
time you ever met—was it not?”

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

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

This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda; and jealousy that for a
moment had raised a coolness between these amiable maidens soon gave way to the
natural sincerity and candour of their souls. Each confessed to the other the
impression that Theodore had made on her; and this confidence was followed by a
struggle of generosity, each insisting on yielding her claim to her friend. At
length the dignity of Isabella’s virtue reminding her of the preference
which Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her determine to conquer
her 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 tenderness
for Matilda, and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched
house, that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you to
hear.”

The princesses were all attention and anxiety.

“Know then, Madam,” continued Hippolita, “and you my dearest
Matilda, that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days,
that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred’s
hands into those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps inspired with the
thought 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! my
gracious mother—and have you named it to my father?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Will not long be so,” said Isabella, “if his wicked purposes
can 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 into
intemperance. 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!” cried
Hippolita and Matilda at once.

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

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

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

“Excellent, dear lady! madam! mother!” cried Isabella, flinging
herself 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 one
crime 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, I
charge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!”

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

“You must not,” said Hippolita—“come, all will yet be
well. 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, thou
knowest not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is
stretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck! Yes,” continued
she 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 of
me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of
life 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 shall
determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels—”

“Stop, I adjure thee,” cried Hippolita: “remember thou dost
not 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 father
enjoin 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 dearest
Matilda! would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own
mother—I never have known another”—

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

“My lovely children,” said the touched Hippolita, “your
tenderness overpowers me—but I must not give way to it. It is not ours to
make election for ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide
for 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 speechless
tears—“But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a word
against the pleasure of thy father.”

“Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to
you!” said Matilda. “But can I, most respected of women, can I
experience all this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought
from 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 this
incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a thought
without her permission—nay, I have offended her; I have suffered a
passion to enter my heart without her avowal—but here I disclaim it; here
I 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 this
hour of destruction—”

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

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

“What!” cried Matilda, “have I so forfeited my mother’s
love, 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 thou
behold this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?”

“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her
arms—“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 for
Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda. Hippolita
blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that either father
would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born. Some
comfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and that
Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it in either. She strictly
enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him. This Matilda fervently
promised: but Isabella, who flattered herself that she meant no more than to
promote his union with her friend, could not determine to avoid him; and made
no reply.

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

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

“Be at peace, my child,” said Hippolita: “I will return
instantly. 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 Frederic
until thou commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?”

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

“Ah! my mother,” replied Matilda, “stay and save me from
myself. A frown from thee can do more than all my father’s severity. I
have 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? let
me attend thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.”

“Thy fate depends on thy father,” said Hippolita; “I have
ill-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 conscience
she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to resign the
principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an hourly burthen
to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation from her husband appear
less dreadful to her than it would have seemed in any other situation.

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

Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental authority to
submit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart. He had little
curiosity to learn the Friar’s reasons, and less disposition to obey
them. The lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on him than filial
affection. All night he pleased himself with visions of love; and it was not
till late after the morning-office, that he recollected the Friar’s
commands to attend him at Alfonso’s tomb.

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

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

“And on whom were thy dreams employed?” said the Friar sternly. His
son blushed. “Come, come,” resumed the Friar, “inconsiderate
youth, this must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy
breast—”

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

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

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

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

“Nor have I forgotten, sir,” said Theodore, “that the charity
of his daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget injuries, but never
benefits.”

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

“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 venerable
tomb—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 deplorable
province. Join with us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption from
the judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounce
against thy house.”

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

“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 spare
my only comfort? must Matilda perish too?—ah! Father, I came—but
dismiss thy son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter.”

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

Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the proposal she had suggested to
Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was gone to
make to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the notion, which he
covered under pretence of the improbability that Frederic, the nearest of blood
to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his succession, would yield to an
alliance with the usurper of his right. But nothing could equal the perplexity
of the Friar, when Hippolita confessed her readiness not to oppose the
separation, and demanded his opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. The
Friar caught eagerly at her request of his advice, and without explaining his
aversion to the proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted to
Hippolita in the most alarming colours the sinfulness of her consent, denounced
judgments against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the severest terms
to treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and refusal.

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

Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation to
expect sons, he hastened to his wife’s apartment, determined to extort
her 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 of
his purpose. He doubted whether her retirement to the convent did not import an
intention of remaining there, until she could raise obstacles to their divorce;
and the suspicions he had already entertained of Jerome, made him apprehend
that the Friar would not only traverse his views, but might have inspired
Hippolita with the resolution of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel this
clue, and to defeat its success, Manfred hastened to the convent, and arrived
there as the Friar was earnestly exhorting the Princess never to yield to the
divorce.

“Madam,” said Manfred, “what business drew you hither? why
did 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,” said
Manfred; “and of all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom
you delight to confer with?”

“Profane Prince!” said Jerome; “is it at the altar that thou
choosest to insult the servants of the altar?—but, Manfred, thy impious
schemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them—nay, frown
not, Prince. The Church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above
thy wrath. Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her
sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V.

Every reflection which Manfred made on the Friar’s behaviour, conspired
to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella and
Theodore. But Jerome’s new presumption, so dissonant from his former
meekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions. The Prince even suspected that
the Friar depended on some secret support from Frederic, whose arrival,
coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore, seemed to bespeak a
correspondence. Still more was he troubled with the resemblance of Theodore to
Alfonso’s portrait. The latter he knew had unquestionably died without
issue. Frederic had consented to bestow Isabella on him. These contradictions
agitated his mind with numberless pangs.

He saw but two methods of extricating himself from his difficulties. The one
was to resign his dominions to the Marquis—pride, ambition, and his
reliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed out a possibility of his
preserving them to his posterity, combated that thought. The other was to press
his marriage with Isabella. After long ruminating on these anxious thoughts, as
he marched silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed with
that Princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every insinuating and
plausible argument to extract her consent to, even her promise of promoting the
divorce. Hippolita needed little persuasions to bend her to his pleasure. She
endeavoured to win him over to the measure of resigning his dominions; but
finding her exhortations fruitless, she assured him, that as far as her
conscience would allow, she would raise no opposition to a separation, though
without better founded scruples than what he yet alleged, she would not engage
to be active in demanding it.

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

Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of the Marquis; but
crossing the great hall through which he was to pass he met Bianca. The damsel
he knew was in the confidence of both the young ladies. It immediately occurred
to him to sift her on the subject of Isabella and Theodore. Calling her aside
into the recess of the oriel window of the hall, and soothing her with many
fair words and promises, he demanded of her whether she knew aught of the state
of Isabella’s affections.

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

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

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

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

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

“Thou answerest from the point,” interrupted Manfred; “but
here, take this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention—nay, no
reverences; my favour shall not stop here—come, tell me truly; how stands
Isabella’s heart?”

“Well! your Highness has such a way!” said Bianca, “to be
sure—but can your Highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out of
your 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 much
affectioned 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 Lady
Matilda; 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 would
not 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 a
wooing to my Lady Matilda?”

“I have not leisure,” said Manfred, “to listen to thy tale. I
do not question thy honesty. But it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me. How
long 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 a
proper 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 acquainted
with this Theodore!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss the two
Knights, 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 on
the subject of Matilda; and finding him disposed to his wish, he let drop hints
on the difficulties that would attend the celebration of their marriage,
unless—At that instant Bianca burst into the room with a wildness in her
look and gestures that spoke the utmost terror.

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

“What is come again?” cried Manfred amazed.

“Oh! the hand! the Giant! the hand!—support me! I am terrified out
of my senses,” cried Bianca. “I will not sleep in the castle
to-night. Where shall I go? my things may come after me to-morrow—would I
had 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 I
dare not—no, pray let me go—I had rather leave everything behind
me, than stay another hour under this roof.”

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

“Oh! the Saints! No,” said Bianca, “for certain it comes to
warn your Highness; why should it appear to me else? I say my prayers morning
and evening—oh! if your Highness had believed Diego! ’Tis the same
hand that he saw the foot to in the gallery-chamber—Father Jerome has
often told us the prophecy would be out one of these
days—‘Bianca,’ said he, ‘mark my
words—’”

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

“What! my Lord,” cried Bianca, “do you think I have seen
nothing? go to the foot of the great stairs yourself—as I live I saw
it.”

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

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

“This is more than fancy,” said the Marquis; “her terror is
too 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 believe
I look very pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself—I was
going to my Lady Isabella’s chamber, by his Highness’s
order—”

“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 fear
my hair—I am sure I never in my life—well! as I was telling your
Greatness, I was going by his Highness’s order to my Lady
Isabella’s chamber; she lies in the watchet-coloured chamber, on the
right hand, one pair of stairs: so when I came to the great stairs—I was
looking on his Highness’s present here—”

“Grant me patience!” said Manfred, “will this wench never
come to the point? what imports it to the Marquis, that I gave thee a bauble
for thy faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know what thou
sawest.”

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

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

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

“This trifling is intolerable,” interrupted Manfred. “Let us
dismiss this silly wench, my Lord! we have more important affairs to
discuss.”

“By your favour,” said Frederic, “these are no trifles. The
enormous sabre I was directed to in the wood, yon casque, its fellow—are
these 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 strange
revolution. For my part, I should not be surprised if it was to happen
to-morrow; for, as I was saying, when I heard the clattering of armour, I was
all in a cold sweat. I looked up, and, if your Greatness will believe me, I saw
upon 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 came
hither—would I were well out of this castle. My Lady Matilda told me but
yester-morning that her Highness Hippolita knows something.”

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

“I scorn your imputation,” said Frederic. “Until this hour I
never 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 already
fallen 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 the
Marquis, and threw in such artful encomiums on Matilda, that Frederic was once
more staggered. However, as his passion was of so recent a date, it could not
at once surmount the scruples he had conceived. He had gathered enough from
Bianca’s discourse to persuade him that heaven declared itself against
Manfred. The proposed marriages too removed his claim to a distance; and the
principality of Otranto was a stronger temptation than the contingent reversion
of 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 that
Hippolita consented to the divorce. The Prince, transported to find no other
obstacle, and depending on his influence over his wife, assured the Marquis it
was 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 by
Hippolita and the young Princesses. Manfred placed the Marquis next to Matilda,
and seated himself between his wife and Isabella. Hippolita comported herself
with 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 the
evening, pushed on the feast until it waxed late; affecting unrestrained
gaiety, and plying Frederic with repeated goblets of wine. The latter, more
upon his guard than Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, on
pretence of his late loss of blood; while the Prince, to raise his own
disordered spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged himself in plentiful
draughts, though not to the intoxication of his senses.

The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded. Manfred would have
withdrawn with Frederic; but the latter pleading weakness and want of repose,
retired to his chamber, gallantly telling the Prince that his daughter should
amuse 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 the
ramparts of the castle.

Soon as the company were dispersed their several ways, Frederic, quitting his
chamber, inquired if Hippolita was alone, and was told by one of her
attendants, who had not noticed her going forth, that at that hour she
generally withdrew to her oratory, where he probably would find her. The
Marquis, during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase of passion. He now
wished to find Hippolita in the disposition her Lord had promised. The portents
that had alarmed him were forgotten in his desires. Stealing softly and
unobserved to the apartment of Hippolita, he entered it with a resolution to
encourage her acquiescence to the divorce, having perceived that Manfred was
resolved to make the possession of Isabella an unalterable condition, before he
would grant Matilda to his wishes.

The Marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in the
Princess’s apartment. Concluding her, as he had been advertised, in her
oratory, 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 he
approached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a long woollen weed, whose
back was towards him. The person seemed absorbed in prayer. The Marquis was
about to return, when the figure, rising, stood some moments fixed in
meditation, without regarding him. The Marquis, expecting the holy person to
come forth, and meaning to excuse his uncivil interruption, said,

“Reverend Father, I sought the Lady Hippolita.”

“Hippolita!” replied a hollow voice; “camest thou to this
castle 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 on
his knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him.

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

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

“Wast thou delivered from bondage,” said the spectre, “to
pursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of
Heaven engraven on it?”

“I have not, I have not,” said Frederic; “but say, blest
spirit, 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 remained
motionless. Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he besought
the intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of tears succeeded to this
transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing in spite of him on
his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. Ere
he could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with a
taper in her hand entered the oratory alone. Seeing a man without motion on the
floor, she gave a shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederic to
himself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushed
from her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the most
plaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strange
chance 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, “disclose
the cause of this transport! What mean these doleful sounds, this alarming
exclamation on my name? What woes has heaven still in store for the wretched
Hippolita? Yet silent! By every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble
Prince,” continued she, falling at his feet, “to disclose the
purport of what lies at thy heart. I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest the
sharp pangs that thou inflictest—speak, for pity! Does aught thou knowest
concern my child?”

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

Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own apartment. At the
door of it he was accosted by Manfred, who flushed by wine and love had come to
seek him, and to propose to waste some hours of the night in music and
revelling. Frederic, offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood of
his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and entering his chamber, flung the door
intemperately against Manfred, and bolted it inwards. The haughty Prince,
enraged at this unaccountable behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of
the most fatal excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met by the domestic
whom 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 at
the tomb of Alfonso in St. Nicholas’s church. He had dogged Theodore
thither, but the gloominess of the night had prevented his discovering who the
woman was.

Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella had driven from her on
his urging his passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but the
inquietude she had expressed had been occasioned by her impatience to meet
Theodore. Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he hastened
secretly to the great church. Gliding softly between the aisles, and guided by
an imperfect gleam of moonshine that shone faintly through the illuminated
windows, he stole towards the tomb of Alfonso, to which he was directed by
indistinct whispers of the persons he sought. The first sounds he could
distinguish 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 my
father!”

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

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

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

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

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

“I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda; “but
while I have life to ask it—oh! my mother! what will she feel? Will you
comfort her, my Lord? Will you not put her away? Indeed she loves you! Oh, I am
faint! 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 borne
into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried to the
castle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as she
requested. Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in
an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with hopes of
life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with discourses of heaven, and
holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, prepared
her 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 afflicted
procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her senses, and she
fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and Frederic, who attended her,
were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to her
own situation: every thought was lost in tenderness for her mother.

Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself, she
asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his hand
and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to her
heart. Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety. He dashed himself
on the ground, and cursed the day he was born. Isabella, apprehensive that
these struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took upon
herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda
to be conveyed to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her
daughter, was regardless of everything but her; but when the tender
Isabella’s care would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons
examined Matilda’s wound, she cried,

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

Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again
without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand soon
dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer
chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with a transport equal to
frenzy.

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

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

“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Alas! there is no
other!”

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

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

“Thou ravest,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince of
Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has
forfeited all pretensions.”

“My Lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tells
you 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 Holy
Land—”

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

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

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

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

“Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not I
will 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 loved
me; wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman? Indeed I am
faint!”

“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 to
heaven—Where is my father? forgive him, dearest mother—forgive him
my death; it was an error. Oh! I had forgotten—dearest mother, I vowed
never to see Theodore more—perhaps that has drawn down this
calamity—but it was not intentional—can you pardon me?”

“Oh! wound not my agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou
never couldst offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but
it cannot be—Isabella—Theodore—for my
sake—Oh!—” she expired.

Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threatened
destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He printed a thousand
kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every expression that despairing
love could dictate.

Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to her
apartment; 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 thunder
at that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and the
clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and Jerome thought
the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, rushed
into the court. The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle behind
Manfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated
to an immense magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins.

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

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

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

“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied
Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh!
could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last
do justice on myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I
have 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 a
murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and may
this 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 else
this bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my grandfather,
was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s
crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will
declared 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 two
convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saint
appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s posterity should
reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit
the castle, and as long as issue male from Ricardo’s loins should remain
to enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains of
all his wretched race! I have done—the woes of these three days speak the
rest. How this young man can be Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I do
not doubt it. His are these dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not
Alfonso had an heir—I question not the will of heaven—poverty and
prayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned to
Ricardo.”

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

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

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

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

“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did
not mean to recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded.

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

The Friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of the
castle. In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the principality, with
the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion in
the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince,
which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella concurred to promote. But
Theodore’s grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love; and
it 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 with
whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his
soul.