THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO

CHAPTER 2

Matilda, who by Hippolita's order had retired to her apartment, was ill-disposed to

take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had deeply affected her. She was

surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the strange words which had fallen from her

father, and his obscure menace to the Princess his wife, accompanied by the most

furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited

anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had

sent to learn what was become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared, and informed her

mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be

found. She related the adventure of the young peasant who had been discovered in the

vault, though with many simple additions from the incoherent accounts of the

domestics; and she dwelt principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen

in the gallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she

was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but would watch till

the Princess should rise.

The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of Isabella, and on the

threats of Manfred to her mother. "But what business could he have so urgent with

the chaplain?" said Matilda, "Does he intend to have my brother's body interred

privately in the chapel?"

"Oh, Madam!" said Bianca, "now I guess. As you are become his heiress, he is

impatient to have you married: he has always been raving for more sons; I warrant he

is now impatient for grandsons. As sure as I live, Madam, I shall see you a bride at

last.—Good madam, you won't cast off your faithful Bianca: you won't put Donna

Rosara over me now you are a great Princess."

"My poor Bianca," said Matilda, "how fast your thoughts amble! I a great

princess! What hast thou seen in Manfred's behaviour since my brother's death that

bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me? No, Bianca; his heart was ever a stranger

to me—but he is my father, and I must not complain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my

father's heart against me, it overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother—

O that dear mother! yes, Bianca, 'tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I can

support his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I am witness

to his causeless severity towards her."

"Oh! Madam," said Bianca, "all men use their wives so, when they are weary of

them."

"And yet you congratulated me but now," said Matilda, "when you fancied my father

intended to dispose of me!"

"I would have you a great Lady," replied Bianca, "come what will. I do not wish to

see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had your will, and if my Lady,

your mother, who knows that a bad husband is better than no husband at all, did not

hinder you.—Bless me! what noise is that! St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in

jest."

"It is the wind," said Matilda, "whistling through the battlements in the tower above:

you have heard it a thousand times."

"Nay," said Bianca, "there was no harm neither in what I said: it is no sin to talk of

matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my Lord Manfred should offer you a

handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, you would drop him a curtsey, and tell him

you would rather take the veil?"

"Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger," said Matilda: "you know how many

proposals for me he has rejected—"

"And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam? But come, Madam;

suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great council chamber,

and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young Prince, with large black eyes, a

smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like jet; in short, Madam, a young

hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze

at for hours together—"

"Do not speak lightly of that picture," interrupted Matilda sighing; "I know the

adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon—but I am not in love with a

coloured panel. The character of that virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my

mother has inspired me for his memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has

enjoined me to pour forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that

somehow or other my destiny is linked with something relating to him."

"Lord, Madam! how should that be?" said Bianca; "I have always heard that your

family was in no way related to his: and I am sure I cannot conceive why my Lady,

the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a damp evening to pray at his tomb: he is

no saint by the almanack. If you must pray, why does she not bid you address

yourself to our great St. Nicholas? I am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband."

"Perhaps my mind would be less affected," said Matilda, "if my mother would explain

her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes, that inspires me with this—I

know not what to call it. As she never acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal

secret at bottom—nay, I know there is: in her agony of grief for my brother's death

she dropped some words that intimated as much."

"Oh! dear Madam," cried Bianca, "what were they?"

"No," said Matilda, "if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it recalled, it is not for a

child to utter it."

"What! was she sorry for what she had said?" asked Bianca; "I am sure, Madam, you

may trust me—"

"With my own little secrets when I have any, I may," said Matilda; "but never with

my mother's: a child ought to have no ears or eyes but as a parent directs."

"Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint," said Bianca, "and there is no

resisting one's vocation: you will end in a convent at last. But there is my Lady

Isabella would not be so reserved to me: she will let me talk to her of young men: and

when a handsome cavalier has come to the castle, she has owned to me that she

wished your brother Conrad resembled him."

"Bianca," said the Princess, "I do not allow you to mention my friend

disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul is pure as virtue

itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps has now and then

encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the solitude in which my father keeps

us—"

"Blessed Mary!" said Bianca, starting, "there it is again! Dear Madam, do you hear

nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!"

"Peace!" said Matilda, "and listen! I did think I heard a voice—but it must be fancy:

your terrors, I suppose, have infected me."

"Indeed! indeed! Madam," said Bianca, half-weeping with agony, "I am sure I heard

a voice."

"Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?" said the Princess.

"Nobody has dared to lie there," answered Bianca, "since the great astrologer, that

was your brother's tutor, drowned himself. For certain, Madam, his ghost and the

young Prince's are now met in the chamber below—for Heaven's sake let us fly to

your mother's apartment!"

"I charge you not to stir," said Matilda. "If they are spirits in pain, we may ease their

sufferings by questioning them. They can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured

them—and if they should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than in

another? Reach me my beads; we will say a prayer, and then speak to them."

"Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!" cried Bianca. As she

said those words they heard the casement of the little chamber below Matilda's

open. They listened attentively, and in a few minutes thought they heard a person

sing, but could not distinguish the words.

"This can be no evil spirit," said the Princess, in a low voice; "it is undoubtedly one of

the family—open the window, and we shall know the voice."

"I dare not, indeed, Madam," said Bianca.

"Thou art a very fool," said Matilda, opening the window gently herself. The noise

the Princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath, who stopped; and they

concluded had heard the casement open.

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

"Yes," said an unknown voice.

"Who is it?" said Matilda.

"A stranger," replied the voice.

"What stranger?" said she; "and how didst thou come there at this unusual hour, when

all the gates of the castle are locked?"

"I am not here willingly," answered the voice. "But pardon me, Lady, if I have

disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard. Sleep had forsaken me; I left a

restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach

of morning, impatient to be dismissed from this castle."

"Thy words and accents," said Matilda, "are of melancholy cast; if thou art unhappy, I

pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it; I will mention thee to the Princess,

whose beneficent soul ever melts for the distressed, and she will relieve thee."

"I am indeed unhappy," said the stranger; "and I know not what wealth is. But I do

not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me; I am young and healthy, and

am not ashamed of owing my support to myself—yet think me not proud, or that I

disdain your generous offers. I will remember you in my orisons, and will pray for

blessings on your gracious self and your noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for

others, not for myself."

"Now I have it, Madam," said Bianca, whispering the Princess; "this is certainly the

young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love—Well! this is a charming

adventure!—do, Madam, let us sift him. He does not know you, but takes you for one

of my Lady Hippolita's women."

"Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!" said the Princess. "What right have we to pry into

the secrets of this young man's heart? He seems virtuous and frank, and tells us he is

unhappy. Are those circumstances that authorise us to make a property of him? How

are we entitled to his confidence?"

"Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!" replied Bianca; "why, lovers have no

pleasure equal to talking of their mistress."

"And would you have me become a peasant's confidante?" said the Princess.

"Well, then, let me talk to him," said Bianca; "though I have the honour of being your

Highness's maid of honour, I was not always so great. Besides, if love levels ranks, it

raises them too; I have a respect for any young man in love."

"Peace, simpleton!" said the Princess. "Though he said he was unhappy, it does not

follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has happened to-day, and tell me if

there are no misfortunes but what love causes.—Stranger," resumed the Princess, "if

thy misfortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the

compass of the Princess Hippolita's power to redress, I will take upon me to answer

that she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair to

holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of St. Nicholas, and make

thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet. He will not fail to inform the

Princess, who is the mother of all that want her assistance. Farewell; it is not seemly

for me to hold farther converse with a man at this unwonted hour."

"May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!" replied the peasant; "but oh! if a poor and

worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute's audience farther; am I so happy?

the casement is not shut; might I venture to ask—"

"Speak quickly," said Matilda; "the morning dawns apace: should the labourers come

into the fields and perceive us—What wouldst thou ask?"

"I know not how, I know not if I dare," said the Young stranger, faltering; "yet the

humanity with which you have spoken to me emboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?"

"Heavens!" said Matilda, "what dost thou mean? With what wouldst thou trust

me? Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a virtuous breast."

"I would ask," said the peasant, recollecting himself, "whether what I have heard from

the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing from the castle?"

"What imports it to thee to know?" replied Matilda. "Thy first words bespoke a

prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pry into the secrets of

Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee." Saying these words she shut the

casement hastily, without giving the young man time to reply.

"I had acted more wisely," said the Princess to Bianca, with some sharpness, "if I had

let thee converse with this peasant; his inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own."

"It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness," replied Bianca; "but perhaps the

questions I should have put to him would have been more to the purpose than those

you have been pleased to ask him."

"Oh! no doubt," said Matilda; "you are a very discreet personage! May I know

what you would have asked him?"

"A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play," answered

Bianca. "Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question about my Lady

Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, there is more in it than you

great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the servants believe this young fellow

contrived my Lady Isabella's escape; now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both

know that my Lady Isabella never much fancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is

killed just in a critical minute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so,

my Lord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this young spark is a

magician, and stole it from Alfonso's tomb—"

"Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence," said Matilda.

"Nay, Madam, as you please," cried Bianca; "yet it is very particular though, that my

Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and that this young sorcerer

should be found at the mouth of the trap-door. I accuse nobody; but if my young Lord

came honestly by his death—"

"Dare not on thy duty," said Matilda, "to breathe a suspicion on the purity of my dear

Isabella's fame."

"Purity, or not purity," said Bianca, "gone she is—a stranger is found that nobody

knows; you question him yourself; he tells you he is in love, or unhappy, it is the same

thing—nay, he owned he was unhappy about others; and is anybody unhappy about

another, unless they are in love with them? and at the very next word, he asks

innocently, pour soul! if my Lady Isabella is missing."

"To be sure," said Matilda, "thy observations are not totally without foundation—

Isabella's flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger is very particular; yet

Isabella never concealed a thought from me."

"So she told you," said Bianca, "to fish out your secrets; but who knows, Madam, but

this stranger may be some Prince in disguise? Do, Madam, let me open the window,

and ask him a few questions."

"No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of Isabella; he is not

worthy I should converse farther with him." She was going to open the casement,

when they heard the bell ring at the postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right

hand of the tower, where Matilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing the

conversation with the stranger.

After continuing silent for some time, "I am persuaded," said she to Bianca, "that

whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight it had no unworthy motive. If this stranger

was accessory to it, she must be satisfied with his fidelity and worth. I observed, did

not you, Bianca? that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of

piety. It was no ruffian's speech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth."

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

"Yet," said Matilda, "if he was privy to her escape, how will you account for his not

accompanying her in her flight? why expose himself unnecessarily and rashly to my

father's resentment?"

"As for that, Madam," replied she, "if he could get from under the helmet, he will find

ways of eluding your father's anger. I do not doubt but he has some talisman or other

about him."

"You resolve everything into magic," said Matilda; "but a man who has any

intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of those tremendous and

holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with what fervour he vowed to

remember me to heaven in his prayers? Yes; Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of

his piety."

"Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult to elope!" said

Bianca. "No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of another guess mould than you take

her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up her eyes in your company, because she

knows you are a saint; but when your back was turned—"

"You wrong her," said Matilda; "Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a due sense of

devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the contrary, she always combated

my inclination for the cloister; and though I own the mystery she has made to me of

her flight confounds me; though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us;

I cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the

veil. She wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to her

and my brother's children. For her sake I will believe well of this young peasant."

"Then you do think there is some liking between them," said Bianca. While she was

speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and told the Princess that the Lady

Isabella was found.

"Where?" said Matilda.

"She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas's church," replied the servant; "Father

Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with his Highness."

"Where is my mother?" said Matilda.

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

Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita's apartment, to

inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioning her, word was

brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the

cause of the Friar's arrival, and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her

charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave them together, while he

pursued his search after Isabella.

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

"With both," replied the holy man. "The Lady Isabella—"

"What of her?" interrupted Manfred, eagerly.

"Is at St. Nicholas's altar," replied Jerome.

"That is no business of Hippolita," said Manfred with confusion; "let us retire to my

chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither."

"No, my Lord," replied the good man, with an air of firmness and authority, that

daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help revering the saint-like virtues

of Jerome; "my commission is to both, and with your Highness's good-liking, in the

presence of both I shall deliver it; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess,

whether she is acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella's retirement from your

castle."

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

"Father," interrupted Manfred, "I pay due reverence to your holy profession; but I am

sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest to interfere in the affairs of my

domestic. If you have aught to say attend me to my chamber; I do not use to let my

wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state; they are not within a woman's

province."

"My Lord," said the holy man, "I am no intruder into the secrets of families. My

office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach repentance, and teach mankind

to curb their headstrong passions. I forgive your Highness's uncharitable apostrophe;

I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to

him who speaks through my organs."

Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita's countenance declared her

astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Her silence more

strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.

"The Lady Isabella," resumed Jerome, "commends herself to both your Highnesses;

she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been treated in your castle: she

deplores the loss of your son, and her own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of

such wise and noble Princes, whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for

uninterrupted union and felicity between you" [Manfred's colour changed]: "but as it

is no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to remain in

sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the certainty of his death, be at

liberty, with the approbation of her guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable

marriage."

"I shall give no such consent," said the Prince, "but insist on her return to the castle

without delay: I am answerable for her person to her guardians, and will not brook her

being in any hands but my own."

"Your Highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper," replied the

Friar.

"I want no monitor," said Manfred, colouring; "Isabella's conduct leaves room for

strange suspicions—and that young villain, who was at least the accomplice of her

flight, if not the cause of it—"

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

"This is not to be borne!" cried Manfred. "Am I to be bearded in my own palace by

an insolent Monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours."

"I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises," said Jerome, "if your

Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do

pray to heaven to pardon that uncharitableness: and I implore your Highness to leave

the Princess at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such

vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man."

"Cant not to me," said Manfred, "but return and bring the Princess to her duty."

"It is my duty to prevent her return hither," said Jerome. "She is where orphans and

virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world; and nothing but a parent's

authority shall take her thence."

"I am her parent," cried Manfred, "and demand her."

"She wished to have you for her parent," said the Friar; "but Heaven that forbad that

connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and I announce to your

Highness—"

"Stop! audacious man," said Manfred, "and dread my displeasure."

"Holy farther," said Hippolita, "it is your office to be no respecter of persons: you

must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not

my Lord I should hear. Attend the Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory,

and pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the

heart of my gracious Lord to its wonted peace and gentleness."

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

Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where shutting the

door, "I perceive, Father," said he, "that Isabella has acquainted you with my

purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my

own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have a son. It is in vain to

expect an heir from Hippolita. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her

back; and you must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita: her

conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on

heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you can withdraw her from it

entirely. Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into

a monastery—she shall endow one if she will; and she shall have the means of being

as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the calamities

that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saying the principality of

Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and though the warmth of my

temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honour your virtue, and

wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and the preservation of my

family."

"The will of heaven be done!" said the Friar. "I am but its worthless instrument. It

makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy unwarrantable designs. The

injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art

reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned

not to pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven that delivered

her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy house ought to have

inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and

despised Friar, am able to protect her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and

uncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours,

scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty. I love my

order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy Princess—but I will not betray

the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even the cause of religion by foul and

sinful compliances—but forsooth! the welfare of the state depends on your Highness

having a son! Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn,

whose house was so great, so flourishing as Manfred's?—where is young Conrad

now?—My Lord, I respect your tears—but I mean not to check them—let them flow,

Prince! They will weigh more with heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects, than a

marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. The sceptre, which

passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be preserved by a match which the

church will never allow. If it is the will of the Most High that Manfred's name must

perish, resign yourself, my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can

never pass away. Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow—let us return to the Princess:

she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to alarm

you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love, she heard, she

rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. I know she longs to fold you in her arms,

and assure you of her unalterable affection."

"Father," said the Prince, "you mistake my compunction: true, I honour Hippolita's

virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for my soul's health to tie faster the knot

that has united us—but alas! Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is

some time that I have had scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to

me in the fourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been informed

that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavy at my heart: to

this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation that has fallen on me in the death

of Conrad!—ease my conscience of this burden: dissolve our marriage, and

accomplish the work of godliness—which your divine exhortations have commenced

in my soul."

How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived this turn in

the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was determined; and

he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, that his impatience for a son

would direct him to some other object, who might not be equally proof against the

temptation of Manfred's rank. For some time the holy man remained absorbed in

thought. At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest conduct

would be to prevent the Prince from despairing of recovering Isabella. Her the Friar

knew he could dispose, from her affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had

expressed to him for Manfred's addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the

church could be fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with the

Prince's scruples, he at length said:

"My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if in truth it is

delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your repugnance to your virtuous

Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to harden your heart. The church is an indulgent

mother: unfold your griefs to her: she alone can administer comfort to your soul,

either by satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, by setting

you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of continuing your lineage. In

the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be brought to consent—"

Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, or that his

first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was overjoyed at this sudden

turn, and repeated the most magnificent promises, if he should succeed by the Friar's

mediation. The well-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined

to traverse his views, instead of seconding them.

"Since we now understand one another," resumed the Prince, "I expect, Father, that

you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found in the vault? He must have

been privy to Isabella's flight: tell me truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for

another's passion? I have often suspected Isabella's indifference to my son: a

thousand circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself

was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, she outran my

suspicious, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness to Conrad."

The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt occasionally from

the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not sufficiently reflecting on the

impetuosity of Manfred's temper, conceived that it might not be amiss to sow the

seeds of jealousy in his mind: they might be turned to some use hereafter, either by

prejudicing the Prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting his

attention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary intrigue,

prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy policy, he answered in a

manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of some connection between Isabella and the

youth. The Prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell

into a rage at the idea of what the Friar suggested.

"I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue," cried he; and quitting Jerome abruptly,

with a command to remain there till his return, he hastened to the great hall of the

castle, and ordered the peasant to be brought before him.

"Thou hardened young impostor!" said the Prince, as soon as he saw the youth; "what

becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, was it, and the light of the

moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who

thou art, and how long thou hast been acquainted with the Princess—and take care to

answer with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the

truth from thee."

The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess was discovered,

and concluding that anything he should say could no longer be of any service or

detriment to her, replied—

"I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I answered

to every question your Highness put to me last night with the same veracity that I shall

speak now: and that will not be from fear of your tortures, but because my soul abhors

a falsehood. Please to repeat your questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the

satisfaction in my power."

"You know my questions," replied the Prince, "and only want time to prepare an

evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast thou been known to the

Princess?"

"I am a labourer at the next village," said the peasant; "my name is Theodore. The

Princess found me in the vault last night: before that hour I never was in her

presence."

"I may believe as much or as little as I please of this," said Manfred; "but I will hear

thy own story before I examine into the truth of it. Tell me, what reason did the

Princess give thee for making her escape? thy life depends on thy answer."

"She told me," replied Theodore, "that she was on the brink of destruction, and that if

she could not escape from the castle, she was in danger in a few moments of being

made miserable for ever."

"And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl's report," said Manfred, "thou didst

hazard my displeasure?"

"I fear no man's displeasure," said Theodore, "when a woman in distress puts herself

under my protection."

During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita. At the

upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery with latticed

windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing her father's voice,

and seeing the servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the occasion. The

prisoner soon drew her attention: the steady and composed manner in which he

answered, and the gallantry of his last reply, which were the first words she heard

distinctly, interested her in his flavour. His person was noble, handsome, and

commanding, even in that situation: but his countenance soon engrossed her whole

care.

"Heavens! Bianca," said the Princess softly, "do I dream? or is not that youth the

exact resemblance of Alfonso's picture in the gallery?"

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

"This bravado," said he, "surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt experience

the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him," continued Manfred, "and bind

him—the first news the Princess hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his

head for her sake.

"The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me," said Theodore, "convinces me

that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess from thy tyranny. May she be

happy, whatever becomes of me!"

"This is a lover!" cried Manfred in a rage: "a peasant within sight of death is not

animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy, who thou art, or the rack

shall force thy secret from thee."

"Thou hast threatened me with death already," said the youth, "for the truth I have

told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am not

tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther."

"Then thou wilt not speak?" said Manfred.

"I will not," replied he.

"Bear him away into the courtyard," said Manfred; "I will see his head this instant

severed from his body."

Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—

"Help! help! the Princess is dead!" Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded

what was the matter! The young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror,

and asked eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into the

court, and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself of the cause of

Bianca's shrieks. When he learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic,

and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, and

calling for one of his guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the

fatal blow.

The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that touched

every heart but Manfred's. He wished earnestly to know the meaning of the words he

had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing to exasperate the tyrant more against

her, he desisted. The only boon he deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to

have a confessor, and make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the

confessor's means to come at the youth's history, readily granted his request; and

being convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be

called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe

that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in the

most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood. He accused himself in the bitterest

terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method

untried to soften the tyrant's rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by

Jerome's intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed

upon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would not allow the

prisoner many minutes for confession.

"Nor do I ask many, my Lord," said the unhappy young man. "My sins, thank

heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected at my

years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is a bad world; nor have

I had cause to leave it with regret."

"Oh wretched youth!" said Jerome; "how canst thou bear the sight of me with

patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour upon thee!"

"I forgive thee from my soul," said the youth, "as I hope heaven will pardon me. Hear

my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing."

"How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?" said Jerome. "Thou canst not be

saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive that impious man there?"

"I can," said Theodore; "I do."

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

"I sent for thee to confess him," said Manfred, sternly; "not to plead for him. Thou

didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thy head!"

"It will! it will!" said the good main, in an agony of sorrow. "Thou and I must never

hope to go where this blessed youth is going!"

"Despatch!" said Manfred; "I am no more to be moved by the whining of priests than

by the shrieks of women."

"What!" said the youth; "is it possible that my fate could have occasioned what I

heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?"

"Thou dost but remember me of my wrath," said Manfred. "Prepare thee, for this

moment is thy last."

The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the sorrow which

he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as into the Friar, suppressed his

emotions, and putting off his doublet, and unbuttoning, his collar, knelt down to his

prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the

mark of a bloody arrow.

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

Theodore!"

The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The tears of the

assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by joy. They seemed to

inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness,

respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of the youth. He received with

modest submission the effusion of the old man's tears and embraces. Yet afraid of

giving a loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of

Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say, canst thou be

unmoved at such a scene as this?

Manfred's heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his

astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even doubted

whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save the youth.

"What may this mean?" said he. "How can he be thy son? Is it consistent with thy

profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant's offspring for the fruit of thy

irregular amours!"

"Oh, God!" said the holy man, "dost thou question his being mine? Could I feel the

anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! good Prince! spare him! and revile

me as thou pleasest."

"Spare him! spare him!" cried the attendants; "for this good man's sake!"

"Peace!" said Manfred, sternly. "I must know more ere I am disposed to pardon. A

Saint's bastard may be no saint himself."

"Injurious Lord!" said Theodore, "add not insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable

man's son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood that flows in my veins—"

"Yes," said the Friar, interrupting him, "his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing,

my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and Sicily can boast of few houses

more ancient than that of Falconara. But alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is

nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can

distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return."

"Truce to your sermon," said Manfred; "you forget you are no longer Friar Jerome,

but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will have time to moralise

hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there."

"Mother of God!" said the Friar, "is it possible my Lord can refuse a father the life of

his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, my Lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life

for his, but spare my son!"

"Thou canst feel, then," said Manfred, "what it is to lose an only son! A little hour

ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: my house, if fate so pleased, must

perish—but the Count of Falconara—"

"Alas! my Lord," said Jerome, "I confess I have offended; but aggravate not an old

man's sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such vanities—it is nature,

that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the dear woman that bore him. Is she,

Theodore, is she dead?"

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

"Oh! how?" cried Jerome, "tell me—no—she is happy! Thou art all my care now!—

Most dread Lord! will you—will you grant me my poor boy's life?"

"Return to thy convent," answered Manfred; "conduct the Princess hither; obey me in

what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy son."

"Oh! my Lord," said Jerome, "is my honesty the price I must pay for this dear youth's

safety?"

"For me!" cried Theodore. "Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than stain thy

conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the Princess still safe from

his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man; and let all the weight of his wrath fall

on me."

Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere Manfred could

reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hung without

the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the same instant the sable plumes on

the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end of the court, were

tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer.