
                                 Horace Walpole

                             The Castle of Otranto

                                    A Story

                                        

                      Translated by William Marshal, Gent.

   From the Original Italian of Onuphrio Muralto, Canon of the Church of St.
                              Nicholas at Otranto

 ...Vanæ
 Fingentur species, tamen ut Pes &amp; Caput uni
 Reddantur formæ....
                                                                          Horace
 

                          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 favours 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 æra 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.
    The 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 similies, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Every thing
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 well be 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
saint 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 re-print 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 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.
 

                         Preface to the Second Edition

The favourable manner in which this little piece has been received by the
public, calls upon the author to explain the grounds on which he composed it.
But before he opens those motives, it is fit that he should ask pardon of his
readers for having offered his work to them under the borrowed personage of a
translator. As diffidence of his own abilities, and the novelty of the attempt,
were his sole inducements to assume that disguise, he flatters himself he shall
appear excusable. He resigned his performance to the impartial judgment of the
public; determined to let it perish in obscurity, if disapproved; nor meaning to
avow such a trifle, unless better judges should pronounce that he might own it
without a blush.
    It was an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance, the ancient and the
modern. In the former all was imagination and improbability: in the latter,
nature is always intended to be, and sometimes has been, copied with success.
Invention has not been wanting; but the great resources of fancy have been
dammed up, by a strict adherence to common life. But if in the latter species
Nature has cramped imagination, she did but take her revenge, having been
totally excluded from old romances. The actions, sentiments, conversations, of
the heroes and heroines of ancient days were as unnatural as the machines
employed to put them in motion.
    The author of the following pages thought it possible to reconcile the two
kinds. Desirous of leaving the powers of fancy at liberty to expatiate through
the boundless realms of invention, and thence of creating more interesting
situations, he wished to conduct the mortal agents in his drama according to the
rules of probability; in short, to make them think, speak and act, as it might
be supposed mere men and women would do in extraordinary positions. He had
observed, that in all inspired writings, the personages under the dispensation
of miracles, and witnesses to the most stupendous phenomena, never lose sight of
their human character: whereas in the productions of romantic story, an
improbable event never fails to be attended by an absurd dialogue. The actors
seem to lose their senses the moment the laws of nature have lost their tone. As
the public have applauded the attempt, the author must not say he was entirely
unequal to the task he had undertaken: yet if the new route he has struck out
shall have paved a road for men of brighter talents, he shall own with pleasure
and modesty, that he was sensible the plan was capable of receiving greater
embellishments than his imagination or conduct of the passions could bestow on
it.
    With regard to the deportment of the domestics, on which I have touched in
the former preface, I will beg leave to add a few words. The simplicity of their
behaviour, almost tending to excite smiles, which at first seem not consonant to
the serious cast of the work, appeared to me not only not improper, but was
marked designedly in that manner. My rule was nature. However grave, important,
or even melancholy, the sensations of princes and heroes may be, they do not
stamp the same affections on their domestics: at least the latter do not, or
should not be made to express their passions in the same dignified tone. In my
humble opinion, the contrast between the sublime of the one, and the naïveté of
the other, sets the pathetic of the former in a stronger light. The very
impatience which a reader feels, while delayed by the coarse pleasantries of
vulgar actors from arriving at the knowledge of the important catastrophe he
expects, perhaps heightens, certainly proves that he has been artfully
interested in, the depending event. But I had higher authority than my own
opinion for this conduct. That great master of nature, Shakespeare, was the
model I copied. Let me ask if his tragedies of Hamlet and Julius Caesar would
not lose a considerable share of the spirit and wonderful beauties, if the
humour of the grave-diggers, the fooleries of Polonius, and the clumsy jests of
the Roman citizens were omitted, or vested in heroics? Is not the eloquence of
Antony, the nobler and affectedly unaffected oration of Brutus, artificially
exalted by the rude bursts of nature from the mouths of their auditors? These
touches remind one of the Grecian sculptor, who, to convey the idea of a
Colossus within the dimensions of a seal, inserted a little boy measuring his
thumb.
    No, says Voltaire in his edition of Corneille, this mixture of buffoonery
and solemnity is intolerable - Voltaire is a genius1 - but not of Shakespeare's
magnitude. Without recurring to disputable authority, I appeal from Voltaire to
himself. I shall not avail myself of his former encomiums on our mighty poet;
though the French critic has twice translated the same speech in Hamlet, some
years ago in admiration, latterly in derision; and I am sorry to find that his
judgment grows weaker, when it ought to be farther matured. But I shall make use
of his own words, delivered on the general topic of the theatre, when he was
neither thinking to recommend or decry Shakespeare's practice; consequently at a
moment when Voltaire was impartial. In the preface to his Enfant prodigue, that
exquisite piece of which I declare my admiration, and which, should I live
twenty years longer, I trust I should never attempt to ridicule, he has these
words, speaking of comedy, [but equally applicable to tragedy, if tragedy is, as
surely it ought to be, a picture of human life; nor can I conceive why
occasional pleasantry ought more to be banished from the tragic scene, than
pathetic seriousness from the comic] On y voit un melange de serieux et de
plaisanterie, de comique et de touchant; souvent même une seule avanture produit
tous ces contrastes. Rien n'est si commun qu'une maison dans laquelle un pere
gronde, une fille occupée de sa passion pleure; le fils se moque des deux, et
quelques parens prennent part differemment à la scene, etc. Nous n'inferons pas
de là que toute comedie doive avoir des scenes de bouffonnerie et des scenes
attendrissantes: il y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pieces où il ne regne que de la
gayeté; d'autres toutes serieuses; d'autres melangées: d'autres où
l'attendrissement va jusques aux larmes: il ne faut donner l'exclusion à aucun
genre: et si l'on me demandoit, quel genre est le meilleur, je repondrois, celui
qui est le mieux traité. Surely if a comedy may be toute serieuse, tragedy may
now and then, soberly, be indulged in a smile. Who shall proscribe it? Shall the
critic, who in self-defence declares that no kind ought to be excluded from
comedy, give laws to Shakespeare?
    I am aware that the preface from whence I have quoted these passages does
not stand in monsieur de Voltaire's name, but in that of his editor; yet who
doubts that the editor and author were the same person? Or where is the editor,
who has so happily possessed himself of his author's style and brilliant ease of
argument? These passages were indubitably the genuine sentiments of that great
writer. In his epistle to Maffei, prefixed to his Merope, he delivers almost the
same opinion, though I doubt with a little irony. I will repeat his words, and
then give my reason for quoting them. After translating a passage in Maffei's
Merope, monsieur de Voltaire adds, Tous ces traits sont naïfs: tout y est
convenable à ceux que vous introduisez sur la scene, et aux moeurs que vous leur
donnez. Ces familiarités naturelles eussent été, à ce que je crois, bien reçues
dans Athenes; mais Paris et notre parterre veulent une autre espece de
simplicité. I doubt, I say, whether there is not a grain of sneer in this and
other passages of that epistle; yet the force of truth is not damaged by being
tinged with ridicule. Maffei was to represent a Grecian story: surely the
Athenians were as competent judges of Grecian manners, and of the propriety of
introducing them, as the parterre of Paris. On the contrary, says Voltaire [and
I cannot but admire his reasoning] there were but ten thousand citizens at
Athens, and Paris has near eight hundred thousand inhabitants, among whom one
may reckon thirty thousand judges of dramatic works. - Indeed! - But allowing so
numerous a tribunal, I believe this is the only instance in which it was ever
pretended that thirty thousand persons, living near two thousand years after the
æra in question, were, upon the mere face of the poll, declared better judges
than the Grecians themselves of what ought to be the manners of a tragedy
written on a Grecian story.
    I will not enter into a discussion of the espece de simplicité, which the
parterre of Paris demands, nor of the shackles with which the thirty thousand
judges have cramped their poetry, the chief merit of which, as I gather from
repeated passages in The New Commentary on Corneille, consists in vaulting in
spite of those fetters; a merit which, if true, would reduce poetry from the
lofty effort of imagination, to a puerile and most contemptible labour -
difficiles nugæ with a witness! I cannot help however mentioning a couplet,
which to my English ears always sounded as the flattest and most trifling
instance of circumstantial propriety; but which Voltaire, who has dealt so
severely with nine parts in ten of Corneille's works, has singled out to defend
in Racine;
 
De son appartement cette porte est prochaine,
Et cette autre conduit dans celui de la reine.
 
                                  In English,
 
To Cæsar's closet through this door you come,
And t'other leads to the queen's drawing-room.
 
Unhappy Shakespeare! hadst thou made Rosencrans inform his compeer Guildenstern
of the ichnography of the palace of Copenhagen, instead of presenting us with a
moral dialogue between the prince of Denmark and the grave-digger, the
illuminated pit of Paris would have been instructed a second time to adore thy
talents.
    The result of all I have said is to shelter my own daring under the cannon
of the brightest genius this country, at least, has produced. I might have
pleaded, that having created a new species of romance, I was at liberty to lay
down what rules I thought fit for the conduct of it: but I should be more proud
of having imitated, however faintly, weakly, and at a distance, so masterly a
pattern, than to enjoy the entire merit of invention, unless I could have marked
my work with genius as well as with originality. Such as it is, the public have
honoured it sufficiently, whatever rank their suffrages allot to it.
 

                         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, though 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:
blessed with thy smile, my dauntless fail
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 birth-day was fixed for his espousals. The company was
assembled in the chapel of the castle, and every thing 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, dispatched one of his attendants
to summon the young prince. The servant, who had not staid 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 court-yard; and at last, after repeated questions put to
him, cried out, Oh, the helmet! the helmet! In the mean time 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 staid 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
happened, and above all, the tremendous phænomenon 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 round him. The few words he
articulated tended solely to enquiries, 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 gripe, 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 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 slain my son! The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of
their capacities on whom they might discharge their bewildered reasonings,
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 fresh rumour under so impertinent a supposition; he
gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necromancer, and that till
the church could take cognizance 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 diabolical 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 mean time, 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 enquiring 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 these 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.
    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 his inability 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 pannel, 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
grand-sire, 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.
    That 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
saint 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 any body 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 a-jar, 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 I
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 a 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
saint 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, till 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 have been 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 preference
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 passion
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
clamour 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 belief 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 you highness, that since
the calamitous misfortune of my young lord, God rest his 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 mean time 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 great 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
fool-hardy, 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 saw
nothing; 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 it was thou sawest; what it was 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,
said 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 thunder-struck 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 stair-case
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 grief
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 every thing 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 this 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 no where 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 dwelled 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 over-pays 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? Saint 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 curtsy, 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
pannel. 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
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 not she bid you
address yourself to our great saint 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 was born to be a
saint, said Bianca, and there's 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 to 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 any body 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 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 any body 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 a 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 authorize 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 today, 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 the church of saint 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 by-stander often sees more of the game than those that play, answered
Bianca. Does your highness think, madam, that his 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 the 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 any body
unhappy about another, unless they are in love with them? And at the very next
word he asks innocently, poor 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 this 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 that 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 of 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 every thing 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 saint
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 enquire if she knew ought 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 saint 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 forbade
that connexion, 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. 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 towards 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 hope 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 we 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 connexion 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
any thing he should say could no longer be of 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 court-yard, 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 shrieve 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
dispatch: 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. - Dispatch! 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 flipped 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 enquire 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 forbade 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 moralize hereafter, if you should not happen
to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there. Mother of God! said the
frair, 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 knows; and I promise thee the life of thy son. - Oh! my lord, said
Jerome, is 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 safe from his power?
Protect her, thou venerable old man! and let all 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 enquire who is
without.
    Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears, that
spoke the fullness 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, enquiring 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
purposed 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 his 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 law 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 idea 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 hasted to the princess, but she was not in her chamber. He
enquired of the domestics of the convent, but could learn no news of her. He
searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church, and dispatched
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 mean time, 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 an
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. An 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 saint 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 at 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
immoveable. 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 patronized by saint 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 saint
Nicholas - so did my father; and so, sirs, will I, come what 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 vitious 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 authorized to receive her? [The knight nodded.]
Receive her - continued Manfred: Well! you are authorized 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 good-will,
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 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
forever. 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 forever 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 any thing for the good of my people - Were it not the
best, the only way to extinguish the feuds between our families, if I were 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 apologizing 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 dispatch 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 in 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
dispatch 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
dispatched 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: begone
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 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 begone, 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 seems 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 saint 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
farther 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 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 forbade him at his peril to advance. And who are
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 staunch 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 a 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 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 come 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 saint-like 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!]
saint 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 enquire 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 we, 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, nor he nor I is 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 cruizes, 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 till 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 any
thing 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 be long 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 authorizes 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 knows 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 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 forever. 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 burden 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, head-strong 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 knows 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 motion, 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 mean time, 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 not you 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 wave
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 sunk 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 persuasion 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 farther 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. That
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 right not 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 tales. 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
was 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 farther
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 every thing 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: Begone, 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 bawble 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
does she mean, 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 was dispersed their several ways, Frederic, quitting his
chamber, enquired 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 a-jar; 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, blessed 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 knows 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 dispatch 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 every thing 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; wot 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 agonizing soul! said Hippolita; thou never couldst offend me. - Alas, she
faints! Help! help! - I would say something more, said Matilda struggling, but
it wonnot 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 mean time, 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 saint 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 despondent
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 farther
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 saint 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 on 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 out-cast 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 was determined to conceal
their nuptials until his return from the crusado, 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 till
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 forever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.
 

                                      Note

1 The following remark is foreign to the present question, yet excusable in an
Englishman, who is willing to think that the severe criticisms of so masterly a
writer as Voltaire on our immortal countryman, may have been the effusions of
wit and precipitation, rather than the result of judgment and attention. May not
the critic's skill in the force and powers of our language have been as
incorrect and incompetent as his knowledge of our history? Of the latter his own
pen has dropped glaring evidence. In his preface to Thomas Corneille's Earl of
Essex, monsieur de Voltaire allows that the truth of history has been grossly
perverted in that piece. In excuse he pleads, that when Corneille wrote, the
noblesse of France were much unread in English story; but now, says the
commentator, that they study it, such misrepresentation would not be suffered -
Yet forgetting that the period of ignorance is lapsed, and that it is not very
necessary to instruct the knowing, he undertakes from the overflowing of his own
reading to give the nobility of his own country a detail of queen Elizabeth's
favourites - of whom, says he, Robert Dudley was the first, and the earl of
Leicester the second. - Could one have believed that it could be necessary to
inform monsieur de Voltaire himself, that Robert Dudley and the earl of
Leicester were the same person?
