CHAPTER I.

MANFRED, Prince of Otranto, had one ſon and one daughter: The lat⯑ter 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 [2] ſymptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his ſon with the Mar⯑quis 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. Hippilita, his wife, an amiable lady, did ſome⯑times venture to repreſent the danger of marry⯑ing 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 accom⯑pliſhed an ancient prophecy, which was ſaid to have pronounced, that the Caſtle and Lordſhip of [3] 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 opi⯑nion.

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 ter⯑ror [4] and amazement. The Princeſs Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxi⯑ous 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 re⯑peated 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 [5] was a groupe 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 volly of voices replied, Oh! My Lord! The Prince! the Prince, the helmet! the helmet! ſhocked with theſe lamentable ſounds, and dreading he knew not what; he advanced haſtily,—but what a ſight for a father's eyes!—he beheld his child daſhed to pieces, and almoſt buried under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than any caſque ever made for human being, and ſhaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

The horror of the ſpectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phaenomenon 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 [6] wiſhed in vain to believe a viſion; and ſeemed leſs attentive to his loſs, than buried in medi⯑tation on the ſtupendous object that had occa⯑ſioned 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 ſurprized at their Prince's inſenſibility, as thunder-ſtruck 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 ſingu⯑larity of this direction, were guided by their affection to their miſtreſs, to conſider it as pecu⯑liarly [7] 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 doated on her mother, ſmothered her own grief and amaze⯑ment, 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 endea⯑vouring to partake and leſſen the weight of ſor⯑row which ſhe ſaw Matilda ſtrove to ſuppreſs, for whom ſhe had conceived the warmeſt ſym⯑pathy 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 pro⯑miſed her little felicity, either from her deſtined bridegroom, or from the ſevere temper of Man⯑fred, [8] 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 wretch⯑ed mother to her bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous caſque, and re⯑gardleſs of the crowd which the ſtrangeneſs of the event had now aſſembled around him. The few words he articulated, tended ſolely to in⯑quiries, 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 pea⯑ſant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, obſerved that the mira⯑culous helmet was exactly like that on the figure [9] in black marble of Alfonſo the Good, one of their former Princes, in the church of St. Ni⯑cholas. Villain! What ſayeſt thou! cried Man⯑fred, 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 un⯑ravel this new circumſtance. The young peaſant himſelf was ſtill more aſtoniſhed, not conceiving how he had offended the Prince: Yet recollect⯑ing himſelf, with a mixture of grace and hu⯑mility, he diſengaged himſelf from Manfred's gripe, and then with an obeiſance, which diſ⯑covered more jealouſy of innocence, than diſ⯑may; 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 appeaſ⯑ed by his ſubmiſſion, ordered his attendants to ſeize him, and, if he had not been withheld by his [10] friends, whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have poignarded the peaſant in their arms.

During this altercation, ſome of the vul⯑gar ſpectators had run to the great church, which ſtood near the caſtle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring, that the helmet was miſſing from Alfonſo's ſtatue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he ſought a ſubject on which to vent the tempeſt within him, he ruſhed again on the young pea⯑ſant, crying, Villain! Monſter! Sorcerer! 'tis thou haſt done this! 'tis thou haſt ſlain my ſon! The mob, who wanted ſome object within the ſcope of their capacities, on whom they might diſcharge their bewildered reaſonings, caught, the words from the mouth of their Lord, and re-ecchoed, ay, ay; 'tis he, 'tis he: He has ſtolen the helmet from good Alfonſe's tomb, and daſhed out the brains of our young Prince with it,—never reflecting how enormous the diſpro⯑portion was between the marble helmet that [11] had been in the church, and that of ſteel before their eyes; nor how impoſſible it was for a youth, ſeemingly not twenty, to weild a piece of armour of ſo prodigious a weight.

The folly of theſe ejaculations brought Man⯑fred 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 rumours under ſo impertinent a ſuppoſition; he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necro⯑mancer, and that till the church could take cog⯑nizance of the affair; he would have the Ma⯑gician, whom they had thus detected, kept pri⯑ſoner 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.

[12] It was in vain for the youth to repreſent againſt this prepoſterous ſentence: In vain did Man⯑fred's friends endeavour to divert him from this ſavage and ill-grounded reſolution. The gene⯑rality 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 ſup⯑ply himſelf with nutriment.

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

[13] 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 recom⯑mended to Iſabella; and enquiring of the do⯑meſtics 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 re⯑new 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, en⯑couraged her to venture diſobeying the orders he had given, a fault ſhe had never been guilty [14] 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 how⯑ever juſt going to beg admittance, when Man⯑fred ſuddenly opened his 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 ter⯑rified 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 pre⯑vent the additional ſtab that the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who queſtioned her in the moſt anxious terms on the health of Man⯑fred, [15] and how he bore his loſs. Matildá aſſured her he was well, and ſupported his misfortune with manly fortitude. But will he not let me ſee him? ſaid Hippolita mornfully; 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 doated 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. Ma⯑tilda made ſigns to Iſabella to prevent Hippolita's riſing; and both thoſe lovely young women were uſing their gentle violence to ſtop and calm the Princeſs, when a ſervant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and told Iſabella that his Lord demanded to ſpeak with her.

With me! cried Iſabella. Go, ſaid Hippolita, relieved by a meſſage from her Lord: Manfred [16] cannot ſupport the ſight of his own family. He thinks you leſs diſordered than we are, and dreads the ſhock of my grief. Conſole him, dear Iſabella, and tell him I will ſmother my own anguiſh rather than add to his.

As it was now evening, the ſervant, who conducted Iſabella, bore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery, he ſtarted and ſaid haſtily take away that light, and begone. Then ſhutting the door impetuouſly, he flung himſelf upon a bench againſt the wall, and bade Iſabella fit 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 mo⯑ment, 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 [17] 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 hea⯑ven 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 nu⯑merous 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 Iſa⯑bella. 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 Man⯑fred 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 [18] 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 cata⯑ſtrophe in your family to think of another mar⯑riage. 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 aſſwaging yours, Hippolita's, and the fair Matilda's affliction.

I deſired you once before, ſaid Manfred an⯑grily, [19] 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 fa⯑ther-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 unfruitful⯑neſs: 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 oppo⯑ſite 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 [20] 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 in⯑tention!—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 Iſa⯑bella, who had now reached the ſtairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture which began to move, had however advanced ſome ſteps after her, ſtill looking backwards on the portrait, when he ſaw it quit its pannel, and deſcend on the floor with a grave and melan⯑choly [21] air. Do I dream? cried Manfred return⯑ing, or are the devils themſelves in league againſt me? ſpeak, infernal ſpectre! or, if thou art my grandſire, why doſt thou too con⯑ſpire againſt thy wretched deſcendent, 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 gulph 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 [22] 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 prin⯑cipal 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 [23] avoid the purſuit he would infallibly make throughout the caſtle! As theſe thoughts paſſed rapidly through her mind, ſhe recollected a ſubterraneous paſſage which led from the vaults of the caſtle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could ſhe reach the altar before ſhe was over⯑taken, ſhe knew even Manfred's violence would not dare to profane the ſacredneſs of the place; and ſhe determined, if no other means of deli⯑verance 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 cloyſters; 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 [24] which grating on the ruſty hinges, were re⯑ecchoed through that long labyrinth of dark⯑neſs. Every murmur ſtruck her with new ter⯑ror;—yet more ſhe dreaded to hear the wrath⯑ful 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 con⯑cluded it was Manfred. Every ſuggeſtion that horror could inſpire ruſhed into her mind. She condemned her raſh flight, which had thus ex⯑poſed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw any body to her aſſiſt⯑ance.—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 cloyſters, and the ſteps ſhe had heard were too diſtinct to proceed from the way ſhe [25] had come. Cheared 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 in⯑nocence bade 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 [26] mouth of the ſubterraneous cavern, ſhe approach⯑ed the door that had been opened; but a ſud⯑den 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 Prin⯑ceſs'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 crouded 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 [27] 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 few moments I may be made miſerable for ever. Alas! ſaid the ſtranger, [28] 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 incloſed in one of the ſtones. That, ſaid ſhe, is the lock, which opens with a ſpring, of which I know the ſecret. If we can find that, I may eſcape—if not, alas! courteous ſtranger, I fear, I ſhall have involved you in my misfor⯑tunes: Manfred will ſuſpect you for the accom⯑plice 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 [29] 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 St. Ni⯑cholas—but perhaps, added the Princeſs mo⯑deſtly, you have no reaſon to leave the caſtle, nor have I farther occaſion for your ſervice; in few minutes I ſhall be ſafe from Manfred's rage—only let me know to whom I am ſo much obliged. I will never quit you, ſaid the ſtranger eagerly, until I have placed you in ſafety—nor think me, Princeſs, more generous than I am; though you are my principal care—the ſtranger was interrupted by a ſudden noiſe of voices that ſeemed approaching, and they ſoon diſtinguiſhed theſe words: Talk not to me of [30] 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 deſcend⯑ed 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 ſub⯑terraneous 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 [31] 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 Man⯑fred, doſt thou provoke my wrath? tell me; how haſt thou eſcaped from above? thou haſt corrupted thy guards, and their lives ſhall an⯑ſwer 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 accom⯑plices. 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 [32] through into the vault, [...] gap through which the peaſant had [...] 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 cloyſter? a door clapped: ſaid the peaſant; I heard it as well as you. What door? ſaid Manfred haſtily. I am not ac⯑quainted 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, interrupt⯑ed 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 [33] 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 for⯑feiting 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. Pro⯑vidence ſhould have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out of the reach of my reſent⯑ment, ſaid Manfred: When Providence had [34] 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 de⯑ſcended 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, per⯑haps I ſhould have explored the way—I could not be in a worſe ſituation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: Your imme⯑diate 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 frag⯑ment of ſtone that had fall from above, [35] he laid himſelf on the trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of braſs that covered it; mean⯑ing to gain time for the eſcape of the Princeſs. This preſence of mind, joined to the frankneſs of the youth, ſtaggered Manfred. He even felt a diſpoſition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of thoſe ſavage tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumſtances of his fortune had given an aſperity to his temper, which was naturally humane: and his virtues were always ready to operate, when his paſſions did not ob⯑ſcure his reaſon.

While the Prince was in this ſuſpence, a confuſed noiſe of voices ecchoed through the diſtant vaults. As the ſound approached, he diſtinguiſhed the clamours of ſome of his dome⯑ſtics, 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 [36] 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, block⯑heads, ſaid Manfred; what is it has ſcared you thus?—oh! my Lord, ſaid Jaquez, Diego has ſeen ſuch a ſight! your Highneſs would not believe our eyes—what new abſurdity is this! cried Manfred—give me a direct anſwer, or, by heaven—why, my Lord, if it pleaſe your. Highneſs to hear me, ſaid the poor fellow; Diego and I—yes I and Jaquez, cried his com⯑rade—did not I forbid you to ſpeak both at a time? ſaid the Prince: You, Jaquez, anſwer [37] 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 apprehenſive that we might meet the ghoſt of my young Lord, your High⯑neſs's ſon, God reſt his ſoul, as he has not re⯑ceived 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 diſ⯑tract 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 frighted himſelf and thee too! ſpeak; what is it he fancies he has ſeen? Why, my Lord, replied Jaquez trembling, I was going to tell your Highneſs, that ſince the calamitous mifortune of my young Lord, God reſt his precious ſoul! not one of us your [38] 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 goblings!—Why, thou knave! ſhe left me in the gallery; I came from thence myſelf. For all that, ſhe may be there ſtill for ought 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 be⯑lieve is in the great chamber next to the gallery—Manfred, who hitherto had treated the [39] terror of his ſervants as an idle panic, was ſtruck at this new circumſtance. He recol⯑lected 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 look⯑ing 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 [40] 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 was it thou ſaweſt? what was it thou heardſt? 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 an 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 [41] 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 High⯑neſs'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 Higheſs, ſaid he, permit me to try this ad⯑venture? 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, [42] 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? Iſa⯑bella! 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 [43] good Lord, ſaid Hippolita, your daughter tells you the truth: Iſabella left us by your com⯑mand, and has not returned ſince;—but, my good Lord, compoſe yourſelf: Retire to your reſt: This diſmal day has diſordered you. Iſa⯑bella ſhall wait your orders in the morning. What then, you know where ſhe is! cried Man⯑fred: Tell me directly, for I will not loſe an inſtant—and you, woman, ſpeaking to his wife, order your chaplain to attend me forth⯑with. Iſabella, ſaid Hippolita calmly, is retired, I ſuppoſe to her chamber: She is not accuſtom⯑ed 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! [44] my Lord, ſaid Hippolita, what is it your High⯑neſs means? Thou wilt know ere many mi⯑nutes 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 de⯑portment, 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 ſer⯑vants 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 di⯑rectly to the Princeſs's apartment with the alarm of what he had ſeen. That excellent Lady, who no more than Manfred, doubted of the rea⯑lity of the viſion, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the ſervant. Willing, however, to [45] 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, re⯑covered a little from the tempeſt of mind into [46] 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 wou'd not only acquieſce with patience to a divorce, but would obey if it was his pleaſure, in endea⯑vouring 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 pea⯑ſant, [47] 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 fullen kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber.

CHAP. 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 affacted her. She was ſur⯑prized at not ſeeing Iſabella: But the ſtrange words which had fallen from her father, and his obſcure menace to the Princeſs his wife, ac⯑companied 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 [49] had been diſcovered in the vault, tho' 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 re⯑joiced 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 con⯑jectures on the flight of Iſabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. But what buſineſs could he have ſo urgent with the chap⯑lain? 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 [50] 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 in⯑creaſe 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 hea⯑ven ſhuts my father's heart againſt me, it over⯑pays my little merit in the tenderneſs of my mo⯑ther—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 congra⯑tulated 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 [51] in a convent, as you would be if you had your will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad huſband is better than no huſband at all, did not hinder you—bleſs me! what noiſe is that! St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jeſt. It is the wind, ſaid Matilda, whiſtling through the battlements in the tower above: You have heard it a thouſand times. Nay, ſaid Bianca, there was no harm neither in what I ſaid: It is no ſin to talk of matrimony—and ſo, madam, as I was ſaying, if my Lord Man⯑fred ſhould offer you a handſome young Prince for a bridegroom, you would drop him a curtſy, and tell him you had 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 [52] 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 ado⯑ration with which I look at that picture is un⯑common—but I am not in love with a coloured pannel. The character of that virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my mother has in⯑ſpired 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 per⯑ſuade me that ſome how 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 [53] yourſelf to our great St. Nicholas? I am ſure he is the Saint I pray to for a huſband. Perhaps my mind would be leſs affected, ſaid Matilda, if my mother would explain her reaſons to me: But it is the myſtery ſhe obſerves, that inſpires me with this—I know not what to call it. As ſhe never acts from caprice, I am ſure there is ſome fatal ſecret at bottom—nay, I know there is: In her agony of grief for my brother's death ſhe dropped ſome words that intimated as much—oh! dear Madam, cried Bianca, What were they? No; ſaid Matilda, if a parent lets fall a word, and wiſhes it recalled, it is not for a child to utter it. What was ſhe ſorry for what ſhe had ſaid, aſked Bianca.—I am ſure, Madam, you may truſt me—with my own little ſecrets, when I have any, I may, ſaid Matilda; but never with my mother's: A child ought to have no ears or eyes, but as a parent directs. Well! to be ſure, Madam, you were born to be a ſaint, ſaid Bianca, and there is no reſiſting one's vocation: You will end in a con⯑vent [54] 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 Prin⯑ceſs, I do not allow you to mention my friend diſreſpectfully. Iſabella is of a chearful diſpo⯑ſition, but her ſoul is pure as virtue itſelf. She knows your idle babling humour, and perhaps has now and then encouraged it, to divert me⯑lancholy, and enliven the ſolitude in which my father keeps us—Bleſſed Mary! ſaid Bianca ſtarting, there it is again!—dear Madam, Do you hear nothing?—this caſtle is certainly haunted!—peace! ſaid Matilda, and liſten! I did think I heard a voice—but it muſt be fancy; your terrors, I ſuppoſe, have infected me. In⯑deed! 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 Prin⯑ceſs. Nobody has dared to lie there, anſwered [55] 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 cham⯑ber 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 attentive⯑ly, 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 fa⯑mily—open the window, and we ſhall know the voice. I dare not indeed, Madam, ſaid [56] 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 con⯑cluded 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 for⯑ſaken 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 [57] the diſtreſſed, and ſhe will relieve thee. I am indeed unhappy, ſaid the ſtranger; and I know 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 re⯑member 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, Bi⯑anca! 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 [58] are we intitled to his confidence? Lord! Ma⯑dam, how little you know of love! replied Bi⯑anca: Why lovers have no pleaſure equal to talking of their miſtreſs. And would you have me become a peaſant's confident? ſaid the Prin⯑ceſs. Well then, let me talk to him: Said Bi⯑anca: Though I have the honour of being your Highneſs's maid of honour, I was not always ſo great: Beſides, if love levels ranks, it raiſes them too: I have a reſpect for any young man in love—peace! ſimpleton; ſaid the Princeſs. Though he ſaid he was unhappy, it does not follow that he muſt be in love. Think of all that has happened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what love cauſes. Stranger, reſumed the Princeſs, if thy misfortunes have not been occaſioned by thy own fault, and are within the compaſs of the Princeſs Hippolita's power to redreſs, I will take upon me to anſwer that ſhe will be thy protectreſs. When thou art diſmiſſed from this caſtle, repair to holy fa⯑ther Jerome at the convent adjoining to the [59] church of St. Nicholas, and make thy ſtory known to him, as far as thou thinkeſt meet: He will not fail to inform the Princeſs, who is the mother of all that want her aſſiſtance. Fare⯑wel: It is not ſeemly for me to hold farther converſe with a man at this unwonted hour. May the Saints guard thee, gracious Lady! re⯑plied the peaſant—but oh! if a poor and worth⯑leſs ſtranger might preſume to beg a minute's audience farther—am I ſo happy?—the caſe⯑ment is not ſhut—might I venture to aſk—ſpeak quickly; ſaid Matilda, the morning dawns a pace: 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 [60] 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 be⯑ſpoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Doſt thou come hither to pry into the ſecrets of Man⯑fred?—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 Bi⯑anca; but perhaps the queſtions I ſhould have put to him, would have been more to the pur⯑poſe, 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, [61] Madam, that his queſtion about my Lady Iſa⯑bella 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 Bro⯑ther—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 imper⯑tinence, ſaid Matilda. Nay, Madam, as you pleaſe; cried Bianca—yet it is very particular tho', 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 [62] the purity of my dear Iſabella's ſame—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 un⯑happy, 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 obſer⯑vations 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, [63] 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 acceſſary 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 effuſion 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 ac⯑count 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 hel⯑met, he will find ways of eluding your Father's [64] 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 ob⯑ſerve with what fervour he vowed to remember me to heaven in his prayers?—yes; Iſabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety. Com⯑mend 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 com⯑pany, 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 com⯑bated my inclination for the cloyſter: And though I own the myſtery ſhe has made to me of her flight, confounds me; though it ſeems [65] inconſiſtent with the freindſhip between us, I cannot forget the diſintereſted warmth with which ſhe always oppoſed my taking the veil: ſhe wiſhed to ſee me married, though my dower would have been a loſs to her and my brother's children. For her ſake I will believe well of this young peaſant. Then you do think there is ſome liking between them; ſaid Bianca—While ſhe was ſpeaking, a ſervant came haſtily into the chamber and told the Princeſs, that the Lady Iſabella was found. Where? ſaid Matilda. She has taken ſanctuary in St. Nicholas's church; re⯑plied the ſervant: Father Jerome has brought the news himſelf: he is below with his Highneſs. Where is my mother! ſaid Matilda. She is in her own chamber, Madam, and has aſked for you.

Manfred had riſen at the firſt dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita's apartment, to inquire if ſhe knew ought of Iſabella. While he was queſtioning her, word was brought that Jerome [66] demanded to ſpeak with him. Manfred, little ſuſpecting the cauſe of the Friar's arrival, and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave them together, while he purſued his ſearch after Iſabella. Is your buſineſs with me or the Princeſs? ſaid Manfred. With both, replied the holy man. The Lady Iſabella—what of her! interrupted Manfred eagerly—is at St. Nicholas's altar, replied Jerome. That is no buſineſs of Hippolita, ſaid Manfred with confuſion: let us retire to my chamber, Father; and inform me how ſhe came thither. No, my Lord, replied the good man with an air of firmneſs and authority, that daunted even the reſolute Manfred, who could not help revering the ſaint-like virtues of Jerome: My commiſſion is to both; and with your Highneſs's good-liking, in the preſence of both I ſhall deliver it—but firſt, my Lord, I muſt interrogate the Princeſs, whether ſhe is acquainted with the cauſe of the Lady Iſabella's retirement from your [67] caſtle—no, on my ſoul, ſaid Hippolita, does Iſa⯑bella 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 ought 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 for⯑give 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 de⯑clared her aſtoniſhment and impatience to know where this would end: her ſilence more ſtrongly ſpoke her obſervance of Manfred.

[68] 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 be⯑coming the daughter of ſuch wiſe and noble Princes, whom ſhe ſhall always reſpect as Pa⯑rents; 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 intreats 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 an⯑ſwerable 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. [69] Iſabella's conduct leaves room for ſtrange ſuſpi⯑cions—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 uncharitable⯑neſs: 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 [70] her thence. I am her parent, cried Manfred, and demand her. She wiſhed to have you for her parent, ſaid the Friar: But heaven that forbad that connection, has for ever diſſolved all ties betwixt you: And I announce to your Highneſs—ſtop! audacious man, ſaid Manfred, and dread my diſpleaſure. Holy father, ſaid Hip⯑polita, it is your office to be no reſpecter of perſons; you muſt ſpeak as your duty preſcribes: But it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleaſes not my Lord I ſhould hear. Attend the Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the bleſſed virgin to inſpire you with her holy councils, 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 [71] 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 con⯑ſcience 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 intirely. 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 [72] 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 ho⯑neſty. I love my order; I honour devout [73] 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 for ſooth! the wel⯑fare 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 [74] 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 burthen: diſſolve our marriage, and accompliſh the work of god⯑lineſs which your divine exhortations have com⯑menced in my ſoul.

[75] HOW cutting was the anguiſh which the good man felt, when he perceived this turn in the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippo⯑lita, whoſe ruin he ſaw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recover⯑ing 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 [76] that is the real motive of your repugnance to your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to en⯑deavour 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, re⯑ſumed the Prince, I expect, Father, that you [77] ſatisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found in the vault? He muſt have been privy to Iſabella's flight: Tell me truly; is he her lover? or is he an agent for ano⯑ther's paſſion? I have often ſuſpected Iſabella's indifference to my ſon: a thouſand circum⯑ſtances croud on my mind that confirm that ſuſ⯑picion. 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 here⯑after, either by prejudicing the Prince againſt Iſabella, if he perſiſted in that union; or by di⯑verting his attention to a wrong ſcent, and em⯑ploying his thoughts on a viſionary intrigue, [78] prevent his engaging in any new purſuit. With this unhappy policy, he anſwered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of ſome con⯑nection 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 be⯑comes of thy boaſted veracity now? it was Pro⯑vidence, 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 tor⯑tures [79] ſhall wring the truth from thee. The young man, perceiving that his ſhare in the flight of the Princeſs was diſcovered, and con⯑cluding that any thing he ſhould ſay could no longer be of ſervice or detriment to her, re⯑plied, 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 falſhood. 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 eva⯑ſion. 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 pea⯑ſant, 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 Man⯑fred; [80] 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 to 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 pro⯑tection—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, thro' which Matilda and Bianca were to paſs. Hear⯑ing her father's voice, and ſeeing the ſervants aſſembled round him, ſhe ſtopped to learn the occaſion. The priſoner ſoon drew her atten⯑tion: The ſteady and compoſed manner in which he anſwered, and the gallantry of his [81] laſt reply, which were the firſt words ſhe heard diſtinctly intereſted her in his favour. His per⯑ſon was noble, handſome, and commanding, even in that ſituation: But his countenance ſoon engroſſed her whole care. Heavens! Bi⯑anca, 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, con⯑tinued 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 in⯑juſtice 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 be⯑comes of me! This is a Lover! cried Manfred in a rage: A peaſant within ſight of death is not [82] 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 ſe⯑vered from his body—Matilda fainted at hear⯑ing 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 pa⯑nic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to her [83] apartment, he ruſhed into the court, and call⯑ing for one of his guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow.

The undaunted youth received the bitter ſen⯑tence 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 exaſpe⯑rate 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 ſhrift the priſoner. The holy man, who had little foreſeen the cataſtrophe that his im⯑prudence occaſioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in the moſt ſolemn manner not to ſhed innocent blood. He ac⯑cuſed [84] himſelf in the bittereſt terms for his indiſ⯑cretion, 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 retractation now made him ſuſpect he had been impoſed upon by both, commanded the friar to do his duty, tell⯑ing 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 diſ⯑patch: 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 fight 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 con⯑feſſion, father, and give me thy bleſſing. How can I prepare thee for thy paſſage, as I ought? [85] 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 con⯑feſs him, ſaid Manfred ſternly; not to plead for him. Thou didſt firſt incenſe me againſt him—his blood be on 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 Man⯑fred: I am no more to be moved by the whin⯑ing 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 thy 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 put⯑ting [86] off his doublet, and unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he ſtooped, his ſhirt ſlipped down below his ſhoulder, and diſ⯑covered 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 aſſiſt⯑ants were ſuſpended by wonder, rather than ſtopped by joy. They ſeemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to feel. Surpriſe, doubt, tenderneſs, reſpect, ſucceeded each other in the countenance of the youth. He received with modeſt ſubmiſſion the effuſion of the old man's tears and embraces: Yet afraid of giving a looſe to hope, and ſuſpecting from what had paſſed the inflexibility of Manfred's temper, he caſt a glance towards the Prince, as if to ſay, canſt thou be unmoved at ſuch a ſcene as this?

[87] 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. In⯑jurious Lord! ſaid Theodore; add not inſult to cruelty. If I am this venerable man's ſon, tho' no Prince, as thou art, know, the blood that flows in my vains—yes, ſaid the friar, inter⯑rupting [88] 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 crea⯑tures. 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 mo⯑ralize hereafter, if you ſhould not happen to obtain the grace of that ſturdy criminal there. Mother of God! ſaid the Friar, is it poſſible my Lord can refuſe a father the life of his only, his long-loſt child! Trample me, my Lord, ſcorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but ſpare my ſon! Thou canſt feel then, ſaid Man⯑fred, 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 [89] —but the Counts of Falconara—alas! my Lord, ſaid Jerome, I confeſs I have offended; but ag⯑gravate 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 me⯑mory of the dear woman that bore him—is ſhe Theodore, is ſhe dead?—Her ſoul has long been with the bleſſed, ſaid Theodore. Oh! how? cried Jerome, tell me—No—ſhe is happy! Thou art all my care now!—moſt dread Lord! will you—will you grant me my poor boy's life? Return to thy convent; anſwered Manfred; conduct the Princeſs hither; obey me in what elſe thou knoweſt; and I promiſe thee the life of thy ſon.—Oh! my Lord, ſaid Jerome, is my honeſty the price I muſt pay for this dear youth's ſafety—for me! cried Theodore: Let me die a thouſand deaths, rather than ſtain thy conſcience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? is the Princeſs ſtill ſafe from his power? protect her, thou venerable old man; and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me. Jerome [90] endeavoured to check the impetuoſity of the youth; and ere Manfred could reply, the tram⯑pling of horſes was heard, and a brazen trum⯑pet, 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.

CHAP. III.

MANFRED's heart miſ-gave 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 Fal⯑conara, what mean theſe portents? If I have of⯑fended—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, [92] do you go to the wicket, and demand who is at the gate. Do you grant me the life of Theodore? replied the Friar. I do, ſaid Manfred; but inquire who is without!

Jerome falling on the neck of his ſon, diſ⯑charged 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, inquiring who was without, was anſwered a Herald. From whom? ſaid he. From the Knight of the gigantic ſabre; ſaid the Herald; and I muſt ſpeak with the uſurper of Otranto. Jerome returned to the Prince, and did not fail to repeat the meſſage in the very words it had been uttered. The firſt ſounds ſtruck Manfred with terror; but when he heard [93] 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: [94] 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 him⯑ſelf 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 de⯑mands the Lady Iſabella, daughter of that Prince, whom thou haſt baſely and traiterouſly 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 [95] 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 re⯑flected 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 diſ⯑poſſeſs them. Frederic, a martial and amorous young Prince, had married a beautiful young Lady, of whom he was enamoured, and who [96] had died in childbed of Iſabella. Her death affected him ſo much, that he had taken the croſs and gone to the holy land, where he was wounded in an engagement againſt the infidels, made priſoner, and reported to be dead. When the news reached Manfred's ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady Iſabella to deliver her up to him as a bride for his ſon Conrad, by which alliance he had propoſed to unite the claims of the two houſes. This motive, on Conrad's death, had cooperated 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 di⯑geſted theſe reflections, return to thy maſter, [97] and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by the ſword, Manfred would hold ſome con⯑verſe with him. Bid him welcome to my caſtle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he ſhall have courteous reception, and full ſecurity for himſelf and followers. If we cannot adjuſt our quarrel by amicable means, I ſwear he ſhall depart in ſafety, and ſhall have full ſatisfaction according to the laws of arms: So help me God and his holy Trinity! the Herald made three obeiſſances and retired.

During this interview Jerome's mind was agi⯑tated by a thouſand contrary paſſions. He trembled for the life of his ſon, and his firſt thought was to perſuade Iſabella to return to the caſtle. Yet he was ſcarce leſs alarmed at the thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita's unbounded ſubmiſſion to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt but he could alarm her piety not to conſent to a divorce, if he could get acceſs to her; yet ſhould Manfred [98] 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 attach⯑ment to that good Lady, and are anxious for [99] 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 her's! 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! re⯑plied 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 [100] was not in her chamber. He inquired of the domeſtics of the convent, but could learn no news of her. He ſearched in vain throughout the monaſtery and the church, and diſpatched meſſengers round the neighbourhood, to get intelligence if ſhe had been ſeen; but to no pur⯑poſe. nothing could equal the good man's per⯑plexity. 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, in⯑creaſed 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 de⯑termined to return to the caſtle, and made ſe⯑veral of his brethren accompany him to atteſt his innocence to Manfred, and, if neceſſary, join their interceſſion with his for Theodore.

[101] 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 harbin⯑gers 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 footman, 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 Man⯑fred—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, car⯑rying their ſhields and devices. The Knight's [102] 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 at⯑tend 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 extraor⯑dinary manner as before. It required intrepi⯑dity like Manfred's not to ſink under a concur⯑rence of circumſtances that ſeemed to announce [103] his fate. Yet ſcorning in the preſence of ſtran⯑gers to betray the courage he had always mani⯑feſted, he ſaid boldly, Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal mould, thy valour ſhall meet its equal: And, if thou art a true Knight, thou wilt ſcorn to employ ſorcery to carry thy point. Be theſe omens from heaven or hell, Manfred truſts to the righteouſneſs of his cauſe and to the aid of St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his houſe. Alight, Sir Knight, and repoſe thyſelf. To⯑morrow thou ſhalt have a fair field; and heaven befriend the juſter ſide!

The Knight made no reply, but diſmounting, was conducted by Manfred to the great hall of the caſtle. As they traverſed the court, the Knight ſtopped to gaze 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 [104] 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 com⯑plain 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 ac⯑commodation of your train, and return to you. The three Knights bowed as accepting his cour⯑teſy. 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 im⯑moveable. Manfred almoſt hardened to preter⯑natural appearances, ſurmounted the ſhock of this new prodigy; and returning to the hall, [105] where by this time the feaſt was ready, he in⯑vited his ſilent gueſts to take their places. Man⯑fred, however ill his heart was at eaſe, endea⯑voured 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 ſpar⯑ingly. 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 plea⯑ſures—but come, give me a goblet of wine; [106] 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 in⯑viting 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-de⯑mand 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; [107] 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 fa⯑ther Don Manuel, as he received it from his fa⯑ther 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 Man⯑fred warmly, Ricardo was a valiant and upright man; he was a pious man, witneſs his muni⯑ficent foundation of the adjoining church and two convents. He was peculiarly patronized by St. Nicholas—my grandfather was incapable—I ſay, Sir, Don Ricardo was incapable—ex⯑cuſe me, your interruption has diſordered me.—I venerate the memory of my grandfather—well! Sirs, he held this eſtate; he held it by his good ſword and by the favour of St. Nicholas [108] —ſo did my father; and ſo, Sirs, will I, come what come will—but Frederic, your Lord, is neareſt in blood—I have conſented to put my title to the iſſue of the ſword—does that imply a 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 com⯑bat: 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 [109] Knight, may I aſk if you have full powers? The Knight nodded. 'Tis well: Said Man⯑fred: Then hear what I have to offer—ye ſee, Gentleman, before you the moſt unhappy of men! [he began to weep] afford me your com⯑paſſion; I am intitled 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 ſur⯑priſe. Yes, Sirs, fate has diſpoſed of my ſon. Iſabella is at liberty—Do you then reſtore her? cried the chief Knight, breaking ſilence. Af⯑ford 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 [110] ſon—but that is ever! Life itſelf is ſo indiffe⯑rent 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 Hippo⯑lita? They ſhook their heads—no! thus then, Sirs, it is. You think me ambitious: Ambi⯑tion alas! is compoſed of more rugged mate⯑rials. If I were ambitious, I ſhould not for ſo many years have been a prey to all the hell of conſcientious ſcruples—but I weary your pati⯑ence: 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 [111] 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 mat⯑ter before the church, for we are related within the forbidden degrees. I expect every hour the definitive ſentence that muſt ſeparate us for ever—I am ſure you feel for me—I ſee you do—pardon theſe tears! the Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end. Man⯑fred continued. The death of my ſon betiding while my ſoul was under this anxiety, I thought of nothing but reſigning my dominions, and re⯑tiring for ever from the ſight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a ſucceſſor, who would be tender of my people, and to diſpoſe of the Lady Iſabella, who is dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to reſtore the line of Alfonſo, even in his moſt diſtant kindred: And though, pardon me, I am ſatisfied it was his will that Ricardo's lineage ſhould take place [112] 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 misfor⯑tunes. 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 fami⯑lies, if I was to take the Lady Iſabella to wife—you ſtart—but though Hippolita's virtues will ever be dear to me, a prince muſt not conſider himſelf; he is born for his people—A ſervant at that inſtant entering the chamber apprized [113] 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 recollect⯑ing that he was certainly arrived to notify the Princeſs's return, Manfred began to excuſe him⯑ſelf 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 apolo⯑gizing to the Knights, earneſt to know what was become of Iſabella, yet equally afraid of their [114] 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, re⯑proached Manfred in bitter terms for his dark and ambigucus dealing, and demanded the cauſe of Iſabella's firſt abſence from the caſtle. Man⯑fred, 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 con⯑tradict this falſhood, 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 ſe⯑creted the Princeſs, notwithſtanding the con⯑cern he expreſſed at her flight, ruſhing to the [115] door, ſaid, thou traitor-Prince! Iſabella ſhall be found. Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other Knights aſſiſting their comrade, he broke from the Prince, and haſtened into the court, demanding his attendants. Manfred finding it vain to divert him from the purſuit, offered to accompany him; and ſummoning his attendants, and taking Jerome and ſome of the Friars to guide them, they iſſued from the caſtle; Manfred privately giving orders, to have the Knight's company ſecured, while to the Knight he affected to diſpatch a meſſenger to require their aſſiſtance.

The company had no ſooner quitted the caſ⯑tle, than Matilda, who felt herſelf deeply in⯑tereſted for the young peaſant, ſince ſhe had ſeen him condemned to death in the hall, and whoſe thoughts had been taken up with concert⯑ing meaſures to ſave him, was informed by ſome of the female attendants that Manfred had diſ⯑patched all his men various ways in purſuit of [116] 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 forget⯑ting it. The domeſtics, officious to obey ſo peremptory a Prince, and urged by their own curioſity and love of novelty to join in any pre⯑cipitate chaſe, had to a man left the caſtle. Matilda diſengaging 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 tak⯑ing, yet holy charity, ſurmounting all other ties, juſtifies this act. Fly; the doors of thy priſon are open: My father and his domeſtics are abſent; but they may ſoon return: Be gone in ſafety; and may the angels of heaven direct thy courſe! Thou art ſurely one of thoſe an⯑gels! 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 [117] 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 de⯑dicated 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; think⯑eſt 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 de⯑lay. Depart; it cannot be known that I aſ⯑ſiſted [118] thy flight. Swear by the faints above, ſaid Theodore, that thou canſt not be ſuſpected; elſe here I vow to await whatever can befal 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 ca⯑lamity until this hour—perhaps ſhall never know other fortune again: Suffer the chaſte raptures of holy gratitude: 'Tis my ſoul would print its effuſions on thy hand. Forbear, and be gone, ſaid Matilda:—How would Iſabella ap⯑prove of ſeeing thee at my feet? Who is Iſa⯑bella? ſaid the young man with ſurprize. 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 myſte⯑rious,—ſpeak, [119] 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 Theo⯑dore, becauſe it is thy will, and becauſe I would not bring the grey hairs of my father with ſor⯑row to the grave. Say but, adored lady, that I have thy gentle pity.—Stay, ſaid Matilda; I will conduct thee to the ſubterraneous vault by which Iſabella eſcaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas, where thou mayſt take ſanctuary.—What! ſaid Theodore, was it another, and not thy lovely ſelf that I aſ⯑ſiſted 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, ſanc⯑tuaries are for helpleſs damſels, or for crimi⯑nals. Theodore's ſoul is free from guilt, nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a [120] 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 perceiv⯑ing no farther noiſe, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up vapours: And the Prin⯑ceſs preceding Theodore ſoftly, carried him to her father's armory, 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 mak⯑ing [121] 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 fer⯑vently intreated 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 in⯑to 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 [122] 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 pur⯑ſuit that was making after the Lady Iſabella, with ſome particulars of whoſe ſtory he now firſt be⯑came acquainted. The generous galantry 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 con⯑curred 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 [123] at night, Theodore at length determined to re⯑pair to the foreſt that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he ſought the gloomi⯑eſt ſhades, as beſt ſuited to the pleaſing me⯑lancholy that reigned in his mind. In this mood he roved inſenſibly to the caves which had for⯑merly 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 adventu⯑rous diſpoſition, he willingly indulged his cu⯑rioſity in exploring the ſecret receſſes of this la⯑byrinth. 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 [124] had long burned with impatience to approve his valour—drawing his ſabre, he marched ſe⯑dately 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 injur⯑ing, he would defend her at the peril of his life. The lady recovering her ſpirits from his courteous demeanour, and gazing on her pro⯑tector, ſaid, ſure I have heard that voice be⯑fore! 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 [125] words, ſhe threw herſelf at his feet, and be⯑ſought him not to deliver her up to Manfred. To Manfred! cried Theodore—no, lady, I have once already delivered thee from his tyranny, and it ſhall fare hard with me now, but I will place thee out of the reach of his daring. Is it poſſible, ſaid ſhe, that thou ſhouldſt be the generous unknown, whom I met laſt night in the vault of the caſtle? ſure thou art not a mor⯑tal, but my guardian angel: On my knees let me thank—hold, gentle Princeſs, ſaid Theodore, nor demean thyſelf before a poor and friend⯑leſs 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 [126] accompany you alone into theſe perplexed re⯑treats? ſhould we be found together, what would a cenſorious world think of my con⯑duct? 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. Be⯑ſides, 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 al⯑though—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 encou⯑rage her, but in vain. He aſſured her he would die rather than ſuffer her to return un⯑der Manfred's power; and begging her to re⯑main concealed, he went forth to prevent the perſon in ſearch of her from approaching.

[127] 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 prepar⯑ing to ſeek her, when Theodore, placing him⯑ſelf in his way, with his ſword drawn, ſternly forbad him at his peril to advance. And who art thou who dareſt to croſs my way? ſaid the Knight haughtily. One who does not dare more than he will perform, ſaid Theodore. I ſeek the lady Iſabella, ſaid the Knight, and underſtand ſhe has taken refuge among theſe rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent having provoked my reſentment. Thy pur⯑poſe is as odious, as thy reſentment is con⯑temptible, ſaid Theodore. Return whence thou cameſt, or we ſhall ſoon know whoſe reſent⯑ment 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 [128] Princeſs, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into the power of the three Knights. Their chief had ſuſpected Manfred of being pri⯑vy 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 power⯑ful incentives to hardy deeds. The combat was furious, but not long: Theodore wounded the Knight in three ſeveral places, and at laſt diſ⯑armed him as he fainted with the loſs of blood. The peaſant, who had fled at the firſt onſet, had given the alarm to ſome of Manfred's domeſ⯑tics, [129] 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, notwith⯑ſtanding his hatred to Manfred, could not be⯑hold the victory he had gained without emo⯑tions 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 inſtru⯑ment 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 [130] ſome water, ſaid Theodore, and pour it down his throat, while I haſten to the Princeſs—ſay⯑ing this, he flew to Iſabella, and in few words told her modeſtly, that he had been ſo unfortu⯑nate by miſtake as to wound a gentleman from her father's court, who wiſhed ere he died to im⯑part ſomething of conſequence to her. The Princeſs, who had been tranſported at hearing the voice of Theodore as he called to her to come forth, was aſtoniſhed at what ſhe heard. Suffer⯑ing herſelf to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whoſe valour recalled her diſperſ⯑ed ſpirits, ſhe came where the bleeding Knight lay ſpeechleſs on the ground—but her fears re⯑turned, when ſhe beheld the domeſtics of Man⯑fred. She would again have fled, if Theodore had not made her obſerve that they were un⯑armed, 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: [131] good heaven reſtore thee!—Then thou—then thou—ſaid the Knight, ſtruggling for utterance—ſeeſt—thy father—give me one—oh! amazement! horror! what do I hear! what do I ſee! cried Iſabella. My father! you my father! how came you here, Sir? for hea⯑ven's ſake ſpeak!—oh! run for help, or he will expire!—'Tis moſt true, ſaid the wound⯑ed Knight, exerting all his force; I am Frede⯑ric 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 your⯑ſelf: 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 mi⯑nutes will place me beyond danger—but while I have eyes to doat on thee, forſake me not, dear Iſabella! This brave Knight—I know not [132] who he is, will protect thy innocence—Sir, you will not abondon my child, will you! Theo⯑dore ſhedding tears over his victim, and vow⯑ing to guard the Princeſs at the expence 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 affected Iſabella, who could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully behind.

CHAP. IV.

THE ſorrowful troop no ſooner arrived at the caſtle, than they were met by Hippo⯑lita and Matilda, whom Iſabella had ſent one of the domeſtics before to advertiſe of their ap⯑proach. The Ladies cauſing Frederic to be con⯑veyed 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 ac⯑quaint Hippolita that none of the Marquis's wounds were dangerous; and that he was de⯑ſirous of ſeeing his daughter and the Princeſſes. Theodore, under pretence of expreſſing his joy at being freed from his apprehenſions of the com⯑bat being fatal to Frederic, could not reſiſt the [134] 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, Hip⯑polita demanded of Frederic the cauſe of his hav⯑ing taken that myſterious courſe for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various apologies to excuſe her Lord for the match contracted be⯑tween their children. Frederic, however in⯑cenſed 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 bed-ſide, 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 [135] near Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed at this dream, and incapable of obeying the di⯑rection 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 Pa⯑leſtine, 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 ve⯑nerable hermit in the agonies of death. Apply⯑ing 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 ſee⯑ing my country become a prey to unbelievers—it is alas! above fifty years ſince I was witneſs [136] to that dreadful ſcene! St. Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a ſecret, which he had me never reveal 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 relicks 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 [137] 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 ſen⯑tence, my Lord; we liſten reſigned. Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded ſo far. The dignity and patient firmneſs of Hippolita pene⯑trated him with reſpect, and the tender ſilent affection with which the Princeſs and her daugh⯑ter 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:

What is there in theſe lines, ſaid Theodore impa⯑tiently, 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 tho' 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 your⯑ſelf for the gloſing of a peaſant's ſon: He for⯑gets the reverence he owes you; but he is not accuſtomed—Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had ariſen, checked Theodore for his bold⯑neſs, 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 [139] without, and riſing to inquire the cauſe, Man⯑fred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an imperfect rumour of what had happened' entered the chamber. Manfred advanced haſtily towards Frederic's bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to learn the circumſtances of the combat, when ſtarting in an agony of terror and amazement, he cried, Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful ſpectre! is my hour come?—my deareſt, gracious Lord, cried Hippolita, claſping him in her arms, what is it you ſee? why do you fix your eye-balls thus!—What! cried Manfred breathleſs—doſt thou ſee nothing, Hippolita? is this ghaſtly phantom ſent to me alone—to me, who did not—for mercy's ſweeteſt ſelf, my Lord, ſaid Hippolita, reſume your ſoul, command your reaſon. There is none here, but us, your friends—what is not that Alfonſo? cried Manfred: Doſt thou not ſee him? can it be my brain's delirium?—This! my Lord, ſaid Hippolita; this is Theodore, the youth who has been ſo unfortunate—Theodore! [140] ſaid Manfred mournfully, and ſtriking his fore⯑head—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 Iſa⯑bella! 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 me⯑ditated 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 [141] addreſſing himſelf to the Friar, that thou re⯑payeſt 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 are capable of harbouring a thought againſt your peace. Is it inſolence thus to ſurrender myſelf to your Highneſs's pleaſure? added he, laying his ſword reſpectfully at Manfred's feet. Behold my boſom; ſtrike, my Lord, if you ſuſpect that a diſloyal thought is lodged there. There is not a ſentiment engraven on my heart, that does not venerate you and yours. The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered theſe words, intereſted every perſon preſent in his favour. Even Manfred was touched—yet ſtill poſſeſſed with his reſemblance to Al⯑fonſo, his admiration was daſhed with ſecret hor⯑ror. 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. [142] My Lord, ſaid Jerome eagerly—peace, im⯑poſtor! ſaid Manfred; I will not have him prompted. My Lord, ſaid Theodore, I want no aſſiſtance: My ſtory is very brief. I was car⯑ried at five years of age to Algiers with my mo⯑ther, 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, con⯑tinued 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 over-powered the pirate; and diſ⯑covering myſelf to the captain, he generouſly put me on ſhore in Sicily—but alas! inſtead of finding a father, I learned that his eſtate, [143] 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 a religious houſe 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 ſup⯑porting myſelf by the labour of my hands; nor until yeſter-morn did I believe that heaven had reſerved any lot for me but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord, is Theo⯑dore's ſtory. I am bleſſed beyond my hope in finding a father; I am unfortunate beyond my deſert in having incurred your Highneſs's diſ⯑pleaſure. He ceaſed. A murmur of appro⯑bation gently aroſe from the audience. This is not all, ſaid Frederic: I am bound in honour [144] to add what he ſuppreſſes. Though he is mo⯑deſt, 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 vera⯑city: 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 vains, 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 an⯑other 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 [145] 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 ſenſa⯑tions, ſuffered himſelf to be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, tho' under engagement to return to the caſtle on the morrow [a condition the young man gladly ac⯑cepted] to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and Iſabella were too much occupied with their own reflections, and too little con⯑tent with each other, to wiſh for farther con⯑verſe 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 thou⯑ſand queſtions which ſhe wiſhed ſhe had put to [146] the other overnight. Matilda reflected that Iſa⯑bella had been twice delivered by Theodore in very critical ſituations, which ſhe could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was true, had been fix⯑ed 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 prompt⯑ed, and at the ſame time borrowed an excuſe from friendſhip to juſtify its curioſity.

Iſabella, not leſs reſtleſs, had better founda⯑tion for her ſuſpicions. Both Theodore's tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged—it was true—yet perhaps Matilda might not cor⯑reſpond 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 [147] 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 prepoſ⯑ſeſſed his affections—if it is, I am not ſo un⯑happy, as I thought; if it is not my friend Matilda—how! can I ſtoop to wiſh for the af⯑fection of a man, who rudely and unneceſſari⯑ly acquainted me with his indifference? and that at the very moment in which common courteſy demanded at leaſt expreſſions of civi⯑lity. 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 cloyſter. In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart en⯑tirely 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 [148] 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 eſ⯑cape 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, interrupt⯑ing 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 [149] Yes; anſwered ſhe; I never ſaw him before; I do not know how he had offended my fa⯑ther—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 Ma⯑tilda 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 dear⯑eſt Iſabella does not doubt her Matilda's friend⯑ſhip: I never beheld that youth until yeſterday; he is almoſt a ſtranger to me: But as the ſur⯑geons [150] have pronounced your father out of dan⯑ger, you ought not to harbour uncharitable re⯑ſentment againſt one, who I am perſuaded did not know the Marquis was related to you. You plead his cauſe very pathetically, ſaid Iſa⯑bella, conſidering he is ſo much a ſtranger to you! I am miſtaken, or he returns your charity. What mean you? ſaid Matilda. Nothing: Said Iſa⯑bella, repenting that ſhe had given Matilda a hint of Theodore's inclination for her. Then chang⯑ing the diſcourſe, ſhe aſked Matilda what occa⯑ſioned Manfred to take Theodore for a ſpectre? Bleſs me, ſaid Matilda, did not you obſerve his extreme reſemblance to the portrait of Al⯑fonſo 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 [151] he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yeſ⯑terday 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 Ma⯑tilda! My lovely friend, ſaid Iſabella, whoſe heart was too honeſt to reſiſt a kind expreſſi⯑on, 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 Ma⯑tilda; 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 [152] to her friend. At length, the dignity of Iſabel⯑la'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 enter⯑ed her daughter's chamber. Madam, ſaid ſhe to Iſabella, you have ſo much tenderneſs for Matilda, and intereſt yourſelf ſo kindly in what⯑ever affects our wretched houſe, that I can have no ſecrets with my child, which are not pro⯑per for you to hear. The Princeſſes were all attention and anxiety. Know then, Madam, continued Hippolita, and you, my deareſt Ma⯑tilda, that being convinced by all the events of theſe two laſt ominous days, that heaven pur⯑poſes the ſceptre of Otranto ſhould paſs from Manfred's hands into thoſe of the Marquis Fre⯑deric, I have been perhaps inſpired with the thought of averting our total deſtruction by the union of our rival houſes. With this view I [153] have been propoſing to Manfred my Lord to ten⯑der this dear, dear child to Frederic your father—me to lord Frederic! cried Matilda—good hea⯑vens! my gracious mother—and have you nam⯑ed it to my father? I have, ſaid Hippolita: He liſtened benignly to my propoſal, and is gone to break it to the Marquis. Ah! wretch⯑ed Princeſs! cried Iſabella; what haſt thou done! what ruin has thy inadvertent goodneſs been pre⯑paring for thyſelf, for me, and for Matilda! Ruin from me to you and to my child! ſaid Hippolita; what can this mean? Alas! ſaid Iſabella, the purity of your own heart prevents your ſeeing the depravity of others. Manfred your Lord, that impious man—hold; ſaid Hippolita, you muſt not in my preſence, young lady, mention Manfred with diſreſpect: He is my lord and huſband, and—will not long be ſo, ſaid Iſabella, if his wicked purpoſes can be carried into execution. This language amazes me; ſaid Hippolita. Your feeling, Iſabella, is warm: but until this hour I never knew it betray you [154] into intemperance. What deed of Manfred au⯑thorizes you to treat him as a murderer, an aſſaſſin? Thou virtuous, and too credulous Prin⯑ceſs! replied Iſabella; it is not thy life he aims at—it is to ſeparate himſelf from thee! to di⯑vorce thee! to—to divorce me! to divorce my mother! cried Hippolita and Matilda at once—yes; ſaid Iſabella; and to compleat his crime, he meditates—I cannot ſpeak it! What can ſurpaſs what thou haſt already uttered? ſaid Matilda. Hippolita was ſilent. Grief choaked her ſpeech; and the recollection of Manfred's late ambiguous diſcourſes confirmed what ſhe heard. Excellent, dear Lady! Madam! Mo⯑ther! cried Iſabella, flinging herſelf at Hip⯑polita'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! Ma⯑tilda, this ſtroke is too heavy for thee! weep [155] not, my child; and not a murmur, I charge thee. Remember, he is thy father ſtill!—but you are my mother too; ſaid Matilda ſervently; 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 bro⯑ther, knew not what he ſaid: perhaps Iſabella miſunderſtood him: His heart is good—and, my child, thou knoweſt not all! There is a deſtiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is ſtretched out—Oh! could I but ſave thee from the wreck!—yes, continued ſhe in a firmer tone; perhaps the ſacrifice of myſelf may atone for all—I will go and offer myſelf to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monaſtery, and waſte the remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince! Thou art as much too good for this world, ſaid Iſa⯑bella, as Manfred is execrable—but think not, Lady, that thy weakneſs ſhall determine for [156] 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 loath him, I abhor him: Divine and human laws forbid—and my friend, my deareſt Ma⯑tilda! 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, Iſa⯑bella, adore her too much? My lovely children, ſaid the touched Hippolita, your tenderneſs over-powers me—but I muſt not give way to it. It is not ours to make election for ourſelves: Hea⯑ven, our fathers, and our huſbands muſt decide for us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have determined. If the [157] Marquis accepts Matilda's hand, I know ſhe will readily obey. Heaven may interpoſe and prevent the reſt. What means my child? con⯑tinued 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 re⯑ſpected of women, can I experience all this ten⯑derneſs, this world of goodneſs, and conceal a thought from the beſt of mothers? What are thou going to utter? ſaid Iſabella trembling. Recollect thyſelf, Matilda. No, Iſabella, ſaid the Princeſs, I ſhould not deſerve this incom⯑parable 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 [158] 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 con⯑ſcious to this unhappy ſecret, whatever it is. Speak—what! cried Matilda, have I ſo for⯑feited my mother's love, that ſhe will not per⯑mit me even to ſpeak my own guilt? oh! wretch⯑ed, wretched Matilda! Thou art too cruel; ſaid Iſabella to Hippolita: Canſt thou behold this anguiſh of a virtuous mind, and not commiſe⯑rate 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 Ma⯑tilda. Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and ſhewed them the improbability that either father [159] would conſent to beſtow his heireſs on ſo poor a man, though nobly born. Some comfort it gave her to find their paſſion of ſo recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cauſe to ſuſ⯑pect it in either. She ſtrictly enjoined them to avoid all correſpondence with him. This Ma⯑tilda fervently promiſed: But Iſabella, who flat⯑tered 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 or⯑der 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 oppor⯑tunity 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 [160] 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 ſeve⯑rity. I have given away my heart, and you alone can make me recal it. No more, ſaid Hippolita: thou muſt not relapſe, Matilda. I can quit Theodore, ſaid ſhe, but muſt I wed another? let me attend thee to the altar, and ſhut myſelf from the world for ever. Thy fate depends on thy father; ſaid Hippolita: I have ill beſtowed my tenderneſs, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu! my child: I go to pray for thee.

Hippolita's real purpoſe was to demand of Je⯑rome, whether in conſcience ſhe might not con⯑ſent to the divorce. She had oft urged Man⯑fred to reſign the principality, which the deli⯑cacy [161] of her conſcience rendered an hourly bur⯑then 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 pre⯑vent Manfred's ſuſpicion from alighting on Ma⯑tilda; 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 leav⯑ing him to his reſt; promiſed in the morning to acquaint him with important reaſons for con⯑quering 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 [162] 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 at⯑tend him at Alfonſo's tomb.

Young man, ſaid Jerome, when he ſaw him, this tardineſs does not pleaſe me. Have a fa⯑ther's commands already ſo little weight? Theo⯑dore 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 che⯑riſh thoſe whom heaven has doomed to deſtruc⯑tion. A tyrant's race muſt be ſwept from the earth to the third and fourth generation. Will [163] heaven viſit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty? ſaid Theodore. The fair Matilda has virtues enough—to undo thee: Interrupted Je⯑rome. Haſt thou ſo ſoon forgotten that twice the ſavage Manfred has pronounced thy ſen⯑tence? Nor have I forgotten, Sir, ſaid Theo⯑dore, 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 monu⯑ment 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 un⯑folds a ſtate of horror, that will expel every ſentiment from thy ſoul, but ſenſations of ſa⯑cred 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 [164] 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 pour⯑ing 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 exemp⯑tion from the judgments which the portents of theſe days but too ſpeakingly denounced againſt thy houſe. I pray fervently to heaven to divert them, ſaid the pious Princeſs. Thou knoweſt it has been the occupation of my life to wreſt a bleſſing for my Lord and my harmleſs children—One alas! is taken from me! would heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father! inter⯑cede 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 [165] 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 excel⯑lent Princeſs! ſaid Theodore retiring. Jerome frowned.

Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the propoſal ſhe had ſuggeſted to Manfred, his ap⯑probation 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 readi⯑neſs not to oppoſe the ſeparation, and demand⯑ed his opinion on the legality of her acquieſcence.

[166] The Friar catched 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 en⯑joined 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 [167] 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 indig⯑nation that ſhe was abſent at the convent. His guilt ſuggeſted to him that ſhe had proba⯑bly been informed by Iſabella of his purpoſe. He doubted whether her retirement to the con⯑vent did not import an intention of remaining there until ſhe could raiſe obſtacles to their divorce; and the ſuſpicions he had already en⯑tertained 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.

[167] Madam, ſaid Manfred, what buſineſs drew you hither? why did you not await my return from the Marquis? I came to implore a bleſ⯑ſing 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 chuſeſt to inſult the ſer⯑vants 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 thun⯑ders will be heard above thy wrath. Dare to proceed in thy curſt 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 the lawful Prince? Thou art no lawful Prince; ſaid Jerome; thou art no Prince—go, diſcuſs thy claim with Fre⯑deric; [179] 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 Al⯑fonſo'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 autho⯑rity. I have no will but that of my Lord and the church. To that reverend tribunal let us apply. It does not depend on us to burſt the bonds that unite us. If the church ſhall approve the diſſolution of our marrage, 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 [167] [...] [179] [...] [180] to the caſtle, and there I will adviſe on the proper meaſures for a divorce;—but this med⯑dling Friar comes not thither: My hoſpitable roof ſhall never more habour 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.

CHAP. V.

EVERY reflection which Manfred made on the Friar's behaviour, conſpired to perſuade [181] him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Iſabella and Theodore. But Jerome's new pre⯑ſumption, ſo diſſonant from his former meek⯑neſs, ſuggeſted ſtill deeper apprehenſions. The Prince even ſuſpected that the Friar depended on ſome ſecret ſupport from Frederic, whoſe ar⯑rival 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 poſ⯑ſibility of his preſerving them to his poſterity combated that thought. The other was to [182] preſs his marriage with Iſabella. After long ru⯑minating on theſe anxious thoughts, as he marched ſilently with Hippolita to the caſtle, he at laſt diſcourſed with that princeſs on the ſub⯑ject 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 alledged, 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 reſolv⯑ed to engage Frederic to take a journey on pur⯑poſe. [183] That prince had diſcovered ſo much paſ⯑ſion 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 re⯑paired 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 imme⯑diately occured 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 pro⯑miſes 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 [184] her father's wounds; but I tell her he will do well, don't your highneſs think ſo? I do not aſk you, replied Manfred, what ſhe thinks about her father: but you are in her ſecrets: Come, be a good girl and tell me; is there any young man—ha!—you underſtand me—Lord bleſs me! underſtand your highneſs, no, not I: I told her a few vulnerary herbs and repoſe—I am not talking, replied the Prince impatiently, about her father: I know he will do well—Bleſs me, I rejoice to hear your Highneſs ſay ſo; for though I thought it not right to let my young Lady deſpond, methought his Greatneſs had a wan look, and a ſomething—I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded by the Ve⯑netian—Thou anſwereſt from the point, in⯑terrupted Manfred; but here, take this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention—nay, no re⯑verences; 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 [185] 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 be⯑come of me—ſtay; cried Manfred, thou haſt not ſatisfied my queſtion. Haſt thou ever car⯑ried any meſſage, any letter—I! good gra⯑cious! 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 Man⯑fred, to liſten to thy tales. I do not queſtion thy honeſty: But it is thy duty to conceal no⯑thing from me. How long has Iſabella been [186] acquainted with Theodore? Nay, there is no⯑thing can eſcape your highneſs! ſaid Bianca—not that I know any thing of the matter—Theo⯑dore, 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? Vir⯑gin 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—jea⯑lous! no, no: Why ſhould I be jealous?—perhaps I mean to unite them—if I were ſure Iſabella would have no repugnance—repug⯑nance! 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 [187] 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 com⯑panion. Wait at the foot of the winding ſtair⯑caſe: 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 mar⯑riage, unleſs—at that inſtant Bianca burſt into the room with a wildneſs in her look and geſ⯑tures [188] 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-mor⯑row—would I had been content to wed Fran⯑ciſco! this comes of ambition! What has ter⯑rified thee thus, young woman? ſaid the Mar⯑quis: Thou art ſafe here; be not alarmed. Oh! your greatneſs is wonderful 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 [189] elſe? I ſay my hours 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 propheſy would be out one of theſe days—Bianca, ſaid he, mark my words—thou ra⯑veſt; ſaid Manfred in a rage; be gone, and keep theſe fooleries to frighten thy companions—what! my Lord, cried Bianca, do you think I have ſeen nothing? go to the foot of the great ſtairs yourſelf—as I live I ſaw it. Saw what? tell us, fair maid, what thou haſt ſeen, ſaid Frederic. Can your Highneſs liſten, ſaid Manfred, to the delirium of a ſilly wench, who has heard ſtories of apparitions until ſhe believes them? This is more than fancy, ſaid the Mar⯑quis; 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 [190] going to my Lady Iſabella's chamber by his Highneſs's order—we do want the circum⯑ſtances; interrupted Manfred: Since his High⯑neſs 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 [191] Giant turned him about in the gallery-chamber—what does ſhe mean, my Lord! ſaid the Mar⯑quis; is your caſtle haunted by Giants and gob⯑lins? 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—may hap 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 Great⯑neſs, ſaid Bianca. He ſays this moon will not be out without our ſeeing ſome ſtrange revo⯑lution. For my part I ſhould not be ſurprized 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 [192] 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 ſomthing—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 practice on merce⯑nary 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 [193] Iſabella: The judgments already fallen on your houſe forbid my 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 adſolutely recede from his engage⯑ments; but purpoſing to gain time, he demand⯑ed of Manfred, if it was true in fact that Hip⯑polita conſented to the divorce. The Prince, tranſported to find no other obſtacle, and de⯑pending [194] on his influence over his wife, aſſured the Marquis it was ſo, and that he might ſa⯑tisfy himſelf of the truth from her own mouth.

As they were thus diſcourſing, word was brought that the banquet was prepared. Man⯑fred 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 determin⯑ed 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 chal⯑lenges, on pretence of his late loſs of blood; while the Prince, to raiſe his own diſordered ſpirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged [195] 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 weak⯑neſs and want of repoſe, retired to his cham⯑ber, galantly telling the Prince, that his daugh⯑ter ſhould amuſe his Highneſs until himſelf could attend him. Manfred accepted the party, and to the no ſmall grief of Iſabella accompanied her to her apartment. Matilda waited on her mother to enjoy the freſhneſs of the evening on the ramparts of the caſtle.

Soon as the company were diſperſed their ſeveral ways, Frederic, quitting his chamber, 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 gene⯑rally withdrew to her oratory, where he pro⯑bably would find her. The Marquis during [196] 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 ſurprized at the ſilence that reigned in the Princeſs's apartment. Con⯑cluding her, as he had been advertized, in her oratory, he paſſed on. The door was a⯑jar; the evening gloomy and overcaſt. Puſh⯑ing open the door gently, he ſaw a perſon kneeling before the alter. 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. [197] The Marquis was about to return, when the figure riſing, ſtood ſome moments fixed in meditation, without regarding him. The Mar⯑quis, expecting the holy perſon to come forth, and meaning to excuſe his uncivil interruption, ſaid, reverend Father, I ſought the Lady Hip⯑polita—Hippolita! replied a hollow voice? cameſt thou to this caſtle to ſeek Hippolita?—and then the figure, turning ſlowly round, diſ⯑covered to Frederic the fleſhleſs jaws and empty ſockets of a ſkeleton, wrapt in a hermit's cowl. Angels of grace, protect me! cried Frederic re⯑coiling. 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 Her⯑mit? 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 en⯑graven [198] on it?—I have not, I have not; ſaid Frederic—but ſay, bleſt ſpirit, what is thy errand to me? what remains to be done? To forget Matilda! ſaid the apparition—and vaniſhed.

Frederic's blood froze in his veins. For ſome minutes he remained motionleſs. Then falling proſtrate on his face before the alter, he be⯑ſought 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, con⯑jured [199] him in the moſt plaintive accents to ex⯑plain the cauſe of his diſorder, and by what ſtrange chance ſhe had found him there in that poſture. Ah! virtuous Princeſs! ſaid the Mar⯑quis, 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 exclama⯑tion on my name? What woes has heaven ſtill in ſtore for the wretched Hippolita?—yet ſilent!—by every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble Prince, continued ſhe falling at his feet, to diſcloſe the purport of what lies at thy heart—I ſee thou feeleſt for me; thou feeleſt the ſharp pangs that thou inflicteſt—ſpeak for pity!—does aught thou knoweſt concern my child?—I cannot ſpeak; cried Frederic, burſting from her—Oh! Matilda!

Quitting the Princeſs thus abruptly, he ha⯑ſtened to his own apartment. At the door of it he was accoſted by Manfred, who fluſhed by [200] 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 invita⯑tion ſo diſſonant from the mood of his ſoul, puſhed him rudely aſide, and entering his cham⯑ber, flung the door intemperately againſt Man⯑fred, and bolted it inwards. The haughty Prince, enraged at this unaccountable behavi⯑our, 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 wo⯑man was.

Manfred, whoſe ſpirits were inflamed, and [201] whom Iſabella had driven from her on his urg⯑ing his paſſion with too little reſerve, did not doubt but the inquietude ſhe had expreſſed, had been occaſioned by her impatience to meet Theo⯑dore. Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he haſtened ſecretly to the great church. Gliding ſoftly between the ailes, and guided by an imperfect gleam of moon-ſhine that ſhone faintly through the illuminated windows, he ſtole towards the tomb of Alfonſo, of the perſons he ſought. The firſt ſounds 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 plung⯑ing 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 [202] wrenching his dagger from him—Stop, ſtop thy impious hand! cried Matilda; it is my fa⯑ther! 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 aſiſt Matilda, had now by his cries drawn ſome of the monks to his aid. While part of them endeavoured in concert with the afflicted Theo⯑dore 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 aſ⯑ſiſtants 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! [203] behold the completion of woe fulfilled on thy im⯑pious 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—can'ſt 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 [204] 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 born into the convent; but her inſtances were ſo preſſing to be carried to the caſtle, that placing her on a litter, they con⯑veyed her thither as ſhe requeſted. Theodore ſup⯑porting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an agony of deſpairing love, ſtill en⯑deavoured to inſpire her with hopes of life. Je⯑rome on the other ſide comforted her with diſ⯑courſes of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which ſhe bathed with inocent tears, pre⯑pared her for her paſſage to immortality. Man⯑fred plunged in the deepeſt afflion, followed the litter in deſpair.

Ere they reached the caſtle, Hippolita, in⯑formed of the dreadful cataſtrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child. but when ſhe ſaw [205] the afflicted proceſſion the mightineſs of her grief deprived her of her ſenſes, and ſhe fell life⯑leſs to the earth in a ſwoon. Iſabella and Fre⯑deric, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almoſt equal ſorrow. Matilda alone ſeemed in⯑ſenſible 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 ap⯑proached, 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 Man⯑fred 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 [206] likewiſe removed her, while the ſurgeons exa⯑mined Matilda's wound, ſhe cried, remove me! never! never! I lived but in her, and will ex⯑pire with her. Matilda raiſed her eyes at her mother's voice, but cloſed them again without ſpeaking. Her ſinking pulſe and the damp cold⯑neſs of her hand ſoon diſpelled all hopes of reco⯑very. 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 ſur⯑geons 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 Fre⯑deric: doſt thou think we are to liſten to thy fond tranſports in this hour of fate? what pre⯑tenſions haſt thou to the Princeſs? Thoſe of a Prince, ſaid Theodore; of the ſovereign of Otranto. [207] 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 duti⯑fully 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 [208] 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 Hippo⯑lita in a flood of tears, can I not withhold thee a moment!—It will not be; ſaid Matilda—com⯑mend me to heaven—where is my father? for⯑give 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 cala⯑mity—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 [209] it wonnot be—Iſabella—Theodore—for my ſake—Oh!—ſhe expired. Iſabella and her wo⯑men 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 expreſ⯑ſion that deſpairing love could dictate.

Iſabella, in the mean time, was accompany⯑ing 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 countenance 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 [210] 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 magni⯑tude, appeared in the centre of the ruins. Be⯑hold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonſo! ſaid the viſion: And having pronounced thoſe words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it aſcended ſolemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting aſunder, the form of St. Nicholas was ſeen, and receiving Alfonſo's ſhade, they were ſoon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

The beholders fell proſtrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine will. The firſt that broke ſilence was Hippolita. My Lord, ſaid ſhe to the deſponding Manfred, behold the vanity of human greatneſs! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! in Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is ſo, I know not—ſuffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! [211] ſhall we not, can we but dedicate the few de⯑plorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the farther wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to you 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 can⯑not 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 con⯑ſecrated 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 [212] 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 Ri⯑cardo his heir. His crimes purſued him—yet he loſt no Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price of uſurpation for all! A ſtorm overtook him. Haunted by his guilt, he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The ſacrifice was accepted: the ſaint appeared to him in a dream, and pro⯑miſed 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 [213] heir—I queſtion not the will of heaven—po⯑verty and prayer muſt fill up the woeful ſpace, until Manfred ſhall be ſummoned to Ricardo.

What remains, is my part to declare, ſaid Jerome. When Alfonſo ſet ſail for the holy land, he was driven by a ſtorm to the coaſt of Sicily. The other veſſel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordſhip muſt have heard, was ſeparated from him. It is moſt true, ſaid Man⯑fred; and the title you give me is more than an outcaſt can claim—well! be it ſo—proceed. Jerome, bluſhed, and continued. For three months Lord Alfonſo was wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleaſures. They were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials, until his return from the Cruſado, when he purpoſed to ſeek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife. [214] 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 cor⯑roborate thy evidence beyond a thouſand parch⯑ments. Matilda's death and my expulſion—Be compoſed, my Lord, ſaid Hippolita; this holy man did not mean to recal 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.

[215] The Friar ceaſed. The diſconſolate com⯑pany retired to the remaining part of the caſtle. In the morning Manfred ſigned his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita's tenderneſs for Iſabella concurred to promote: But Theodore's grief was too freſh to admit the thought of another love; and it was not until after frequent diſcourſes with Iſabella of his dear Matilda, that he was perſuaded he could know no happineſs but in the ſociety of one with whom he could for ever indulge the me⯑lancholy that had taken poſſeſſion of his ſoul.