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The Castle of Otranto is often referred to as the first Gothic novel. Which is fair enough, so far as it goes; Horace Walpole’s novel did establish many key features of the Gothic genre, which has been popular with readers ever since The Castle of Otranto was first published on Christmas Eve, 1764. Like the Gothic novels, plays, stories, and films that followed it, The Castle of Otranto teases us by suggesting that the rules of the everyday world do not always apply, that sometimes only a supernatural explanation can account for everything that we see. That idea—which goes against the grain of the assumption that the modern novel is all about realism—runs through books like Anne Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series and thousands more works of fiction, be they written as stories or novels, or filmed for cinema or television.
But of course Horace Walpole did not know that all of these works would follow from The Castle of Otranto; he was not setting out to found what would become the first fully-fledged sub-genre of the English novel. What did he think he was doing? One thing he was surely trying to do was to perpetrate a good hoax. When it was first published in 1764, The Castle of Otranto claimed to be a translation of an Italian manuscript from 1529 that was telling a story originally written hundreds of years before that. Walpole’s original preface, written in the voice of the imaginary “William Marshall,” the putative translator, claims that a sixteenth-century Italian printing of the book was found in a library in Naples, but that the story must have been in manuscript centuries earlier. That is an utter fabrication. But it was a good one; some of the book’s first readers seem to have bought the ruse at first (the reviewer for the Monthly Review complained at having been duped when Walpole’s second preface, published in 1765, revealed his authorship and the fact that the book was a contemporary work of fiction.) Eighteenth-century readers often loved how the anonymity of print enabled hoaxes, and The Castle of Otranto joins works like Gulliver’s Travels in exploiting the general desire that all readers have to believe that something quite fantastic is in fact true.
The two prefaces—the first, fake one by “Marshall” and the second one in the voice of the author himself—offer important clues to what Walpole thought were The Castle of Otranto’s main innovations. Walpole wanted to combine some of the thrill of older "romances" with some of the historical specificity of modern fiction. And, most of all, he wanted to entertain his readers. The success of the book--which has never been out of print--and the medium it created--testify to Walpole's success.
THE following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family in
England.
Naples, in the black
letter, in the year Italian. If the story was written near
the time when it is supposed to have happened, it must have been between
Spanish names of the domestics seem to indicate that this
work was not Arragonian Kings in
Naples
had
made Spanish appellations familiar in that country. The
beauty of the diction, and the zeal of the author [moderated, however, by singular
judgment] concur to make me think that the date of the composition was
little antecedent to that of the impression. Letters were then in their most
flourishing state in
Italy, and
contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at that time so forcibly attacked
by the reformers. It is not unlikely that an artful priest might endeavour to turn
their own arms on the innovators; and might avail himself of his abilities as an
author to confirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions. If this was
his view, he has certainly acted with signal address. Such a work as the following
would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the books of
controversy that have been written from the days of
Luther
to the present hour.
This solution of the author's motives is however offered as a mere conjecture.
Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution of them might have, his
work can only be laid before the public manners of the times, who should omit all mention of
them. He is not bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as
believing them.
If this air of the miraculous is
excused, the reader will find nothing else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the
possibility of the facts, and all the actors comport themselves as persons would do
in their situation. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or
unnecessary descriptions. Every thing tends directly to the catastrophe. Never is the
reader's attention relaxed. The rules of the drama are almost observed throughout the
conduct of the piece. The characters are well drawn, and still better maintained.
Terror, the author's principal engine, prevents the story from ever
languishing;
Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little serious
for the general cast of the story; but besides their opposition to the principal
personages, the art of the author is very observable in his conduct of the
subalterns. They discover many passages essential to the story, which could not be
well brought to light but by their naivetè and simplicity: In particular, the
womanish terror and foibles of Bianca, in the last chapter,
conduce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe.
It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted work. More
impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties of this piece as I was.
Yet I am not blind to my author's defects. I could wish he had grounded his plan on a
more useful moral than this; that the sins of fathers are visited
on their children to the third and fourth generation. I doubt whether, in
his time, any more than at present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the
dread of so remote a punishment. And yet this moral is weakened by Nicholas. Here the interest
of the Monk plainly gets the better of the judgment of the Author. However, with all
its faults, I have no doubt but the English reader will be
pleased with a sight of this performance. The piety that reigns throughout, the
lessons of virtue that are inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt
this work from the censure to which romances are but too liable. Should it meet with
the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to re-print the original Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our
language falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both
for variety and harmony. The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It
is difficult in English to relate without falling too low or
rising too high; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure
language in common conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank piques himself on speaking his own tongue
correctly and with choice. I cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my
author in this respect: His stile is as elegant, as his conduct
I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though the
machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I cannot but believe,
that the ground-work of the story is founded on truth. The scene is undoubtedly laid
in some real castle. The author seems frequently, without design, to describe
particular parts. The chamber, says he, on
the right-hand; the door on the left-hand; the distance from the chapel to
Conrad's apartment: These and other
passages are strong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his
eye. Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such researches, may possibly
discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which our
author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he describes, is
believed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute to interest the reader,
and will make the castle of Otranto a still more moving story.
Manfred, Prince
of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: The latter a most
beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son,
was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition;
yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any Matilda. Manfred had
contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter, Isabella ; and she had
already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might
celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad's infirm state of health would permit. Manfred's
impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbours. The
former indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince's disposition, did not
dare to utter their surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did
sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early,
considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any
other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one
heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in their discourses:
They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince's dread of seeing accomplished an
ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced, that the
Castle and Lordship of
should pass from
the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to
inhabit it. It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and
still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet
these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to
their opinion.
Young Conrad's birth-day was fixed
for his espousals. The company was assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and
every thing ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred impatient of the least delay, and who had
not observed his son retire, dispatched on 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
and amazement. The Princess Hippolita,
Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the
procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked
imperiously, what was the matter? The fellow made no
answer, but continued pointing towards the court-yard; and at last, after repeated
questions put to him, cried out, oh! The helmet! the
helmet! In the mean time, some of the company had run into the court,
from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed at not
seeing his son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange
confusion. Matilda remained
endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella staid for the same purpose, and to avoid
showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived
little affection.
The first thing that struck Manfred's
eyes was a groupe of his servants endeavouring to raise something that appeared to
him a mountain Manfred wrathfully; where is my son? A volley of voices replied, Oh! My Lord! The Prince! the Prince, the helmet! the
helmet! shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he know 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
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 wished in vain to believe a vision; and seemed less
attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had
occasioned 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 singularity of this direction, were guided
by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to
her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber more
dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard,
except the Matilda, who doated on her mother,
smothered her own grief and amazement, and thought of nothing but assisting and
comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who returned that
tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous
about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight
of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove
to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet
her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts. She felt no
concern for the death of young Conrad,
except commiseration; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which
had promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the
severe temper of
Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by
great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless
rigour to such amiable Princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.
Manfred remained in
the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of the crowd which the
strangeness of the event had now assembled around him. The few words he
articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew
from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him the least
information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity, it soon
became so to the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and
improbable, as the catastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of their
senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a
neighbouring village, observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on
the figure in black marble of Alfonso the
Good, one of their former Princes, in Nicholas.
Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of
rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; Manfred's gripe, and then with an obeisance,
which discovered more jealousy of innocence, than dismay; he asked, with respect,
of what he was guilty!
Manfred, more enraged at the vigour,
however decently exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than
appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had
not been withheld by his friends, whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have
poignarded the peasant in their arms.
During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the great
church, which stood near the castle, and came back Alfonso's statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly
frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest within him,
he rushed again on the young peasant, crying, Villain!
Monster! Sorcerer! 'tis thou hast done this! 'tis thou hast slain my
son! The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their
capacities, on whom they might discharge their bewildered 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 Alfonso's tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with
it,—never reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the
marble helmet that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes;
nor how impossible it was for a youth, seemingly not twenty, to weild a piece of
armour of so prodigious a weight.
The folly of these ejaculations brought
Manfred
to himself: Yet whether provoked at the
It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous sentence: In
vain did
Manfred
's friends endeavour to divert him from this savage and ill-grounded
resolution. The generality were charmed with their Lord's decision, which, to
their apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice, as the Magician was to
be punished by the very instrument with which
Manfred thus saw his commands even
chearfully obeyed, and appointing a guard with strict orders to prevent any food
being conveyed to the prisoner; he dismissed his friends and attendants, and
retired to his own chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he
suffered none but his domestics to remain.
In the mean time, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the Princess
Hippolita to herself, who amidst
the transports of her own sorrow, frequently demanded news of her Lord, would have
dismissed her attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort her
father. Matilda, who wanted
no affectionate duty to Manfred,
though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended Isabella ; and enquiring of the domestics for her
father, was informed that he was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that
nobody should have admittance to him. Concluding
that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother, and fearing to renew
his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child, she hesitated whether she
should break in upon his affliction; yet solicitude for him, backed by the
commands of her mother, encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had
given, a fault she had never been guilty of before. The gentle timidity of her
nature made her pause for some minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his
chamber backwards and forwards with disordered steps; a mood which increased her
apprehensions. She was however just going to beg admittance, when
Manfred
suddenly opened 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 Manfred stepping back hastily, cried,
Begone, I do not want a daughter; and flinging back
abruptly, clapped the door against the terrified Matilda.
She was too well acquainted with her father's impetuosity to venture a second
intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter a reception, she
wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would
give to Hippolita, who questioned her
in the most anxious terms on the health of
Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda assured her he was well, and supported
his misfortune with manly fortitude. But will he not let me
see him? said Hippolita
mournfully; will he not permit me to blend my tears with
his, and shed a mother's sorrows in the bosom of her Lord? Or do you deceive
me, Matilda? I know how Manfred 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
Matilda
made signs to Isabella to
prevent Hippolita's rising; and both
those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the
Princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and told Isabella that his Lord
demanded to speak with her.
With me! cried Isabella.
Go, said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord:
Manfred
cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less disordered than
we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him, dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own
anguish rather than add to his.
As it was now evening, the servant, who conducted Isabella, bore a torch before her. When they came
to Manfred, who was walking
impatiently about the gallery, he started and said hastily, take away that light, and begone. Then shutting the door impetuously,
he flung Isabella
sit by him. She obeyed trembling. I sent for you, Lady, said he,—and then stopped under great appearance
of confusion. My Lord!
—Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment, resumed
he,—dry your tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom.—Yes, cruel fate!
and I have lost the hopes of my race!—but Conrad was not worthy of your
beauty—how! my Lord, said Isabella ; sure you do not
suspect me of not feeling the concern I ought: My duty and affection would have
always—think no more of him, interrupted Manfred ; he was a
sickly puny child, and heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not
trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports.
My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence—but it is
better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have reason to rejoice at the death
of Conrad.
Isabella. At first she apprehended that grief had
disordered Manfred's understanding.
Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare
her: She feared that
Manfred
had perceived her indifference for his son: And in consequence of that idea
she replied, Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: My
heart would have accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and
wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and
regard your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.
Curse on Hippolita! cried Manfred:
Forget her from this moment as I do. In short, Lady, you have
missed a husband undeserving of your charms: They shall now be better disposed
of. Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his age,
who will know how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous
offspring. Alas! My Lord, said Isabella,
my mind is too sadly engrossed by the recent catastrophe Hippolita's, and the fair Matilda's affliction.
I desired you once before, said Manfred an grily, not to
name that woman: From this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be
to me;—in short, Isabella, since I
cannot give you my son, I offer you myself.—Heavens! cried Isabella,
waking from her delusion, what do I hear! You! My Lord! You!
My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband of the virtuous and tender
Hippolita!
—I tell you, said Manfred imperiously, Hippolita is no longer my wife,
I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her
unfruitfulness: My fate depends on having sons,—and this night I trust will
give a new date to my Isabella, who was half-dead with fright and
horror. She shrieked and started from him. Manfred rose to pursue her, when the moon, which
was now up and gleamed in at the opposite casement, presented to his fight the
plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the height of the windows, waving
backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and
rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered
courage from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred's pursuit of his declaration, cried,
Look! My Lord; see, heaven itself declares against your
impious intentions!
—Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs, said Manfred, advancing again to seize the
Princess. At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the
bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep
sigh, and heaved its breast. Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture,
saw not the motion, nor knew whence the sound came, but started, and said, Hark, my Lord! What sound was that?
Manfred, distracted between the
flight of
Isabella, who had now reached the stairs, and yet
unable to keep his eyes from the picture which began to move, had however advanced
some steps after her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit
its pannel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air. Do I dream? cried Manfred returning, or are
the devils themselves in league against me? speak, infernal spectre! or, if
thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched
descendent, who too dearly pays for—e'er 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 guiph 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 Manfred,
I will use the human means in my power for preserving my
race; Isabella shall not escape
me.
That Lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted
Manfred, continued her flight to
the bottom of the principal staircase. There she stopped, not knowing whither to
direct her steps, nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the Prince. The gates
of the castle she knew were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should she, as her heart prompted her, go and
prepare Hippolita for the cruel
destiny that awaited her; she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her there, and that his
violence would incite him to double the injury he meditated, without leaving
room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his passions. Nicholas.
Manfied's violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place;
and she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, to shut herself up
for ever among the holy virgins, whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In
this resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and
hurried towards the secret passage.
The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloysters; and
it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the Manfred urging his domestics to pursue
her. She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave,—yet frequently stopped
and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought she
heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought she
heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror
could inspire rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash flight, which had thus
exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw any
body to her assist ance. —Yet the sound seemed not to come from 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 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
e'er her lamp, which she held up, could discover who opened it, the person
retreated precipitately on seeing the light.
Isabella, whom every incident was
sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other
terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her, gave her a sort of
courage. It could only be, she thought,
some domestic belonging to the
castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious
innocence bade her hope that, unless sent by the Prince's order to seek her, his
servants would
Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess's situation. Alone in so dismal a
place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of
escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil on knowing she was
within reach of somebody, she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed
thereabouts, all these thoughts 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
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 Isabella, hastily interrupting him, help me but to find a trapdoor 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 misfortunes: Manfred will
suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his
resentment.
I value not my life, said the stranger, and it will be some comfort to lose it, in trying to deliver you
from his tyranny.
Generous youth, said Isabella,
how shall I ever requite— as she uttered those words,
a ray of moonshine 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. Nicholas —but
perhaps, added the Princess modestly, 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 Isabella,
it is the voice of Manfred! make haste or we are ruined! and shut
the trapdoor after you. Saying this, she descended the steps
precipitately, and as the stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip
out of his hands: it fell, and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open
it, not having observed Isabella's
method of touching the spring: nor had he many moments to make an essay. The noise
of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who directed by the sound, hastened
thither, attended by his servants with torches. It must be
Isabella ; cried Manfred before he entered the vault;
she is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she
cannot have got far.—What was the astonishment of the Prince, when,
instead of Isabella, the light of the
torches discovered to him the young peasant, whom he thought consined under the
fatal Manfred, how camest thou here? I thought thee in durance above in the
court.
I am no traitor, replied the young man boldly, nor am I
answerable for your thoughts.
Presumptuous villain! cried
Manfred,
dost thou provoke my wrath? tell me; how hast thou escaped
from above? thou hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives shall answer
it.
My poverty, said the peasant calmly, will disculpate them: Though the ministers of a tyrant's wrath,
to thee they are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which you
unjustly imposed upon them.
Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance? said the
Prince—but tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell
me, I will know thy accomplices.
There was my accomplice! said the youth smiling, and
pointing to the roof. Manfred ordered
the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeks of the enchanted
casque had forced its way through the pavement of the court, as his servants had
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
acquainted with your castle; said the peasant; this
is the first time I ever entered it; and this vault the only part of it within
which I ever was.
But I tell thee, said Manfred [wishing to find out if the youth had
discovered the trap-door] it was this way I heard the noise: My servants
heard it too—my Lord, interrupted one of
them officiously, to be sure it was the trap-door, and he
was going to make his escape.
Peace! blockhead, said the Prince angrily; if he was going to escape, how should he come on this side? I
will know from his Manfred contemptuously; tell
me then, what was the noise I heard?
Ask me what I can answer, said he, and put me to death instantly if I tell you a lie.
Manfred growing impatient at the
steady valour and indifference of the youth, cried, Well
then, thou man of truth! answer; was it the fall of the trap-door that I
heard?
It was; said the youth. It
was! said the Prince; and how didst thou come to
know there was a trap-door here?
I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine;
replied he. But what told thee it was a lock? said Manfred ; How didst thou
discover the secret of opening it?
Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to
direct me to the spring of a lock; said he. Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out of the
reach of my resentment,
Manfred:
When Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it
abandoned thee for a fool, who did not know how to make use of its favours. Why
didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut
the trap-door before thou hadst descended the steps?
I might ask you, my Lord, said the peasant, how I, totally unacquainted with your castle, was to know that
those steps led to any outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever
those steps lead to, perhaps I should have explored the way—I could not be in a
worse situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: Your
immediate arrival followed. I had given the alarm— what imported it to me
whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?
Thou art a resolute villain for thy years; said Manfred
— yet on reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me:
Thou hast not yet told me how thou didst open the lock.
That I will show you, my Lord; said the Peasant, and
taking up a fragment Manfred. He even felt a disposition
towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who
wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an
asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always
ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.
While the Prince was in this suspence, a confused noise of voices ecchoed through
the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished the clamours of some
of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of Isabella, calling out, where is my Lord? where is the Prince?
Here I am; said Manfred, as they came nearer; have you found Manfred ; have you found the Princess!
We thought we had, my Lord, said the fellow, looking
terrified—but—but
what? cried the Prince; has she
escaped?— Jaquez and I, my
Lord—yes, I and Diego,
interrupted the second, who came up in still greater consternation— speak one of you at a time, said Manfred ; I ask you where is
the Princess?
We do not know; said they both together; but we are frightened out of our wits—so I think, blockheads, said Manfred ; what is it has
scared you thus?—oh! my Lord, said Jaquez, Diego has
seen such a sight! your Highness would not believe our eyes—what new absurdity is this! cried Manfred
—give me a direct answer, or by heav'n—why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me, said
the poor fellow; Diego and
I—yes I and Jaquez,
cried his comrade —did not I forbid you to speak both at a
time? said the Prince: You, Jaquez, answer; Jaquez,
if it please your Highness to hear me; Diego and I according to your Highness's orders went to search for the
young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghost of my young
Lord, your Highness's son, God rest his soul, as he has not received christian
burial—sot! cried Manfred in a rage, is it
only a ghost then that thou hast seen?
oh! worse! worse! my Lord, cried Diego:
I had rather have seen ten whole ghosts—grant me patience! said Manfred ; these blockheads
distract me—out of my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thou sober? art thou
raving? thou wast wont to have some sense: has the other sot frightened himself
and thee too! speak; what is it he fancies he has seen?
Why, my Lord, replied Jaquez trembling,
I was going to tell your Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune
of my young Lord, God rest his precious soul! not one of us your Diego and I, thinking that
my young Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look for her, and
tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to her—
O blundering fools! cried Manfred:
And in the mean time she has made her escape, because you were afraid of
goblins!—Why, thou knave! she left me in the gallery; I came from thence
myself.
For all that, she may be there still for 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 believe is in the great chamber
next to the gallery —
Manfred, who hitherto had treated the
Jaquez,
when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went
first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we came into the
gallery, we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; and still we
found nobody—were all the pictures in their places? said
Manfred.
Yes, my Lord, answered Jaquez ; but we
did not think of looking behind them—well, well! said Manfred,
proceed.
When we came to the door of the great chamber, continued Jaquez,
we found it shut—and could not you open it? said Manfred.
Oh! yes, my Lord, would to heaven we had not! replied he—nay,
it was not I neither, it was Diego: he was grown
fool-hardy, and would go on, though I advised him not—if ever I open a door
that is shut again—trifle 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 ratling 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 Manfred,
and follow me; I will know what all this means.
We! my Lord! cried they with one voice, we would not go up to
the gallery for your Highness's revenue. The young peasant, who had
stood silent, now spoke. Will your Highness, said he, permit me to try this
adventure? my life is of consequence to nobody: I fear no bad angel, and have
offended no good one.
Your behaviour is above your seeming; said Manfred,
viewing him with surprise and admiration—hereafter I will reward your
bravery—but now, continued he with a sigh,
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, who 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 the pushed her rudely off, and said, Where is
Isabella?
Isabella! My
Lord! said the astonished Hippolita.
Yes; Isabella ; cried Manfred imperiously; I want
Isabella.
My Lord, replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had
shocked her mother, she has not been with us since your
Highness summoned her to your apartment.
Tell me where she is; said the Prince; I do not want to know where she has been.
My good Lord, said Hippolita,
your daughter tells you the truth: Isabella left us by your command,
Isabella
shall wait your orders in the morning.
What then, you know where she is! cried Manfred:
Tell me directly, for I will not lose an instant—and you,
woman, speaking to his wife, order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.
Isabella, said Hippolita calmly, is
retired, I suppose to her chamber: She is not accustomed to watch at this late
hour. Gracious my Lord, continued she, let me
know what has disturbed you: Has Isabella offended you?
Trouble me not with questions, said Manfred,
but tell me where she is.
Matilda shall
call her, said the Princess—Sit down, my Lord, and resume your
wonted fortitude.—What, art thou jealous of Isabella, replied he, that you wish to be present at our interview?
Good heavens! my Lord, said Hippolita,
what is it your Highness means?
Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed; said the cruel
Prince. Send Isabella ; leaving the amazed
Ladies thunder-struck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost in vain
conjectures on what he was meditating.
Manfred was now returning from the
vault, attended by the peasant and a few of his servants whom he had obliged to
accompany him. He ascended the stair-case without stopping till he arrived at the
gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess's
apartment with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent Lady, who no more
than Manfred, doubted of the reality
of the vision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. Willing,
however, to save her Lord from any additional shock, and prepared by a series of
grief not to tremble at any accession to it; she determined to make herself the
first sacrifice, if fate had marked the Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave
to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visited the gallery and great
chamber; and now with more serenity of soul than she had felt for many hours, she
met her Lord, and assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all
a fable; and no doubt an impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of
the night on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had examined the
chamber, and found every thing in the usual order.
Manfred, though persuaded, like his
wife, that the vision had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the
tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him. Ashamed too of
his inhuman treatment of a Princess, who returned every injury with new marks of
tenderness and duty; he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes—but not
less ashamed of seeling remorse towards one, against whom 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 endeavouring to persuade Isabella
to give him her hand —but e'er he could indulge this horrid hope, he reflected
that Isabella was not to be found.
Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the castle should be
strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer
nobody to pass out. The young peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to
remain in a small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the
key of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him in the
morning. Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod
on Hippolita, he retired to his own
chamber.
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 surprized at not seeing Isabella: But the strange words which had fallen
from her father, and his obscure menace to the Princess his wife, accompanied by
the most furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She
waited anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel
that attended her, whom she had sent to learn what was become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared and informed her
mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabella was no where to be found. She related
the adventure of the young peasant, who 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 wont
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 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 Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jest.
It is the wind, said Matilda,
whistling through the battlements in the tower above: You have heard it a
thousand times.
Nay, said Bianca,
there was no harm neither in what I said: It is no sin to talk of
matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying; if my Lord
Manfred
should offer you a handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, you would drop
him a curtsy, and tell him you 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 smooth white forehead, and manly curling Alfonso in the
gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours together—do not speak
lightly of that picture, interrupted Matilda sighing: I know the adoration with
which I look at that picture is uncommon —but I am not in love with a coloured
pannel. The character of that virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my
mother has inspired me for his memory, the orisons which I know not why she has
enjoined me to pour forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that
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 yourself
to our great St. Nicholas? I am sure he Matilda,
if my mother would explain her reasons to me: But it is the mystery she
observes, that inspires me with this—I know not what to call it. As she never
acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know
there is: In her agony of grief for my brother's death she dropped some words
that intimated as much
—oh! dear Madam, cried Bianca,
What were they?
No; said Matilda,
if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it recalled, it is not for a child
to utter it.
What! was she sorry for what she had said? asked Bianca.
—I am sure, Madam, you may trust me—with my own little secrets,
when I have any, I may; said Matilda ; but never with my mother's: A
child ought to have no ears or eyes, but as a parent directs.
Well! to be sure, Madam, you was born to be a saint, said Bianca,
and there is no resisting one's vocation: You will end in a convent at last.
But there is my Lady Isabella
Conrad resembled him.
Bianca, said the Princess, I do not
allow you to mention my friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a chearful disposition, but her
soul is pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babling 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.
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 Princess.
Nobody has dared to lie there, answered Bianca,
since the great astrologer that was your Matilda.
If they are spirits in pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning
them. They can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured them—and if they
should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than in another? Reach me my
beads; we will say a prayer, and then speak to them.
Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world; cried Bianca —as she said those words, they heard the casement of
the little chamber below Matilda's
open. They listened attentively, and in few minutes thought they heard a person
sing, but could not distinguish the words. This can be no evil
spirit; said the Princess in a low voice: It is undoubtedly one of
the family— open the window, and we shall know the voice.
I dare not indeed, Madam; said Bianca.
Thou art a very fool; said Matilda, opening the window gently herself. The
noise Matilda.
A stranger; replied the voice.
What stranger? said she; and how didst thou come there at this
unusual hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?
I am not here willingly: Answered the voice—but pardon me, Lady, if I have
disturbed your rest: I knew not that I was overheard. Sleep had forsaken me: I
left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours with gazing on the
fair approach of morning, impatient to be dismissed from this castle.
Thy words and accents, said Matilda,
are of a melancholy cast: If thou art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty
afflicts thee, let me know it: I will mention thee to the Princess, whose
beneficent soul ever melts for the distressed; and she will relieve
thee.
I am indeed unhappy, said the stranger; and I know what wealth
is: But I do not complain of the Bianca, whispering
the Princess. This is certainly the young peasant; and by my conscience he
is in love—Well! this is a charming adventure! —do, Madam, let us sift him. He
does not know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita's women.
Art thou not ashamed, Bianca! said the
Princess: What right have we to pry into the secrets of this young man's
heart? he seems virtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy: Are those
circumstances that authorize us to make a property of him? how are we intitled
to his confidence?
Lord! Madam, how little you know of love! replied
Bianca:
Why lovers have no pleasure equal to me become a peasant's
confident? 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 fa ther 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 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 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 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. Say
ing these words, she shut the casement hastily, without giving the young man time
to reply. I had acted more wisely, said the Princess to Bianca with some sharpness, if I had let thee converse with this peasant:
His inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own. It is not fit for me to argue
with your Highness, replied Bianca ; but perhaps the
questions I should have put to him, would have been more to the purpose, than
those you have been pleased to ask him. Oh! no doubt; said Matilda ; you are a very discreet personage! may
I know what you would have asked him? A by-stander often
sees more of the game than those that play: answered Bianca. Does your Highness think, Madam, that his question about my Lady
Isabella
was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam; there is more in it than
you great Lopez told me that all the servants believe this young
fellow contrived my Lady Isabella's
escape—now, pray, Madam, observe—you and I both know that my Lady Isabella never much fancied the Prince
your brother —Well! he is killed just in the critical minute—I accuse nobody. A
helmet falls from the moon—so, my Lord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this young spark is a magician, and
stole it from Alfonso's tomb—have done with this rhapsody
of impertinence, said Matilda. Nay,
Madam, as you please; cried Bianca —yet it is very
particular 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 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 Isabella is missing—to be sure,
said Matilda, thy observations are not
totally without foundation— Isabella's
flight amazes me: The curiosity of this stranger is very particular—yet Isabella never concealed a thought from
me—so she told you, said Bianca, to fish out your
secrets—but who knows, Madam, but this stranger may be some Prince in
disguise?—do, Madam, let me open the window, and ask him a few questions. No,
replied, Matilda, I will ask him
myself, if he knows aught of Isabella:
He is not worthy that I should converse farther with him. She was going to open
the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the postern-gate of the castle,
which is on the right-hand of the tower, where Matilda lay. This prevented the
Princess from renewing the conversation with the stranger.
After continuing silent for some time; I am persuaded, said she to Bianca, that whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight, it had no unworthy motive. If
this stranger was 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 account for his not accompanying her in her flight? why
expose himself unnecessarily and rashly to my Father's resentment? As for that,
Madam, replied she, if he could get from under the helmet, he will find ways of
eluding your Father's anger. I do not doubt but he has some talisman or other
about him—You resolve every thing into magic; said Matilda —but a man, who has me to heaven
in his prayers?—yes; Isabella was
cindoubtedly 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 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 inconsistent with the
friendship between us; I cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she
always opposed my taking the veil: she 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 ought of Isabella. While he was questioning her, word was
brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the cause of
the Friar's arrival, and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be
admitted, intending 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, 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 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 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 Jerome, if your Highness were
not satisfied in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven
to pardon that uncharitableness: And I implore your Highness to leave the Princess
at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such vain
and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man. Cant not to me, said Manfred, but return and bring the
Princess to her duty. It is my duty to prevent her return hither; said Jerome. She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the
snares and wiles of this world; and nothing but a parent's authority shall take
her thence. I am her parent, cried Manfred, and demand her. She wished to have you for
her parent; said the Friar: But heaven that forbad that connection, has for ever
dissolved all ties betwixt you: And I announce to your Highness —stop! audacious
man, said Manfred, and dread my
displeasure. Holy father, said
Hippolita,
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 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 Manfred's?— where is
young Conrad now!—my Lord, I 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 Hippolito's virtues; I think her a Saint;
and wish it were for my soul's health 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 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 Isabelia. 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 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 croud on my mind that confirm
that suspicion. She herself was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in
the gallery, she 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 Manfied in the
belief of some connection between Isabella and the youth. The Prince, whose passions
wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, sell 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
Thou hardened young impostor! said the Prince, as soon as he saw the youth; what
becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, was it, and the light of
the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee? Tell me, audacious
boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast been acquainted with the Princess—and
take care to answer with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures
shall wring the truth from thee. The young man, perceiving that his share in the
flight of the Princess was discovered, and concluding that any thing he should say
could no longer be of service or detriment to her, replied, I am no impostor, my
Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I answered to every question your
Highness put to me last night with the same veracity that I shall speak now: And
that will not be from fear of your 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, thro' which Matilda and Bianca were to
pass. Hearing her father's voice, and seeing the
servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the occasion. The prisoner soon
drew her attention: The steady and composed manner in which he answered, and the
gallantry of his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly
interested her in his favour. His person was noble, handsome, and commanding,
even in that situation: But his countenance soon engrossed her whole care. Heaven!
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 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 be comes of me! This is a
Lover! cried Manfred in a rage: A
peasant within sight of death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell
me, rash boy, who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee. Thou
hast threatened me with death already, said the youth, for the truth I have told
thee: If that is all the encouragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am not
tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther. Then thou wilt not speak! said Manfred ; I will not replied he. Bear
him away into the court-yard: said Manfred ; I will see his head this instant severed
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, bad 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 Manfred, who hoped by the confessor's means to
come at the youth's history, readily granted his request: and being convinced that
Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be
called and shrieve the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the
catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and
adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood. He accused
himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate the
youth, and left no method untried to soften the tyrant's rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome's intercession, whose 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 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 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
Manfred:
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. 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
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, tho' no Prince, as thou art, know, the blood that flows in my
vains—yes, said the friar, interrupting him, his blood is noble; nor is he that
abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son; and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara — but alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is
nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that
can distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must
return—Truce to your sermon! said Manfred: You forget, you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara.
Let me know your history: You will have time to moralize hereafter, if you should
not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there.
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 spleased, must perish —but the Counts 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 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.
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 Falconara, what mean these
portents? If I have offended —the plumes were shaken with greater violence than
before. Unhappy Prince that I am! cried Manfred —Holy Father! will you not assist me with
your prayers? My Lord, replied Jerome, heaven is no doubt
displeased with your mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the church; and
cease to persecute her ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to
respect the holy character I wear: Heaven will not be trifled with: you see— the
trumpet sounded again. I acknowledge I have been too hasty: said Manfred.
Father, Theodore?
replied the Friar. I do; said Manfred
; but inquire who is without!
Jerome falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood
of tears, that spoke the 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 himself
styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and all his courage revived. Usurper!—insolent
villain! cried he, who dares to question my title? retire, Jerome, your
Highness did but this instant freely pardon my child— have you so soon forgot the
interposition of heaven? Heaven, replied Manfred, does not send Heralds to question the
title of a lawful Prince—I doubt whether it even notifies its will through
Friars—but that is your affair, not mine. At present you know my pleasure; and it
is not a saucy Herald, that shall save your son, if you do not return with the
Princess.
It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be conducted to the
postern-gate, and shut out from the castle: And he ordered some of his attendants
to carry Theodore to the top of the black tower, and guard
him strictly; scarce permitting the Father and son to exchange a hasty embrace at
parting.
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, Freaeric Marquis of Vicenza, he
demands 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 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
Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his interest to
provoke the Marquis. He knew how well-founded the claim of Frederic
was; nor was this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic's ancestors had assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso
the good without issue; but Manfred,
his Father, and grandfather, had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to dispossess them. Frederic,
a martial and amorous young Prince, had married a beautiful young Lady, of whom he
was enamoured, and who had died in childbed of Isabella. Her death affected him so much, that he
had taken the cross and gone to the holy land, where he was wounded in an
engagement against the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead. When the
news reached Manfred's ears, he bribed
the guardians of the Lady Isabella to
deliver her up 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 Isbella's flight, which he strictly enjoined
his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight's retinue.
Herald, said Manfred, as soon as he
had digested these reflections, return to thy master, and tell him, e'er we
liquidate our differences by the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid
him welcome to my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have
courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we cannot
adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in safety, and shall
have full satisfaction
During this interview Jerome's mind was agitated by a
thousand contrary passions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first
thought was to persuade Isabella to
return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed at the thought of her union
with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita's unbounded submission to the
will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt but he could alarm her piety not to
consent to a divorce, if he could get access to her; yet should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from
him, it might be equally fatal to Theodore. He was
impatient to know whence came the Herald, who with so little management had
questioned the title of Manfred: yet
he did not dare absent himself from the convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be
imputed to him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain on what
conduct to resolve. A Monk, who met Hippolita? The holy man started, and cried, what
meanest thou, brother! I come this instant from the castle, and left her in
perfect health. Martelli, replied the other Friar, passed
by the convent but a quarter of an Hour ago on his way from the castle, and
reported that her Highness was dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to
pray for her happy transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival.
They know thy holy attachment to that good Lady, and are anxious for the
affliction it will cause in thee—indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a
mother to our House—but this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur—we shall
all follow her! may our end be like 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! replied the Friar; I
told her the sad news, and Sanchia of Arragon —thy zeal was
laudable, said Jerome impatiently; but at present it was
unnecessary: Hippolita is well— at
least I trust in the Lord she is; I heard nothing to the contrary—yet methinks,
the Prince's earnestness—well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella? I know not; said the Friar: She wept
much, and said she would retire to her chamber. Jerome left
his comrade abruptly, and hasted to the Princess, but she was not in her chamber.
He 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 purpose. nothing could equal the good man's perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having precipitated his wife's death,
Hippolita's death, though it seemed almost
incredible, increased his consternation; and though Isabella's escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it, while it endangered
the life of his son. He determined to return to the castle, and made several of
his brethren accompany him to attest his innocence to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their
intercession with his for Theodore.
The Prince, in the mean time, had passed into the court, and ordered the gates of
the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger Knight and his
train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First came two harbingers with
wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and two trumpets. Then an hundred
foot-guards. These were attended by as many horse. After them fifty footmen,
cloathed in Vicenza and Otranto quarterly —a circumstance that much offended
Manfred
—but he stifled his resentment. Two more pages. The Knight's confessor
telling his beads. Fifty more footmen, clad as before. Two Knights habited in
complete armour, their beavors down, comrades to the principal Knight. The squires
of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. The Knight's own squire.
An hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and seeming to faint under the
weight of it. The Knight himself on a chestnut steed, in complete armour, his
lance in the rest, his face entirely concealed by his vizor, which was surmounted
by a large plume of scarlet and black feathers. Fifty foot-guards with drums and
trumpets closed the procession, which wheeled off to the right and left to make
room for the principal Knight.
Manfred's eyes were fixed on the
gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: But his attention
was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned and beheld
the plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the same extraordinary manner as
before. It required intrepidity like Manfred's not to sink under a concur rence of
circumstances that seemed to announce his fate. Yet scorning in the presence of
strangers to betray the courage he had always manifested, he said boldly, Sir
Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal mould, thy
valour shall meet its equal: And, if thou art a true Knight, thou wilt scorn to
employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be these omens from heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of
his cause and to the aid of St. Nicholas, who has ever
protected his house. Alight, Sir Knight, and repose thyself. Tomorrow
The Knight made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to the great hall of the castle. As they
traversed the court, the Knight stopped to gaze at the miraculous casque; and
kneeling down, seemed to pray inwardly for some minutes. Rising, he made a sign to
the Prince to lead on. As soon as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the stranger to disarm, but
the Knight shook his head in token of refusal. Sir Knight, said Manfred, this is not courteous; but by my good
faith I will not cross thee; nor shalt thou have cause to complain of the Prince
of Otranto. No treachery is designed on my part; I hope
none is intended on thine: Here take my gage: [giving him his ring] your friends
and you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here, until refreshments are
brought: I will but give orders for the accommodation of your train, and return to
you. The three Knights bowed as accepting his courtesy. Manfred directed the stranger's
retinue to be conducted to an adjacent hospital, founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception of
pilgrims. As they made the circuit of the court to return towards the gate, the
gigantic sword burst from the supporters, and falling to the ground opposite to
the helmet, remained immoveable. Manfred almost hardened to preternatural
appearances, surmounted the shock of this new prodigy; and returning to the hall,
where by this time the feast was ready, he invited his silent guests to take their
places.
Manfred, however ill his heart was at ease,
endeavoured to inspire the company with mirth. He put several questions to them,
but was answered only by signs. They raised their vizors but sufficiently to feed
themselves, and that sparingly. Sirs, said the Prince, ye are the first guests I
ever treated within these walls, who scorned to hold any intercourse with me: Nor
has it oft been customary, I ween, for Princes to hazard their state and dignity
against strangers 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 pleasures —but come, give me a goblet of
wine; ye will not refuse to pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses. The
principal Knight sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the board—Sir
Knight, said Manfred, what I said was
but in sport: I shall constrain you in nothing: Use your good liking. Since mirth
is not your mood, let us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better: Let us
withdraw; and hear if what I have to unfold, may be better relished than the vain
efforts I have made for your pastime.
Manfred then conducting the three
Knights into an inner chamber, shut the door, and inviting them to be seated,
began thus, addressing himself to the chief personage.
You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella his daughter, who has been contracted in
the face of holy church to my son, by the consent of her legal guardians; and to
require me to resign my dominions to your Lord, who gives himself for the nearest
of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul God rest! I shall
speak to the latter article of your demands first. You must know, your Lord knows,
that I enjoy the principality of Otranto from my father Don Manuel, as he received it from his father Don Ricardo.
Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childess in
the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my grandfather Don
Ricardo, in consideration of his faithful services—the stranger shook his
head—Sir Knight, said
Manfred
warmly, Ricardo was a valiant and upright Nicholas —my grandfather was incapable —I say, Sir,
Don Ricardo was incapable—excuse me, your interruption
has disordered me. —I venerate the memory of my grandfather— well! Sirs, he held
this estate; he held it by his good sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas —so did my father; and so, Sirs, will I, come what
come will—but Frederic, your Lord, is nearest in blood—I
have consented to put my title to the issue of the sword—does that imply a vitious
title?—I might have asked, where is Frederic your Lord?
Report speaks him dead in captivity. You say, your actions say, he lives —I
question it not—I might, Sirs, I might—but I do not. Other Princes would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if he can: They
would not stake their dignity on a single combat: They would not submit it to the
decision of unknown mutes!—pardon me, Gentlemen, Isabella
—Sirs, I must ask if ye are authorized to receive her? The Knight nodded. Receive
her—continued Manfred ; well! you are
authorized to receive her—but, gentle Knight, may I ask if you have full powers?
The Knight nodded. 'Tis well: Said Manfred: Then hear
what I have to offer—ye see, Gentlemen, before you the most unhappy of men! [he
began to weep] afford me your compassion; I am 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 surprise. Yes, Sirs, fate has disposed of my son. Isabella is at liberty—Do you then
restore her? cried the chief Knight, breaking silence. Afford me your patience:
Said Manfred. I rejoice Manfred is no object of envy—but no
doubt you are acquainted with my story. The Knight made signs of ignorance, and
seemed curious to have Manfred
proceed. Is it possible, Sirs, continued the Prince, that my story should be a
secret to you? have you heard nothing relating to me and the Princess
Hippolita?
Hippolita. —Oh! Sirs, if ye were
acquainted with that excellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her like a mistress,
and cherish her as a friend—but man was not born for perfect happiness! she shares
my scruples, and with her consent I have brought this matter before the church,
for we are related within the forbidden degrees. I expect every hour the
definitive sentence that must separate us for ever —I am sure you feel for me—I
see you do— pardon these tears! The Knights gazed on each other, wondering where
this would end.
Manfred
continued. The death of my son betiding while my soul was under this
anxiety, I thought Isabella, who is
dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to restore the line of Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred: And though, pardon me, I am
satisfied it was his will that Ricardo's lineage should
take place of his own relations; yet where was I to search for those relations? I
knew of none but Frederic your Lord; he was a captive to
the infidels, or dead; and were he living, and at home, would he quit the
flourishing state of Vicenza for the inconsiderable
principality of Otranto? If he would not, could I bear the
thought of seeing a hard unfeeling Viceroy set over my poor faithful people?—for,
Sirs, I love my people, and thank heaven am beloved by them—but ye will ask,
whither tends this long discourse? briefly then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in your
arrival seems to point out a remedy for these difficulties and my misfortunes. The
Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall
soon 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 Manfred that Jerome and
several of his brethren demanded immediate access to him.
The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar would
discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was going to forbid
Jerome's entrance. But recollecting that he was
certainly arrived to notify the Princess's return, Manfred began to excuse himself to the Knights
for leaving them for a few moments, but was prevented by the arrival of the
Friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded
them for their intrusion, and would have forced them back from the chamber; but
Jerome was too much agitated to be repulsed. He declared
aloud Isabella, with protestations of his own
innocence. Manfred distracted at the
news, and not less at its coming to the knowledge of the strangers, uttered
nothing but incoherent sentences, now upbraiding the Friar, now apologizing to the
Knights, earnest to know what was become of Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing,
impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to have them join in the pursuit. He offered
to dispatch messengers in quest of her,—but the chief Knight no longer keeping
silence, reproached Manfred in bitter
terms for his dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of Isabella's first absence from the
castle.
Manfred, casting a stern look at Jerome, implying a command of silence, pretended that on Conrad's death he had placed her in
sanctuary until he could determine how to dispose of her. Jerome, who trembled for his son's life, did not dare contradict this
falshood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared frankly
that she had fled to their church in the preceding Manfred had secreted the Princess,
notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her flight, rushing to the door, said,
thou traitor-Prince! Isabella shall be
found. Manfred endeavoured to hold
him, but the other Knights assisting their comrade, he broke from the Prince, and
hastened into the court, demanding his attendants. Manfred finding it vain to divert him from the
pursuit, offered to accompany him; and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome and some of the Friars to guide them, they issued
from the castle; Manfred privately
giving orders, to have the Knight's company secured, while to the Knight he
affected to dispatch a messenger to require their assistance.
The company had no sooner quitted the castle, than Matilda, who felt herself deeply interested Manfred had dispatched all his
men various ways in pursuit of Isabella. He had in his hurry given this order in
general terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore, but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to
obey so peremptory a Prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty
to join in any pre cipitate chace, 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 taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all
other ties, justifies this act. Fly; the doors of thy prison are open: My father
and his domestics are absent; but they may soon return: Be gone Theodore: None but a blessed saint could speak, could act—could look like
thee!—may I not know the name of my divine protectress! methought thou namedst thy
father: Is it possible! can Manfred's
blood feel holy pity?—lovely lady, thou answerest not—but how art thou here
thyself? why dost thou neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch
like Theodore? let us fly together: The life thou bestowest
shall be dedicated to thy defence. Alas! thou mistakest; said Matilda sighing: I am Manfred's daughter, but no dangers await me.
Amazement! said Theodore: But last night I blessed myself
for yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me
now. Still thou art in an error; said the Princess; but this is no time for
explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee: Should my
father return, thou and I both should indeed have Theodore ; thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept of life at
the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? better I endured a thousand deaths, —I run
no risk, said Matilda, but by thy
delay. Depart; it cannot be known that I assisted thy flight. Swear by the saints
above, said Theodore, that thou canst not be suspected;
else here I vow to await whatever can 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 calamity until this
hour—perhaps shall never know other fortune again: Suffer the chaste raptures of
holy gratitude: 'Tis my soul would print its effusions on thy hand. Forbear, and
be gone: Said Matilda: —How would Isabella approve of seeing thee at my
feet? Who is
Isabella?
Theodore, but thy words are
dark and mysterious, —speak, lady; speak to thy servant's comprehension.—Thou
understandest but too well! said Matilda: But once more I command thee to be gone:
Thy blood, which, I may preserve, will be on my head, if I waste the time in vain
discourse. I go, lady, said Theodore, because it is thy
will, and because I would not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the
grave. Say but, adored lady, that I have thy gentle pity.—Stay; said Matilda ; I will conduct thee to the
subterraneous vault by which Isabella
escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas,
where thou mayst take sanctuary.—What! said Theodore, was
it another, and not thy lovely self that I assisted to find the subterraneous
passage? It was; Matilda ; but ask no more: I tremble to see thee
still abide here: Fly to the sanctuary,— to sanctuary! said Theodore: No, Princess; sanctuaries are for helpless damsels, or for
criminals. Theodore 's soul is free from guilt, nor will
wear the appearance of it. Give me a sword, lady, and thy father shall learn that
Theodore scorns an ignominious flight. Rash youth! said
Matilda, thou wouldst not dare to
lift thy presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?
Not against thy father; indeed I dare not: said Theodore:
Excuse me, lady; I had forgotten,—but could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art
sprung from the tyrant Manfred? —but
he is thy father, and from this moment my injuries are buried in oblivion. A deep
and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the Princess and Theodore. Good heaven! we are overheard! said the Princess.
They listened; but perceiving no farther noise, they both concluded it the effect
of pent-up vapours: And the Princess 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 making by Manfred and
the strangers: But hie thee to the opposite quarter. Yonder behind that forest to
the east is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns that reach to
the seacoast. 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 lilly 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—E'er the Princess could reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly
heard, that shook the battlements. Theodore, regardless Matilda closing it, put an end to an interview,
in which the hearts of both had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now
tasted for the first time.
Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his
father with his deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit that was making after the lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose story he
now first 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 Jerome had expressed for him concurred to confirm this
reluctance; and he even persuaded himself that silial affection was the chief
cause of his hovering between the castle and monastery. Until Jerome should return at night; Theodore at length
determined to repair to the forest that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there,
he sought the gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that
reigned in his mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to the caves which had
formerly served as a retreat to hermits, and were now reported round the country
to be haunted by evil spirits. He recollected to have heard this tradition; and
being of a brave and adventurous disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity
in exploring the secret recesses of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated far
before he thought he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreat before
him. Theodore, though firmly grounded in all our holy faith
enjoins to be believed, had no apprehension 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 saint in his arms. He used every gentle word to dispel
her alarms, and assured her that far from injuring, he would defend her at the
peril of his life. The lady recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour,
and gazing on her protector, Theodore, unless as I conjecture thou art the lady Isabella, —merciful heaven! cried she, thou art
not sent in quest of me, art thou? and saying those words, she threw herself at
his feet, and besought him not to deliver her up to Manfred. To Manfred! cried Theodore
—no, lady, I have once already delivered thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare
hard with me now, but I will place thee out of the reach of his daring. Is it
possible, said she, that thou shouldst be the generous unknown whom I met last
night in the vault of the castle? sure thou art not a mortal, but my guardian angel: On my knees let me thank—hold, gentle Princess,
said Theodore, nor demean thyself before a poor and
friendless young man. If heaven has selected me for thy deliverer, it will
accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy cause—but come, lady, we are too
near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its inmost recesses: I Theodore ; nor do you harbour
a suspicion that wounds my honour. I meant to conduct you into the most private
cavity of these rocks, and then at the hazard of my life to guard their entrance
against every living thing. Besides, lady, continued he drawing a deep sigh,
beauteous and all perfect as your form is, and though my wishes are not guiltless
of aspiring, know, my soul is dedicated to another; and although —a sudden noise
prevented Theodore from proceeding. They soon distinguished
these sounds, Isabella! what ho! Isabella! —the trembling Princess
relapsed into her former Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in vain. He
assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return under Manfred 's power; and begging her to remain
concealed, he went forth to prevent the person in search of her from approaching.
At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with a peasant,
who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock. The Knight was
preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in
his way, with his sword drawn, sternly forbad him at his peril to advance. And who
art thou who darest to cross my way? said the Knight haughtily. One who does not
dare more than he will perform, said Theodore. I seek the
lady Isabella ; said the Knight, and
understand she has taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt
repent having provoked my resentment. Thy purpose is as odious, as thy resentment
is contemptible, said Theodore. Return whence thou Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting
information of the Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into
the power of the three Knights. Their chief had suspected Manfred of being privy to the Princess's
absconding; and this insult from a man, who he concluded was stationed by that
Prince to secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made no reply, but
discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore, would soon
have removed all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him for
one of Manfred's captains, and who had
no sooner given the provocation than prepared to support it, had not received the
stroke on his shield. The valour that had so long been smothered in his breast,
broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on the Knight, whose pride and wrath
were not less powerful incentives to hardy deeds. The combat was Theodore wounded the Knight in three several places, and at last disarmed
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 domestics, who by his orders were
dispersed through the forest in pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the Knight fell, whom
they soon discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore,
notwithstanding his hatred to Manfred,
could not behold the victory he had gained without emotions of pity and
generosity: But he was more touched, when he learned the quality of his adversary,
and was informed that he was no retainer, but an enemy of Manfred. He assisted the servants of the latter
in disarming the Knight, and in endeavouring to staunch the blood that flowed from
his wounds. The Knight recovering his speech, said in a faint and faltering voice,
generous foe, we have both been in an error: I took thee for an instrument of the
tyrant; I perceive thou hast made Isabella is at hand—call her—I have important
secrets to—He is dying! said one of the attendants; has nobody a crucifix about
them? Andrea, do thou pray over him—fetch some water, said
Theodore, and pour it down his throat, while I hasten to
the Princess—saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her modestly,
that he had been so unfortunate by mistake as to wound a gentleman from her
father's court, who wished e'er he died to impart something of consequence to her.
The Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore as he called to her to come forth, was astonished at what she
heard. Suffering herself to be conducted by Theodore, the
new proof of whose valour recalled her dispersed spirits, she came where the
bleeding Knight lay speechless on the ground—but her fears returned, when she
beheld the domestics of
Manfred. She would again have fled, if Theodore had not made her observe that they were unarmed,
Isabella of Vicenza? I am; said she: good heaven restore thee!—Then thou— then
thou—said the Knight, struggling for utterance—seest—thy father—give me one— oh!
amasement! horror! what do I hear! what do I see! cried Isabella. My father! you my father! how came you
here, Sir? for heaven's sake speak!—oh! run for help, or he will expire!—'Tis most
true, said the wounded Knight, exerting all his force; I am
Frederic thy father—yes, I came to deliver thee— It will not be—give me a
parting kiss, and take—Sir, said Theodore, do not exhaust
yourself: suffer us to convey you to the castle— to the castle! said Isabella ; is there no help nearer than
the castle? would you expose my father to the tyrant? if he goes thither, I dare
not accompany him—and yet, can I Frederic, it matters not for me whither I am
carried: A few minutes 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 who he is,
will protect thy innocence—Sir, you will not abandon my child, will you! Theodore shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to
guard the Princess at the 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
afflicted Isabella, who could not bear
to quit him, followed mournfully behind.
THE sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle, than they were met by
Hippolita
and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics
before to advertise of their approach. The Ladies causing Frederic to be conveyed into the nearest chamber, retired, while the
surgeons examined his wounds. Matilda
blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together; but endeavoured to conceal it
by embracing the latter, and condoling with her on her father's mischance. The
surgeons soon came to acquaint Hippolita that none of the Marquis's wounds were
dangerous; and that he was desirous of seeing his daughter and the Princesses.
Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being
freed from his apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist the Matilda. Her
eyes were so often cast down on meeting his, that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he gazed on Matilda, soon devined who the object was that he
had told her in the cave engaged his affections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita demanded of Frederic the
cause of his having taken that mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter; and
threw in various apologies to excuse her Lord for the match contracted between
their children. Frederic. however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the
courtesy and benevolence of Hippolita:
But he was still more struck with the lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bedside,
he informed Hippolita of his story. He
told her, that, while prisoner to the infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter,
of whom he had learned no news since his captivity, was detained in a castle,
where she was in danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: And that if he obtained
his liberty, and repaired to a wood
Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed at this dream, and
incapable of obeying the direction given by it, his chains became more grievous
than ever. But while his thoughts were occupied on the means of obtaining his
liberty, he received the agreeable news that the confederate Princes, who were
warring in Palestine, had paid his ransom. He instantly
set out for the wood that had been marked in his dream. For three days he and his
attendants had wandered in the forest without seeing a human form: But on the
evening of the third they came to a cell, in which they found a venerable hermit
in the agonies of death. Applying rich cordials, they brought the saint-like man
to his speech. My sons, said he, I am bounden to your charity—but it is in vain—I
am going to my eternal rest—yet I die with the satisfaction of performing the will
of heaven. When first I repaired to this solitude, after seeing my country become
a prey to unbelievers— it is alas! above fifty years since I was witness Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a secret, which he bad
me never reveal to mortal man, but on my deathbed. 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 Hippolita trembled. She
did not doubt but Frederic was destined by heaven to
accomplish the sate that seemed to threaten her house. Looking with anxious
fondness at Matilda, a silent tear
stole down her cheek: But recollecting herself, she said; proceed, my Lord: Heaven
does nothing in vain: Mortals must receive its divine behests with lowliness and
submission. It is our part to deprecate its wrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat
the sentence, my Lord; we listen resigned. Frederic was
grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect,
and the tender silent affection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded
each other, melted him almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that his forbearance to
obey, would be more alarming, he repeated in a faltering and low voice the
following lines:
What is there in these lines, said Alfonso's blood alone can save the maid, Theodore
impatiently, that affects these Princesses? why were they to be shocked by a
mysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation? Your words are rude, young
man, said the Marquis; and 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
yourself for the glosing of a peasant's son: He forgets the reverence he owes you;
but he is not accustomed— Hippolita,
concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for
his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the
conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her
Lord? As the Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise
Manfred,
Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an imperfect
rumour of what had happened, entered the chamber. Manfred advanced hastily towards Frederic's bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to
learn the circumstances of the combat, when starting in an agony of terror and
amazement, he cried, Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my hour come?
—my dearest, gracious Lord, cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms, what is it you
see? why do you fix your eye-balls thus!—What! cried Manfred breathless—dost thou see nothing, Hippolita? is this ghastly phantom sent
to me alone—to me, who did not—for mercy's sweetest self, my Lord, said Hippolita, resume your soul, command
your reason. There is none here, but us, your friends—what is not that Alfonso? cried
Manfred
; Dost thou not see him? can it be my brain's delirium?—This! my Lord, said
Hippolita ; this is Theodore, the youth who has been so unfortunate— Theodore!
Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead —
Theodore, or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred —but how comes he here? and how
comes he in armour? I believe he went in search of Isabella: Said Hippolita. Of
Isabella! said Manfred, relapsing into rage—yes, yes, that is
not doubtful—but how did he escape from durance in which I left him? was it Isabella, or this hypocritical old
Friar, that procured his enlargement?—and would a parent be criminal, my Lord,
said Theodore, if he 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 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 Alfonso, his
admiration was dashed with secret horror. Rise; said he; thy life is not my
present purpose.—But tell me thy history, and how thou camest connected with this
old traitor here. Jerome eagerly—peace? impostor! said Manfred ; I will not have him prompted. My Lord,
said Theodore, I want no assistance: My story is very
brief. I was carried at five years of age to
Algiers
with
my 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, continued Theodore, she bound a writing about my arm under my garments, which told
me I was the son of the Count Falconara —it is most true,
said Jerome ; I am that wretched father—again I enjoin thee
silence: said Manfred: Proceed. I
remained in slavery, said Theodore, until within these two
years, when attending on my master in his cruizes, I was delivered by a Christian
vessel, which over-powered the pirate; and discovering myself to the captian, he
generously put me on shore in Sicily —but alas! instead of
finding a father, I learned that his estate,
Naples, but
where no man could inform me. Destitute and friendless, hopless almost of
attaining the transport of a parent's embrace, I took the first opportunity of
setting sail for
Naples, from whence, within these six
days, I wandered into this province, still supporting myself by the labour of my
hands; nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven had reserved any lot for me
but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord, is 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 displeasure. He
ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience. This is not all;
said Frederic: I am bound in honour Manfred] if I can pardon
him, surely you may: It is not the youth's fault, if you took him for a spectre.
This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred. If beings from another world, replied he
haughtily, have power to impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can
do; nor could a stripling's arm —my Lord, interrupted Hippolita, your guest has occasion for repose:
Shall we not leave him to his rest? Saying this, and taking Manfred by Frederic, and led the company
forth. The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation, which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to be
conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore,
tho' under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow [a condition the young
man gladly accepted] to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own
reflections, and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse
that night. They separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of ceremony
and fewer of affection, than had passed between them since their childhood.
If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater impatience,
as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a situation that excluded sleep,
and each recollected a thousand questions which she wished she had put to the
other overnight. Matilda reflected
that
Isabella
Theodore in very critical situations, which she could not
believe accidental. His eyes, it was true, had been fixed on her in Frederic's chamber; but that might have been to disguise his
passion for Isabella from the fathers
of both. It were better to clear this up—She wished to know the truth, lest she
should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella's lover. Thus jealousy prompted, and at
the same time borrowed an excuse from friendship to justify its curiosity.
Isabella, not less restless, had
better foundation for her suspicions. Both Theodore's
tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged— it was true—yet perhaps Matilda might not correspond to his
passion—she had ever appeared insensible to love: All her thoughts were set on
heaven—why did I dissuade her? said Isabella to herself: I am punished for my
generosity— but when did they meet? where?—it cannot be: I have deceived
myself—perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld each other Matilda —how! can I
stoop to wish for the affection of a man, who rudely and unnecessarily acquainted
me with his indifference? and that at the very moment in which common courtesy
demanded at least expressions of civility. I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this becoming
pride—man is false—I will advise with her on taking the veil: She will rejoice to
find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her that I no longer oppose her
inclination for the cloyster. In this frame of mind, and determined to open her
heart entirely to Matilda, she went to
that Princess's chamber, whom she found already dresled, and leaning pensively on
her arm. This attitude, so correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella's suspicions, and destroyed
the confidence she had purposed to place in her friend. They blushed at meeting,
and were too much novices Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight? the latter, who
had almost forgotten Manfred's
passion, so entirely was she occupied by her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape
from the convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening,
replied, Martelli brought word to the convent that your
mother was dead—oh! said Matilda
interrupting her, Bianca has explained that mistake to me:
on seeing me faint, she cried out, the Princess is dead! and Martelli who had come for the usual dole to the castle—and what made you
faint? said Isabella, indifferent to
the rest. Matilda blushed, and
stammered—my father— he was sitting in judgment on a criminal— what criminal? said
Isabella eagerly—a young man; said
Matilda —I believe—I think it was
that young man that—what, Theodore? said Isabella. Yes; answered she; I never saw him
before; I do not know how he had offended my father Isabella ; do you term it serving me, to wound my
father, and almost occasion his death! Though it is but since yesterday that I am
blessed with knowing a parent, I hope
Matilda
does not think I am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent
the boldness of that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to
feel any affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my
being. No, Matilda, my heart abhors
him; and if you still retain the friendship for me that you have vowed from your
infancy, you will detest a man who has been on the point of making me miserable
for ever. Matilda held down her head,
and replied; I hope my dearest Isabella does not doubt her Matilda's friendship: I never beheld that youth
until yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: But as the surgeons have
pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour uncharitable
resentment
Isabella, considering he is so much a stranger to
you! I am mistaken, or he returns your charity. What mean you? said Matilda. Nothing: Said
Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda a hint of Theodore's inclination for her. Then changing the discourse, she asked
Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre? Bless me, said Matilda, did not you observe his extreme
resemblance to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I
took notice of it to Bianca even before I saw him in
armour; but with the helmet on, he is the very image of that picture. I do not
much observe pictures; said Isabella:
Much less have I examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have
done—ah! Matilda, your heart is in
danger—but let me warn you as a friend—he has owned to me that he is in love; it
cannot be with you, for yesterday was the first time you ever met—was 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 thing that my little portion of charms could engage a heart devoted
to you—may you be happy, Isabella,
whatever is the fate of
Matilda! My lovely friend, said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist a
kind expression, it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it;
I am persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me to
interfere with yours. This frankness drew tears from the gentle
Matilda
; and jealousy that for a moment had raised a coolness between these amiable
maidens, soon gave way to the natural sincerity and candour of their souls. Each
confessed to the other the impression that Theodore had
made on her; and this confidence was followed by a struggle of generosity, each
insisting on yielding her claim to her friend. At length, the dignity of
Isabella
's virtue reminding her of the preference which Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her
determine to conquer her passion, and cede the beloved object to her friend.
During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter's chamber. Madam,
said she to Isabella, you have so much
tenderness for Matilda, and interest
yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched house, that I can have no
secrets with my child, which are not proper for you to hear. The Princesses were
all attention and anxiety. Know then, Madam, continued Hippolita, and you, my dearest
Matilda, that being convinced by all the events of these two last
ominous days, that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto
shuld pass from Manfred's hands into
those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps
inspired with the thought of averting our total destruction by the union of our
rival houses. With this view I have been proposing to Manfred my Lord to tender this dear, dear child
to Frederic your father —me to lord Frederic! cried Matilda —good
heavens! Hippolita: He listened benignly to my proposal,
and is gone to break it to the Marquis. Ah! wretched Princess! cried Isabella ; what hast thou done! what
ruin has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for Matilda! Ruin from me to you and to my
child! said Hippolita ; what can this
mean? Alas! said Isabella, the purity
of your own heart prevents your seeing the depravity of others. Manfred, your Lord, that impious man—hold; said
Hippolita, you must not in my
presence, young lady, mention Manfred
with disrespect: He is my lord and husband, and—will not long be so, said Isabella, if his wicked purposes can be
carried into execution. This language amazes me; said Hippolita. Your feeling, Isabella, is warm; but until this hour I never
knew it betray you into intemperance. What deed of Manfred authorizes you to treat him as a
murderer, an assassin? Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess! Isabella ; it is not thy life he aims at—it is to
separate himself from thee! to divorce thee! to—to divorce me! to divorce my
mother! cried Hippolita and Matilda at once —yes; said Isabella ; and to 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!
Mother! cried Isabella, flinging
herself at Hippolita 's feet in a transport of passion;
trust me, believe me, I will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure
you, than yield to so odious —oh!—This is too much! cried Hippolita: What crimes does one crime suggest!
rise, dear Isabella ; I do not doubt
your virtue. Oh!
Matilda, this stroke is too heavy for thee! weep
not, my child; and not a murmur, I charge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!—but you are my mother too; said Matilda servently; you are virtuous, you are guiltless!—Oh! must not I, must not I complain? You
must not: Said Hippolita —come, all
will yet be well. Manfred, in the
agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said: perhaps Isabella misunderstood him: His heart
is good—and, my child, thou knowest not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the
hand of Providence is stretched out—Oh! could I but save thee from the wreck!—yes,
continued she in a firmer tone; perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for
all—I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of me. I
will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of life in
prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince! Thou art as much too good for this
world, said Isabella, as Manfred is execrable—but think not, Lady, that
thy weakness shall determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels—stop, I adjure
thee; cried Hippolita: Remember thou
dost not depend on thyself; thou hast a father 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
Matilda! would I wound her tender soul by injuring
her adored mother? my own mother—I never have known another—Oh! she is the mother
of both! cried Matilda: Can we, can
we,
Isabella, adore her too much? My lovely children,
said the touched Hippolita, your
tenderness overpowers me—but I must not give way to it. It is not ours to make
election for ourselves: Heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide for us.
Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have
determined. If the Marquis accepts Matilda's hand, I know she will readily obey. Heaven
may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my child? continued Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of
speechless tears—but no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a word
against the pleasure of thy father. Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful
obedience to him and to you! said Matilda. But can I, most respected of women, can I
experience all this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought from
the best of mothers? What art thou going to utter? said Isabella trembling. Recollect thyself, Matilda. No, Isabella, said the Princess, I should not deserve
this incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a thought
without her permission— nay, I have offended her; I have suffered a passion to
enter my heart without her avowal— but here I disclaim it; here I vow to heaven
and her—My child! my child! said Hippolita, what words are these! what new calamities
has fate in store for us! Thou, a passion! Thou, in this hour of destruction—Oh! I
see all my guilt! said Matilda. I
abhor myself, if I cost Isabella, said Hippolita, thou art conscious to this unhappy
secret, whatever it is. Speak—what! cried Matilda, have I so forfeited my mother's love,
that she will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh! wretched, wretched Matilda! Thou art too cruel; said Isabella to Hippolita: Canst thou behold this anguish of a
virtuous mind, and not commiserate it? Not pity my child! said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms—Oh! I know she is good, she
is all virtue, all tenderness, and duty. I do forgive thee, my excellent, my only
hope! The Princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to
Matilda. Hippolita
blamed their imprudence, and shewed them the improbability that either
father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born.
Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, Theodore had had
but little cause to suspect it in either. She strictly enjoined them to avoid all
correspondence with him. This
Matilda
servently promised: But Isabella, who flattered
herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her friend, could
not determine to avoid him; and made no reply. I will go to the convent, said Hippolita, and order new masses to be
said for a deliverance from these calamities.—Oh! my mother, said Matilda, you mean to quit us: You mean
to take sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal
intention. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear— will you leave me a prey
to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent—Be at peace,
my child: said Hippolita: I will
return instantly. I will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of
heaven, and for thy benefit. Do not deceive me: said Matilda. I will not marry Frederic until thou commandest it—Alas! What will become of me? Why that
exclamation? 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, Metilda. I can quit Theodore, said
she, but must I wed another? let me attend thee to the altar, and shut myself from
the world for ever. Thy fate depends on thy father; said Hippolita: I have ill bestowed my tenderness, if
it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu! my child: I go to pray for
thee.
Hippolita's real purpose was to demand
of Jerome, whether in conscience she might not consent
to the divorce. She had oft urged
Manfred
to resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered
an hourly burthen to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation from her
husband appear less
Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned
Theodore severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape.
Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred's suspicion from alighting on
Matilda
; and added, the holiness of Jerome's life and
character secured him from the tyrant's wrath. Jerome was
heartily grieved to discover his son's inclination for that Princess; and leaving
him to his rest; promised in the morning to acquaint him with important reasons
for 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 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,
Alfonso's tomb.
Young man, said Jerome, when he saw him, this tardiness
does not please me. Have a father's commands already so little weight? Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to
having overslept himself. And on whom were thy dreams employed? said the Friar
sternly. His son blushed. Come, come, resumed the Friar, inconsiderate youth, this
must not be: Eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast—guilty passion! cried
Theodore: Can guilt dwell with innocent beauty and
virtuous modesty? It is sinful, replied the Friar, to cherish those whom heaven
has doomed to destruction. A tyrant's race must be swept from the earth to the
third and fourth generation. Will heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the
guilty? said Theodore. The fair Matilda has virtues enough—to undo thee:
Interrupted Jerome. Hast thou so soon forgotten that
twice the savage Manfred has
pronounced thy sentence? Theodore, that the charity of his daughter delivered me
from his power. I can forget injuries, but never benefits. The injuries thou hast
received from Manfred's race, said the
Friar, are beyond what thou canst conceive.—Reply not, but view this holy image!
Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso ; a Prince adorned with every virtue: The father of his people!
the delight of mankind! Kneel, head strong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a
state of horror, that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but sensations of
sacred vengeance— Alfonso! much-injured Prince! let thy
unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these trembling lips—ha!
who comes there?—The most wretched of women! said Hippolita, entering the choir. Good Father, art
thou at leisure?—but why this kneeling youth? what means the horror imprinted on
each countenance? why at this venerable tomb —alas! hast thou seen aught? We were
pouring Matilda! Father!
intercede for her!—Every heart will bless her: Cried Theodore with rapture—Be dumb, rash youth! said Jerome. And thou fond Princess contend not with the Powers above! The
Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away: Bless his holy name, and submit to his
decrees. I do most devoutly: Said Hippolita: But will he not spare my only comfort?
must Matilda perish too?— ah! Father,
I came—but dismiss thy son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter. Theodore retiring. Jerome frowned.
Hippolita then acquainted the Friar
with the proposal she had suggested to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of
Matilda that he was gone to make to
Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the
motion, which he covered under pretence of the improbability that Frederic, the nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his succession, would yield to an
alliance with the usurper of his right. But nothing could equal the perplexity of
the Friar, when Hippolita confessed
her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his opinion on the
legality of her acquiescence. The Friar 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
enjoined
Manfred, in the mean time, had broken
his purpose to Frederic, and proposed the double marriage.
That weak Prince, who had been struck with the charms of Matilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer.
He forgot his enmity to Manfred, whom
he saw but little hope of dispossessing by force; and flattering himself that no
issue might succeed from the union of his daughter with the Tyrant, he looked upon
his own succession to the principality as facilitated by wedding Matilda. He made faint opposition to the
proposal; affecting, for form only, not to acquiesce unless Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfred took that upon himself.
Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation to
expect sons, he hastened to his wife's apartment, determined to extort her
compliance. He learned with indignation that she was absent at the convent. His
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 entertained of Jerome,
made him apprehend that the Friar would not only traverse his views, but might
have inspired Hippolita with the
resolution of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its
success, Manfred hastened to the
convent, and arrived there, as the Friar was earnestly exhorting the Princess
never to yield to the divorce.
Madam, said Manfred, what business
drew you hither? why did you not await my return from the Marquis? I came to
implore a blessing on your councils: Replied Hippolita. My councils do not need a
Friar's intervention: Said Manfred
—and of all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to
confer with? Profane Prince! said Jerome ; is Manfred,
thy impious schemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous Lady know them—nay, frown
not, Prince. The church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above thy
wrath. Dare to proceed in thy 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
Frederic ; and when that is done—it is done: Replied Manfred: Frederic accepts Matilda's hand, and is content to wave his claim,
unless I have no male issue—as he spoke those words, three drops of blood fell
from the nose of Alfonso 's statue. Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sunk on her
knees. Behold! said the Friar; mark this miraculous indication that the Alfonso will
never mix with that of Manfred! My
gracious Lord, said Hippolita, let us
submit ourselves to heaven. Think not thy ever obedient wife rebels against thy
authority. I have no will but that of my Lord and the church. To that 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 marriage, be it so —I
have but few years, and those of sorrow to pass. Where can they be worn away so
well as at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda's safety?—but thou shalt not remain here
until then: Said Manfred. Repair with
me to the castle, and there I will advise on the proper measures for a
divorce;—but this meddling Friar comes not thither: My hospitable roof shall never
more harbour a traitor—and for thy Reverence's offspring, continued he, I banish
him from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sacred personage, nor under the
protection of the church. Whoever weds Isabella, it shall 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.
EVERY reflection which Manfred made
on the Friar's behaviour, conspired to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella and Theodore. But
Jerome's new presumption, so dissonant from his former
meekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions. The Prince even suspected that the
Friar depended on some secret support from Frederic, whose
arrival Theodore seemed to bespeak a correspondence.
Still more was he troubled with the resemblance of Theodore
to Alfonso's portrait. The latter he knew had
unquestionably died without issue. Frederic had consented
to bestow Isabella on him. These
contradictions agitated his mind with numberless pangs. He saw but two methods of
extricating himself from his difficulties. The one was to resign his dominions to
the Marquis —Pride, ambition, and his reliance on ancient prophecies, which had
pointed out a possibility of his preserving them to his posterity, combated that
thought. The other was to press his marriage with Isabella. After long ruminating on these anxious
thoughts, as he marched silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed
with that Princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every insinuating and
plausible argument to extract her consent to, even her promise of promoting the
divorce. Hippolita needed little
persuasion to bend her to
This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise Manfred's hopes. He trusted that his power and
wealth would easily advance his suit at the court of
Rome,
whither he resolved to engage Frederic to take a journey on
purpose. That Prince had discovered so much passion for Matilda, that Manfred hoped to obtain all he wished by holding
out or withdrawing his daughter's charms, according as the Marquis should appear
more or less disposed to co-operate in his views. Even the absence of Frederic would be a material point gained, until he could
take farther measures for his security.
Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that
of the Marquis; but crossing the great hall through which he was to pass, he met
Bianca. That damsel he knew was in the confidence of
both the young Ladies. It immediately occurred to him to sift her on the subject
of Isabella and Theodore. Calling her aside into the recess of the oriel window of the
hall, and soothing her with many fair words and promises, he demanded of her
whether she knew ought of the state of Isabella's affections. I! my Lord! no, my
Lord—yes, my Lord— poor Lady! she is wonderfully alarmed about her father's
wounds; but I tell her he will do well, don't your Highness think so? I do not ask
you, replied Manfred, what she thinks
about her father: But you are in her secrets: Come, be a good girl and tell me; is
there any young man—ha!—you understand me—Lord bless me! understand your Highness,
no, not I: I told her a few vulnerary herbs and repose—I am not talking, replied
the Prince impatiently, Ferdinand was wounded by the Venetian —Thou
answerest from the point, interrupted Manfred ; but here, take this jewel, perhaps that
may fix thy attention—nay, no reverences; my favour shall not stop here— come,
tell me truly; how stands Isabella 's
heart. Well! your Highness has such a way! said Bianca —to
be sure—but can your Highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out of your
lips—it shall not, it shall not: Cried Manfred —nay, but swear, your Highness—by my
halidame, if it should ever be known that I said it—why, truth is truth, I do not
think my Lady Isabella ever much
affectioned my young Lord your Son—yet he was a sweet youth as one should see—I am
sure, if I had been a Princess—but bless me! I must attend Matilda ; she will marvel what is become of
me—stay; cried Manfred, thou hast not
satisfied my question. Hast thou ever carried any message, any letter—I! good
gracious! cried Bianca ; I carry a letter? I would not to
be a Queen. I hope your Highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest—did your
Highness never hear what Count Marsigli offered me, when he
came a wooing to my Lady Matilda? I
have not leisure, said
Manfred, to listen to thy tales. I do not question
thy honesty: But it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me. How long has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore? Nay, there is nothing can escape your Highness!
said Bianca — not that I know any thing of the matter— Theodore, to be sure, is a proper young man, and, as my
Lady Matilda says, the very image of
good Alfonso: Has not your Highness remarked it? yes,
yes,—no—thou torturest me: Said Manfred: Where did they meet? when?— who! My Lady
Matilda? said Bianca. No, Matilda: Isabella
; when did Isabella first become
acquainted with this Theodore? Virgin Mary! said Bianca, how should I know? Thou dost know; said Manfred ; and I must know; I will—Lord!
your Highness is not jealous of young Theodore! said Bianca —jealous! no, no: Why should I be jealous?— perhaps I
mean to unite them—if I were sure Isabella would have no repugnance—repugnance! no,
I'll warrant her; said Bianca ; he is as comely a youth as
ever trod on Christian ground: We are all in love with him, there is not a soul in
the castle, but would be rejoiced to have him for our Prince—I mean, when it shall
please heaven to call your Highness to itself—indeed! said Manfred ; has it gone so far! oh! this cursed
Friar!—but I must not lose time—go, Bianca, attend Isabella ; but I charge thee, not a
word of what has passed. Find out how she is affected towards Theodore: bring me good news, and that ring has a companion. Wait at the
foot of the winding staircase:
Manfred, after some general
conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss the two Knights
his companions, having to talk with him on urgent affairs. As soon as they were
alone, he began in artful guise to sound the Marquis on the subject of Matilda ; and finding him disposed to
his wish, he let drop hints on the difficulties that would attend the celebration
of their marriage, unless—at that instant Bianca burst into
the room with a wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the utmost terror.
Oh! my Lord, my Lord! cried she; we are all undone! it is come again! it is come
again! What is come again? cried Manfred amazed—oh! the hand! the Giant! the
hand!—support me! I am terrified out of my senses: Cried Bianca, I will not sleep in the castle to-night; where shall I go? my
things may come after me to-morrow —would I had been content to wed Francisco! this comes of ambition! What has terrified Bianca, but I dare not—no, pray, let me go— I had rather
leave every thing behind me, than stay another hour under this roof. Go to, thou
hast lost thy senses: Said Manfred.
Interrupt us not; we were communing on important matters—my Lord, this wench is
subject to fits—come with me, Bianca —oh! the Saints! no,
said Bianca —for certain it comes to warn your Highness;
why should it appear to me else? I say my 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 prophecy would be out one of these days — Bianca, said he, mark my words—thou ravest; said Manfred in a rage; be gone, and keep these
fooleries to frighten thy companions —what! my Lord, cried Bianca, do you think I have seen nothing? go to the foot of the Frederic. Can your Highness listen, said Manfred, to the delirium of a silly wench, who
has heard stories of apparitions until she believes them? This is more than fancy,
said the Marquis; her terror is too natural and too strongly impressed to be the
work of imagination. Tell us, fair maiden, what it is has moved thee thus. Yes, my
Lord, thank your Greatness; said Bianca —I believe I look
very pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself—I was going to my Lady
Isabella's chamber by his
Highness's order—we do want the circumstances; interrupted Manfred: Since his Highness will have it so,
proceed; but be brief. Lord! your Highness thwarts one so! replied Bianca —I fear my hair—I am sure I never in my life—well! as
I was telling your Greatness, I was going by his Highness's order to my Lady Isabella's chamber: She lies in the
watchet-coloured chamber, on the right-hand, one pair Manfred, will this wench never come to
the point? what imports it to the Marquis, that I gave thee a bawble for thy
faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know what thou sawest. I was going
to tell your Highness, said Bianca ; if you would permit
me.—So as I was rubbing the ring—I am sure I had not gone up three steps, but I
heard the rattling of armour; for all the world such a clatter, as Diego says he heard when the Giant turned him about in the
gallery-chamber —what does she mean, my Lord! said the Marquis; is your castle
haunted by giants and goblins? Lord! what, has not your Greatness heard the story
of the Giant in the gallery-chamber? cried Bianca. I marvel
his Highness has not told you—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 Frederic, these are no
trifles: The enormous sabre I was directed to in the wood, you casque, its fellow
—are these visions of this poor maiden's brain? —so Jaquez
thinks, may it please your Greatness: Said Bianca. He says
this moon will not be out without our seeing some strange revolution. For my part
I should not be 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 uppermost banister of the great
stairs a hand in armour as big, as big—I thought I should have swooned—I never
stopped until I came hither —would I were well out of this castle! My Lady Matilda told me but yester-morning that
her Highness Hippolita knows
something—Thou art an insolent! cried Manfred —Lord Marquis, it much misgives me that
this scene is concerted to affront me. Are my own domestics suborned to spread
tales injurious to my honour? Pursue Frederic: until this hour I never set eyes on this damsel: I
have given her no jewel!—my Lord, my Lord, your conscience, your guilt accuses
you, and would throw the suspicion on me— but keep your daughter, and think no
more of Isabella: The judgments
already fallen on your house forbid 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
absolutely recede from his engagements; but purposing to gain time, he demanded of
Manfred, if it was true in fact
that
Hippolita
consented to the divorce. The Prince, transported to find no other obstacle,
and depending on his influence over his wife, assured the Marquis it was so, and
that he might satisfy himself of the truth from her own mouth.
As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the banquet was prepared.
Manfred
conducted Frederic to the great hall, where they were
received by Hippolita and the young
Princesses. Manfred placed the Marquis
next to Matilda, and seated himself
between his wife and Isabella.
Hippolita comported herself with an easy gravity;
but the young Ladies were silent and melancholy. Manfred, who was determined to pursue his point
with the Marquis in the Frederic with repeated goblets of wine. The
latter, more upon his guard than Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, on
pretence of his late loss of blood; while the Prince, to raise his own disordered
spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged himself in plentiful draughts,
though not to the intoxication of his senses.
The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded. Manfred would have withdrawn with Frederic ; but the latter pleading weakness and want of
repose, retired to his chamber, galantly telling the Prince, that his daughter
should amuse his Highness until himself could attend him. Manfred accepted the party, and to the no small
grief of Isabella accompanied her to
her apartment. Matilda waited on her
mother to enjoy the freshness of the evening on the ramparts of the castle.
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 probably would find her. The
Marquis during the repast had beheld Matilda with increase of passion. He now wished
to find Hippolita in the disposition
her Lord had promised. The portents that had alarmed him, were forgotten in his
desires. Stealing softly and unobserved to the apartment of Hippolita, he entered it with a resolution to
encourage her acquiescence to the divorce, having perceived that Manfred was resolved to make the possession of
Isabella an unalterable condition,
before he would grant Matilda to his
wishes.
The Marquis was not surprized at the silence that reigned in the Princess's
apartment. Concluding her, as he had been advertized, in her oratory, he passed
on. The door was ajar;
Hippolita
— Hippolita! replied a hollow
voice? camest thou to this castle to seek Hippolita? — and then the figure, turning slowly
round, discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty
sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a hermit's cowl. Angels of grace, protect me!
cried Frederic recoiling. Deserve their protection! said
the Spectre. Frederic falling on his knees, adjured the
Phantom to take pity on him. Dost thou not remember me? said the apparition.
Remember
Joppa! Art thou that holy Hermit? cried Frederic
trembling—can I do ought for thy eternal peace?—Wast thou delivered from bondage,
said the spectre, to pursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre,
and the behest of Heaven engraven on it?—I have not, I have not; said Frederic —but say, blest spirit, what is thy errand to me?
what remains to be done? To forget Matilda! said the apparition—and vanished.
Frederic's blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he
remained motionless. Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he
besought the intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of tears succeeded to
this transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing in spite of him on his thoughts,
he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. E'er he could recover
from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with a taper in her hand entered the
oratory alone. Seeing a Frederic to himself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with
tears, he would have rushed from her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the most
plaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strange chance
she had found him there in that posture. Ah! virtuous Princess! said the Marquis,
penetrated with grief—and stopped. For the love of Heaven, my Lord, said Hippolita, disclose the cause of this
transport! what mean these doleful sounds, this alarming exclamation on my name?
What woes has heaven still in store for the wretched Hippolita? —yet silent!—by every pitying angel, I
adjure thee, noble Prince, continued she falling at his feet, to disclose the
purport of what lies at thy heart— I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest the
sharp pangs that thou inflictest—speak for pity!— does ought thou knowest concern
my child?— Frederic, bursting from her—Oh! Matilda!
Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own apartment. At the
door of it he was accosted by Manfred,
who flushed by wine and love had come to seek him, and to propose to waste some
hours of the night in music and revelling. Frederic,
offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood of his soul, pushed him
rudely aside, and entering his chamber, flung the door intemperately against Manfred, and bolted it inwards. The haughty Prince,
enraged at this unaccountable behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of
the most fatal excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met by the domestic whom
he had planted at the convent as a spy on Jerome and Theodore. This man, almost breathless with the haste he had
made, informed his Lord, that Theodore and some lady from
the castle were at that instant in private conference at the tomb of Alfonso in St. Nicholas's church. He
had dogged Theodore thither, but the gloominess of the night had
prevented his discovering who the woman was.
Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed,
and whom Isabella had driven from her
on his urging his passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but the
inquietude she had expressed, had been occasioned by her impatience to meet Theodore. Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her
father, he hastened secretly to the great church. Gliding softly between the
isles, and guided by an imperfect gleam of moonshine that shone saintly through
the illuminated windows, he stole towards the tomb of Alfonso,
to which he was directed by indistinct whispers of the persons he sought.
The first sounds he could distinguish were—Does it alas! depend on me? Manfred will never permit our union—No,
this shall prevent it! cried the tyrant, drawing his dagger, and plunging it over
her shoulder into the bosom of the person that spoke—ah! me, I am slain! Matilda sinking; good heaven, receive my soul!
Savage, inhuman monster! what hast thou done! cried Theodore, rushing on him, and wrenching his dagger from him—Stop, stop
thy impious hand! cried Matilda ; it
is my father! Manfred waking as from
a trance, beat his breast, twisted his hands in his locks, and endeavoured to
recover his dagger from Theodore to dispatch himself. Theodore scarce less distracted, and only mastering the
transports of his grief to assist Matilda, had now by his cries drawn some of the
monks to his aid. While part of them endeavoured in concert with the afflicted Theodore to stop the blood of the dying Princess, the rest
prevented Manfred from laying violent
hands on himself.
Matilda resigning herself patiently to
her fate, acknowledged with looks of grateful love the zeal of Theodore. Yet oft as her faintness would permit her speech its way, she
begged the assistants to comfort her father. Jerome by this
time had learnt the fatal news, and reached the Theodore: but turning to Manfred, he said, now, tyrant! behold the
completion of woe fulfilled on thy impious and devoted head! The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven for vengeance; and heaven has
permitted its altar to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest shed thy
own blood at the foot of that Prince's sepulchre!—Cruel man! cried Matilda, to aggravate the woes of a
parent! may heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My Lord, my gracious
Sire, dost thou forgive thy child? indeed I came not hither to meet Theodore: I found him praying at this tomb, whither my
mother sent me to intercede for thee, for her—dearest father, bless your child,
and say you forgive her—forgive thee! murderous monster! cried Manfred —can assassins forgive? I took thee for
Isabella ; but heaven directed my
bloody hand to the heart of my child!—oh! Matilda —I cannot utter it—canst thou forgive the
blindness of my rage! I can, I do! and may heaven confirm it! said Matilda —but
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 conveyed her thither as
she requested. Theodore supporting her head with his arm,
and hanging over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire
her with hopes of life. Je rome on the other side
comforted her with discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which
she bathed with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality.
Manfred
plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in despair.
E'er they reached the castle, Hippolita, in formed of the dreadful catastrophe,
had flown to meet her murdered child: but when she saw Isabella and
Frederic, 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 approached, unable to speak.
Matilda seizing his hand and her
mother's, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of
pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he was born.
Isabella, apprehensive that these
struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order
Manfred
to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the nearest chamber.
Hippolita, scarce more alive than
her daughter, was regardless of every thing but her: but when the tender Isabella's care would have Matilda's wound, she cried, remove
me! never! never! I lived but in her, and will expire with her. Matilda raised her eyes at her mother's voice,
but closed them again without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp cold ness
of her hand soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore
followed the surgeons into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal
sentence with a transport equal to frenzy— Since she cannot live mine, cried he,
at least she shall be mine in death!—Father! Jerome! will
you not join our hands? cried he to the Friar, who with the Marquis had
accompanied the surgeons. What means thy distracted rashness? said Jerome ; is this an hour for marriage! It is, it is, cried
Theodore, alas! there is no other! Young man, thou art
too unadvised: said Frederic: dost thou think we are to
listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? what pretensions hast thou to
the Princess? Those of a Prince; said Theodore ; of the
sovereign of Otranto.
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 Theodore. Father, come and unite me to
the Princess; she shall be mine—in every other thing I will dutifully obey you. My
life! my adored Matilda! continued Theodore, rushing back into the inner chamber, will you not
be mine? will you not bless your— Isabella made signs to him to be silent,
apprehending the Princess was near her end. What is she dead? cried Theodore ; is it possible? The violence of his exclamations
brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up
her eyes, Hippolita ; think not I will quit thee! Oh! you
are too good; said Matilda —but weep
not for me, my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells— Isabella, thou hast loved me; wot thou not supply
my fondness to this dear, dear woman?—indeed I am faint! Oh! my child! my child!
said
Hippolita
in a flood of tears, can I not withhold thee a moment!—It will not be; said
Matilda —commend me to heaven—where
is my father? forgive him, dearest mother—forgive him my death; it was an
error—Oh! I had forgotten— dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore more—perhaps that has drawn down this calamity— but it was not
intentional—can you pardon me?—Oh! wound not my agonizing soul! said Hippolita ; thou never couldst offend
me—alas I she faints! help! help!—I would say something more, said Matilda struggling, but it wonnot be—
Isabella — Theodore —for my sake—Oh!—she expired. Isabella and her women Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from
it. He printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every
expression that despairing love could dictate.
Isabella, in the mean time, was
accompanying the afflicted Hippolita
to her apartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred, who, distracted with his own
thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter, was advancing to the
chamber where she lay. As the moon was now at its height, he read in the
countenances of this unhappy company the event he dreaded. What! is she dead!
cried he in wild confusion—a clap of thunder at that instant shook the castle to
its foundations; the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal armour was
heard behind. Frederic and Jerome
thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle behind Manfred were Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared in the center of the ruins. Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso! said the
vision: And having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it
ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the form of
St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso's shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of
glory.
The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine will. The
first that broke silence was Hippolita. My Lord, said she to the desponding Manfred, behold the vanity of human
greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! in Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so, I know not—suffice it to us, our doom
is pronounced! shall we not, can we but dedicate the few deplorable hours we have
to live, in deprecating the farther wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us —whither can
we fly, but to yon holy cells Manfred, my heart at last is
open to thy devout admonitions. Oh! could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in
wonder—let me at last do justice on myself! To heap shame on my own head is all
the satisfaction I have left to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down
these judgments: Let my confession atone —but ah! what can atone for usurpation
and a murdered child! a child murdered in a consecrated place!—List, Sirs, and may
this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!
Alfonso, ye all know, died in the holy land —ye would
interrupt me; ye would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true— why else
this bitter cup which Manfred must
drink to the dregs? Ricardo, my grandfather, was his
chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor's crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A
storm overtook him. Haunted by his guilt, he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saint appeared to
him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo's posterity
should reign in Otranto, until the rightful owner should be
grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue-male from Ricardo's loins should remain to enjoy it—Alas! alas! nor
male nor female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race!—I have done—the
woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be Alfonso's heir, I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are
these dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had
an heir—I question not the will of heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the
woeful space, until Manfred shall be
summoned to Ricardo.
What remains, is my part to declare, said Jerome. When Alfonso set sail for the holy land,
Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordship must have
heard, was separated from him. It is most true, said
Manfred
; and the title you give me is more than an outcast can claim—well! be it
so—proceed. Jerome blushed, and continued. For three months
Lord Alfonso was wind bound in
Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden
pleasures. They were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow
of arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials, until his
return from the Crusado, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his
lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence she was delivered of a
daughter: But scarce had she felt a mother's pangs, ere she heard the fatal rumour
of her Lord's death, and the succession of Ricardo. What
could a friendless, helpless woman do? would her testimony avail?—yet, Manfred ; the horrors of these
days, the vision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a
thousand parchments. Matilda 's death
and my expulsion— Be composed, my Lord, said Hippolita ; this holy man did not mean to 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.
The Friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of the
castle. In the morning Manfred signed
his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of
religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his
daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita's tenderness for Isabella concurred to Theodore's
grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love; and it was not until
after frequent discourses with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded he could know no
happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the
melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.