CHAPTER XLIX

THE CONCLUSION, IN WHICH NOTHING IS CONCLUDED

It was now the time of the inundation of the Nile: a few days after

their visit to the Catacombs, the river began to rise.

They were confined to their house. The whole region being under water

gave them no invitation to any excursions, and being well supplied with

material for talk, they diverted themselves with comparisons of the

different forms of life which they had observed, and with various

schemes of happiness which each of them had formed.

Pekuah was never so much charmed with any place as the convent of St.

Anthony, where the Arab restored her to the princess, and wished only to

fill it with pious maidens, and to be made prioress of the order; she

was weary of expectation and disgust, and would gladly be fixed in some

unvariable state.

The princess thought, that of all sublunary things knowledge was the

best: she desired first to learn all sciences, and then proposed to

found a college of learned women, in which she would preside, that, by

conversing with the old, and educating the young, she might divide her

time between the acquisition and communication of wisdom, and raise up

for the next age models of prudence, and patterns of piety.

The prince desired a little kingdom, in which he might administer

justice in his own person, and see all the parts of government with his

own eyes; but he could never fix the limits of his dominion, and was

always adding to the number of his subjects.

Imlac and the astronomer were contented to be driven along the stream of

life, without directing their course to any particular port.

Of these wishes that they had formed they well knew that none could be

obtained. They deliberated awhile what was to be done, and resolved,

when the inundation should cease, to return to Abyssinia.

THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO:

A GOTHIC STORY

BY

HORACE WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD

HORACE WALPOLE

Horace Walpole, the fourth son of Sir Robert Walpole, was born at 17

Arlington Street on 24 September, 1717. He spent the greater part of his

boyhood at his father's house in Chelsea, a building that is now part of

the Hospital. At Eton, Walpole did not distinguish himself in any way.

After leaving Cambridge in 1737, his father appointed him Inspector of

Imports and Exports in the Customs House, and, in the following year,

Usher to the Exchequer. In 1739 he began the usual "grand tour" on the

Continent, where he developed a passion for antiquities. He returned to

England at the end of 1741. His father died in March 1745, and in 1747

Walpole settled in the neighbourhood of Twickenham at Strawberry Hill.

The transforming of this house into "a little Gothic castle" and museum

was the chief occupation of the greater part of his life. Here he

erected a private printing press on which he printed many of his own

works as well as some poems of Gray. Although never really interested in

politics, in 1754 Walpole entered Parliament as member for Castle Rising

in Norfolk, vacating this seat three years later for that of Lynn. About

this time, too, he made an unsuccessful attempt to save the unfortunate

Admiral Byng. He went to Paris in 1765, where he formed a friendship

with Madame du Deffand which lasted until her death in 1780. But from

1769 until his death, his life, apart from intermittent literary work

and adding to his museum, was comparatively uneventful. In 1773,

however, his comedy _Nature Will Prevail_ was acted at the Haymarket

with considerable success. In 1791, on the death of his brother, he

acceded to the Earldom of Orford. He died at what was then 40 Berkeley

Square on 2 March, 1797.

Among his books printed at Strawberry Hill are: _A Letter from Xo Ho, a

Chinese Philosopher at London, to his friend Lien Chi, at Peking_, 1757.

_A Catalogue of the Royal and Noble Authors of England_, 2 vols., 1758.

_Fugitive Pieces in Verse and Prose_, 1758. _Anecdotes of Painting in

England_, 4 vols., 1762. _The Castle of Otranto_, 1764. _The Mysterious

Mother, a Tragedy_, 1768. _A Description and Inventory of the Villa of

Horace Walpole_, 1774. _Hieroglyphic Tales_, 1784. _Essay on Modern

Gardening_, 1785. _Memoirs of the Last Ten Years of George II._ _Memoirs

of the Reign of George III._ See also his _Letters_.

PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic

family in the north of England. It was printed at Naples, in the black

letter, in the year 1529. How much sooner it was written does not

appear. The principal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest

ages of Christianity; but the language and conduct have nothing that

savours of barbarism. The style is of the purest Italian. If the story

was written near the time when it is supposed to have happened, it must

have been between 1095, the era of the first crusade, and 1243, the date

of the last, or not long afterwards. There is no other circumstance in

the work that can lead us to guess at the period in which the scene is

laid; the names of the actors are evidently fictitious, and probably

disguised on purpose; yet the Spanish names of the domestics seem to

indicate, that this work was not composed until the establishment of the

Arragonian kings in Naples had made Spanish appellations familiar in

that country. The beauty of the diction, and the zeal of the author

(moderated, however, by singular judgment), concur to make me think that

the date of the composition was little antecedent to that of the

impression. Letters were then in the most flourishing state in Italy,

and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at that time so

forcibly attacked by the reformers. It is not unlikely that an artful

priest might endeavour to turn their own arms on the innovators; and

might avail himself of his abilities as an author to confirm the

populace in their ancient errors and superstitions. If this was his

view, he has certainly acted with signal address. Such a work as the

following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the books of

controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to the

present hour.

This solution of the author's motives is, however, offered as a mere

conjecture. Whatever his views were, or whatever effects the execution

of them might have, his work can only be laid before the public at

present as a matter of entertainment. Even as such some apology for it

is necessary. Miracles, visions, necromancies, dreams, and other

preternatural events, are exploded now even from romances. That was not

the case when our author wrote; much less when the story itself is

supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigy was so

established in those dark ages, that an author would not be faithful to

the manners of the times who should omit all mention of them. He is not

bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as

believing them.

If this air of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing

else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts, and

all the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their

situation. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or

unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe.

Never is the reader's attention relaxed. The rules of the drama are

almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The characters are

well drawn, and still better maintained. Terror, the author's principal

engine, prevents the story from ever languishing; and it is so often

contrasted by pity, that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude

of interesting passions.

Some persons may, perhaps, think the characters of the domestics too

little serious for the general cast of the story; but, besides their

opposition to the principal personages, the art of the author is very

observable in his conduct of the subalterns. They discover many passages

essential to the story, which could not be well brought to light but by

their _naïveté_ and simplicity: in particular, the womanish terror and

foibles of Bianca, in the last chapter, conduce essentially towards

advancing the catastrophe.

It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favour of his adopted

work. More impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties

of this piece as I was. Yet I am not blind to my author's defects. I

could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this;

that _the sins of the fathers are visited on their children to the third

and fourth generation_. I doubt whether, in his time, any more than at

present, ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so

remote a punishment. And yet this moral is weakened by that less direct

insinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St.

Nicholas. Here the interest of the monk plainly gets the better of the

judgment of the author. However, with all its faults, I have no doubt

but the English reader will be pleased with a sight of this performance.

The piety that reigns throughout, the lessons of virtue that are

inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work

from the censure to which romances are but too liable. Should it meet

with the success I hope for, I may be encouraged to reprint the original

Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labour. Our language

falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and

harmony. The latter is peculiarly excellent for simple narrative. It is

difficult in English _to relate_ without falling too low or rising too

high; a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak

pure language in common conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman, of any

rank, piques himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with

choice. I cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my author in

this respect: his style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions is

masterly. It is pity that he did not apply his talents to what they were

evidently proper for--the theatre.

I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though

the machinery is invention, and the names of the actors imaginary, I

cannot but believe that the groundwork of the story is founded on truth.

The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems

frequently, without design, to describe particular parts. _The chamber_,

says he, _on the right hand; the door on the left hand; the distance

from the chapel to Conrad's apartment_: these, and other passages, are

strong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his

eye. Curious persons, who have leisure to employ in such researches, may

possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundation on which our

author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he

describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will

contribute to interest the reader, and will make THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO a

still more moving story.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

The favourable manner in which this little piece has been received by

the public calls upon the author to explain the grounds on which he

composed it. But before he opens those motives, it is fit that he should

ask pardon of his readers for having offered his work to them under the

borrowed personage of a translator. As diffidence of his own abilities,

and the novelty of the attempt, were the sole inducements to assume that

disguise, he flatters himself he shall appear excusable. He resigned his

performance to the impartial judgment of the public; determined to let

it perish in obscurity, if disapproved; nor meaning to avow such a

trifle, unless better judges should pronounce that he might own it

without a blush.

It was an attempt to blend the two kinds of romance: the ancient and the

modern. In the former, all was imagination and improbability; in the

latter, nature is always intended to be, and sometimes has been, copied

with success. Invention has not been wanting; but the great resources of

fancy have been dammed up, by a strict adherence to common life. But if

in the latter species nature has cramped imagination, she did but take

her revenge, having been totally excluded from old romances. The

actions, sentiments, conversations, of the heroes and heroines of

ancient days, were as unnatural as the machines employed to put them in

motion.

The author of the following pages thought it possible to reconcile the

two kinds. Desirous of leaving the powers of fancy at liberty to

expatiate through the boundless realms of invention, and thence of

creating more interesting situations, he wished to conduct the mortal

agents in his drama according to the rules of probability; in short, to

make them think, speak, and act, as it might be supposed mere men and

women would do in extraordinary positions. He had observed, that in all

inspired writings, the personages under the dispensation of miracles,

and witnesses to the most stupendous phenomena, never lose sight of

their human character; whereas, in the productions of romantic story, an

improbable event never fails to be attended by an absurd dialogue. The

actors seem to lose their senses, the moment the laws of nature have

lost their tone. As the public have applauded the attempt, the author

must not say he was entirely unequal to the task he had undertaken; yet

if the new route he has struck out shall have paved a road for men of

brighter talents, he shall own with pleasure and modesty, that he was

sensible the plan was capable of receiving greater embellishments than

his imagination or conduct of the passions could bestow on it.

With regard to the deportment of the domestics, on which I have touched

in the former preface, I will beg leave to add a few words. The

simplicity of their behaviour, almost tending to excite smiles, which at

first seems not consonant to the serious cast of the work, appeared to

me not only not improper, but was marked designedly in that manner. My

rule was nature. However grave, important, or even melancholy, the

sensations of princes and heroes may be, they do not stamp the same

affections on their domestics; at least the latter do not, or should not

be made to express their passions in the same dignified tone. In my

humble opinion, the contrast between the sublime of the one and the

_naïveté_ of the other, sets the pathetic of the former in a stronger

light. The very impatience which a reader feels while delayed by the

coarse pleasantries of vulgar actors from arriving at the knowledge of

the important catastrophe he expects, perhaps heightens, certainly

proves, that he has been artfully interested in the depending event. But

I had higher authority than my own opinion for this conduct. That great

master of nature, Shakespeare, was the model I copied. Let me ask if his

tragedies of _Hamlet_ and _Julius Cæsar_ would not lose a considerable

share of their spirit and wonderful beauties, if the humour of the

grave-diggers, the fooleries of Polonius, and the clumsy jests of the

Roman citizens, were omitted, or vested in heroics? Is not the eloquence

of Antony, the nobler and affectingly unaffected oration of Brutus,

artificially exalted by the rude outbursts of nature from the mouths of

their auditors? These touches remind one of the Grecian sculptor, who,

to convey the idea of a Colossus within the dimensions of a seal,

inserted a little boy measuring his thumb.

No, says Voltaire, in his edition of Corneille, this mixture of

buffoonery and solemnity is intolerable.--Voltaire is a genius--but not

of Shakespeare's magnitude. Without recurring to disputable authority, I

appeal from Voltaire to himself. I shall not avail myself of his former

encomiums on our mighty poet, though the French critic has twice

translated the same speech in _Hamlet_, some years ago in admiration,

latterly in derision; and I am sorry to find that his judgment grows

weaker when it ought to be farther matured. But I shall make use of his

own words, delivered on the general topic of the theatre, when he was

neither thinking to recommend or decry Shakespeare's practice;

consequently at a moment when Voltaire was impartial. In the preface to

his _Enfant Prodigue_, that exquisite piece, of which I declare my

admiration, and which, should I live twenty years longer, I trust I

shall never attempt to ridicule, he has these words, speaking of comedy

(but equally applicable to tragedy, if tragedy is, as surely it ought to

be, a picture of human life; nor can I conceive why occasional

pleasantry ought more to be banished from the tragic scene, than

pathetic seriousness from the comic): "_On y voit un melange de serieux

et de plaisanterie, de comique et de touchant; |souvent meme une seule

avanture| produit tous ces contrastes. Rien n'est si commun qu'une

maison dans laquelle |un pere gronde|, |une fille occupée de sa passion

pleure|; le fils se moque des deux, et quelques parens prennent

part differemment à la scene, etc. Nous n'inferons pas de là que toute

comedie doive avoir des scenes de bouffonerie et des scenes

attendrissantes: il y a beaucoup de tres bonnes pièces où il ne regne

que de la gayeté; d'autres toutes serieuses; d'autres melangées:

d'autres où l'attendrissement va jusqu'aux larmes: |il ne faut donner

l'exclusion à aucun genre|: et si l'on me demandoit quel genre est le

meilleur, je repondrois, celui qui est le mieux traité._" Surely if a

comedy may be _toute serieuse_, tragedy may now and then, soberly, be

indulged in a smile. Who shall proscribe it? shall the critic, who, in

self-defence, declares that _no kind_ ought to be excluded from comedy,

give laws to Shakespeare?

I am aware that the preface from whence I have quoted these passages

does not stand in Monsieur de Voltaire's name, but in that of his

editor; yet who doubts that the editor and author were the same person?

or where is the editor who has so happily possessed himself of his

author's style and brilliant ease of argument? These passages were

indubitably the genuine sentiments of that great writer. In his epistle

to Maffei, prefixed to his _Merope_, he delivers almost the same

opinion, though I doubt with a little irony. I will repeat his words,

and then give my reason for quoting them. After translating a passage in

Maffei's _Merope_, Monsieur de Voltaire adds, "_Tous ces traits sont

naïfs: tout y est convenable à ceux que vous introduisez sur la scene,

|et aux moeurs que vous leur donnez|. Ces familiarités naturelles

eussent été, à ce que je crois, bien reçues dans Athenes; mais Paris et

notre parterre veulent une autre espece de simplicité._" I doubt, I say,

whether there is not a grain of sneer in this and other passages of that

epistle; yet the force of truth is not damaged by being tinged with

ridicule. Maffei was to represent a Grecian story: surely the Athenians

were as competent judges of Grecian manners and of the propriety of

introducing them, as the parterre of Paris. On the contrary, says

Voltaire (and I cannot but admire his reasoning), there were but ten

thousand citizens at Athens, and Paris has near eight hundred thousand

inhabitants, among whom one may reckon thirty thousand judges of

dramatic works.--Indeed! but, allowing so numerous a tribunal, I believe

this is the only instance in which it was ever pretended, that thirty

thousand persons, living near two thousand years after the era in

question, were, upon the mere face of the poll, declared better judges

than the Grecians themselves of what ought to be the manners of a

tragedy written on a Grecian story.

I will not enter into a discussion of the _espece de simplicité_, which

the parterre of Paris demands, nor of the shackles with which _the

thirty thousand judges_ have cramped their poetry, the chief merit of

which, as I gather from repeated passages in _The New Commentary on

Corneille_, consists in vaulting in spite of those fetters; a merit

which, if true, would reduce poetry, from the lofty effort of

imagination, to a puerile and most contemptible labour--_difficiles

nugæ_ with a witness! I cannot, however, help mentioning a couplet,

which, to my English ears, always sounded as the flattest and most

trifling instance of circumstantial propriety: but which Voltaire, who

has dealt so severely with nine parts in ten of Corneille's works, has

singled out to defend in Racine:

De son appartement cette porte est prochaine,

Et cette autre conduit dans celui de la reine.

In English:

To Cæsar's closet through this door you come,

And t'other leads to the queen's drawing-room.

Unhappy Shakespeare! hadst thou made Rosencrantz inform his compeer,

Guildenstern, of the ichnography of the palace of Copenhagen, instead of

presenting us with a moral dialogue between the Prince of Denmark and

the grave-digger, the illuminated pit of Paris would have been

instructed _a second time_ to adore thy talents.

The result of all I have said is, to shelter my own daring under the

canon of the brightest genius this country, at least, has produced. I

might have pleaded, that having created a new species of romance, I was

at liberty to lay down what rules I thought fit for the conduct of it:

but I should be more proud of having imitated, however faintly, weakly,

and at a distance, so masterly a pattern, than to enjoy the entire merit

of invention, unless I could have marked my work with genius as well as

with originality. Such as it is, the public have honoured it

sufficiently, whatever rank their suffrages allot to it.

SONNET

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

LADY MARY COKE

The gentle maid, whose hapless tale

These melancholy pages speak

Say, gracious lady, shall she fail

To draw the tear adown thy cheek?

No; never was thy pitying breast

Insensible to human woes;

Tender, though firm, it melts distrest

For weaknesses it never knows.

Oh! guard the marvels I relate

Of fell ambition scourg'd by fate,

From reason's peevish blame.

Blest with thy smile, my dauntless sail

I dare expand to fancy's gale.

For sure thy smiles are fame.

H. W.

CHAPTER I

Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a

most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the

son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no

promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never

showed any symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a

marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza's daughter, Isabella;

and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of

Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad's infirm

state of health would permit. Manfred's impatience for this ceremonial

was remarked by his family and neighbours. The former, indeed,

apprehending the severity of their prince's disposition, did not dare to

utter their surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an

amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying

their only son so early, considering his great youth, and greater

infirmities; but she never received any other answer than reflections on

her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants and

subjects were less cautious in their discourses: they attributed this

hasty wedding to the prince's dread of seeing accomplished an ancient

prophecy, which was said to have pronounced, that _the castle and

lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family, whenever the

real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it_. It was difficult to

make any sense of this prophecy; and still less easy to conceive what it

had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries, or

contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to their

opinion.

Young Conrad's birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was

assembled in the chapel of the castle, and everything ready for

beginning the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred,

impatient of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire,

dispatched one of his attendants to summon the young prince. The

servant, who had not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to

Conrad's apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner,

his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but pointed

to the court. The company were struck with terror and amazement. The

Princess Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for

her son, swooned away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the

procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked

imperiously what was the matter? The fellow made no answer, but

continued pointing towards the 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 stayed for the

same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom,

for whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.

The first thing that struck Manfred's eyes was a group of his servants

endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable

plumes. He gazed without believing his sight. "What are ye doing?" cried

Manfred, wrathfully. "Where is my son?"

A volley of voices replied, "Oh! my lord! the prince! the prince! the

helmet! the helmet!"

Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he

advanced hastily--but, what a sight for a father's eyes!--he beheld his

child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, a

hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, and

shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this

misfortune had happened, and, above all, the tremendous phenomenon

before him, took away the prince's speech. Yet his silence lasted longer

than even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in

vain to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than

buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He

touched, he examined, the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding,

mangled remains of the young prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the

portent before him. All who had known his partial fondness for young

Conrad were as much surprised at their prince's insensibility, as

thunderstruck themselves at the miracle of the helmet. They conveyed

the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least

direction from Manfred. As little was he attentive to the ladies who

remained in the chapel; on the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy

princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from

Manfred's lips were, "Take care of the Lady Isabella."

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were

guided by their affection to their mistress to consider it as peculiarly

addressed to her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed

her to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the

strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son. Matilda,

who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and

thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent.

Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who

returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less

assiduous about the princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake

and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to

suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship.

Yet her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts.

She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration;

and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised

her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the

severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great

indulgence, had impressed her mind with terror, from his causeless

rigour to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred

remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of

the crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around

him. The few words he articulated tended solely to inquiries, whether

any man knew from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him the

least information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his

curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose

conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the catastrophe itself was

unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant,

whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed,

that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black

marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church

of St. Nicholas.

"Villain! what sayest thou?" cried Manfred, starting from his trance in

a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; "how darest

thou utter such treason? thy life shall pay for it."

The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the prince's

fury as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new

circumstance. The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not

conceiving how he had offended the prince; yet, recollecting himself,

with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from

Manfred's 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 poniarded the peasant in their arms.

During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the

great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed,

declaring that the helmet was missing from Alfonso's statue. Manfred, at

this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on

which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young

peasant, crying, "Villain! monster! sorcerer! 'tis thou hast done this!

'tis thou hast slain my son!"

The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on

whom they might discharge their bewildered reasonings, caught the words

from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed, "Ay, ay; 'tis he, 'tis he!

he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso's tomb, and dashed out the

brains of our young prince with it," never reflecting how enormous the

disproportion was between the marble helmet that had been in the church,

and that of steel before their eyes; nor how impossible it was for a

youth, seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of armour of so prodigious

a weight.

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet, whether

provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two

helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that

in the church, or wishing to bury any fresh rumour under so impertinent

a supposition, he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a

necromancer; and that till the Church could take cognizance of the

affair, he would have the magician, whom they had thus detected, kept

prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attendants to

raise, and place the young man under it; declaring he should be kept

there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him.

It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous

sentence: in vain did Manfred's friends endeavour to divert him from

this savage and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed

with their lord's decision, which to their apprehensions carried great

appearance of justice, as the magician was to be punished by the very

instrument with which he had offended; nor were they struck with the

least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for

they firmly believed that, by his diabolical skill, he could easily

supply himself with nutriment.

Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a

guard, with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the

prisoner, he dismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his

own chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered

none but his domestics to remain.

In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young ladies had brought the

Princess Hippolita to herself, who, amidst the transports of her own

sorrow, frequently demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her

attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her,

and visit and comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted not affectionate

duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders

of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring

of the domestics of her father, was informed that he was retired to his

chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him.

Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother,

and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child,

she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction: yet

solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother, encouraged her

to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had never

been guilty of before. The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause

for some minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his chamber

backwards and forwards with disordered steps; a mood which increased her

apprehensions. She was however just going to beg admittance, when

Manfred suddenly opened the door; and as it was now twilight,

concurring with the disorder of his mind, he did not distinguish the

person, but asked angrily, who it was? Matilda replied, trembling, "My

dearest father, it is I, your daughter."

Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, "Begone, I do not want a

daughter"; and, flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the

terrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with her father's impetuosity to venture a

second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter

a reception, she wiped away her tears, to prevent the additional stab

that the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in

the most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his

loss. Matilda assured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with

manly fortitude.

"But will he not let me see him?" said Hippolita, mournfully; "will he

not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother's sorrows in

the bosom of her lord? Or do you deceive me, Matilda? I know how Manfred

doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? has he not sunk

under it? You do not answer me:--alas! I dread the worst!--raise me, my

maidens; I will, I will see my lord. Bear me to him instantly. He is

dearer to me even than my children."

Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita's rising; and both

those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and

calm the princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived, and

told Isabella that his lord demanded to speak with her.

"With me!" cried Isabella.

"Go," said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her lord: "Manfred

cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less

disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him,

dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than

add to his."

As it was now evening, the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch

before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about

the gallery, he started, and said hastily:

"Take away that light, and begone." Then shutting the door impetuously,

he flung himself upon a bench against the wall, and bade Isabella sit by

him. She obeyed trembling.

"I sent for you, lady," said he, and then stopped, under great

appearance of confusion.

"My lord!"

"Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment," resumed he: "dry your

tears, young lady:--you have lost your bridegroom. Yes, cruel fate! and

I have lost the hopes of my race! but Conrad was not worthy of your

beauty."

"How! my lord," said Isabella; "sure you do not suspect me of not

feeling the concern I ought! my duty and affection would have

always----"

"Think no more of him," interrupted Manfred: "he was a sickly, puny

child; and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not trust the

honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls

for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes

of my prudence--but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to

have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad."

Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she

apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred's understanding. Her next

thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare

her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son;

and in consequence of that idea she replied:

"Good my lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have

accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and

wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory,

and regard your highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents."

"Curse on Hippolita!" cried Manfred: "forget her from this moment, as I

do. In short, lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your

charms: they shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy,

you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to

value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring."

"Alas! my lord," said Isabella, "my mind is too sadly engrossed by the

recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever

my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did

when I consented to give my hand to your son; but, until his return,

permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the

melancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita's, and the fair Matilda's

affliction."

"I desired you once before," said Manfred, angrily, "not to name that

woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to

me:--in short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you

myself."

"Heavens!" cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, "what do I hear?

You, my lord! You! my father-in-law, the father of Conrad! the husband

of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!"

"I tell you," said Manfred imperiously, "Hippolita is no longer my wife;

I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her

unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust

will give a new date to my hopes."

At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead

with fright and horror. She shrieked and started from him. Manfred rose

to pursue her, when the moon, which was now up and gleamed in at the

opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal

helmet, which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and

forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and

rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and

who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred's pursuit of his declaration,

cried:

"Look, my lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impious

intentions!"

"Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs," said Manfred, advancing again

to seize the princess. At that instant the portrait of his grandfather,

which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep

sigh, and heaved its breast. Isabella, whose back was turned to the

picture, saw not the motion, nor whence the sound came but started, and

said:

"Hark, my lord! what sound was that?" and at the same time made towards

the door. Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had

now reached the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the

picture, which began to move, had, however, advanced some steps after

her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its

panel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air.

"Do I dream?" cried Manfred, returning; "or are the devils themselves in

league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! or, if thou art my

grandsire, why dost thou, too, conspire against thy wretched descendant,

who too dearly pays for----" Ere he could finish the sentence, the

vision sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.

"Lead on!" cried Manfred: "I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition."

The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery,

and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at

a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he

would have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by

an invisible hand. The prince, collecting courage from this delay, would

have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it

resisted his utmost efforts.

"Since hell will not satisfy my curiosity," said Manfred, "I will use

the human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not

escape me."

That lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had

quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal

staircase. There she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps,

nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the prince. The gates of the

castle she knew were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should she,

as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel

destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her

there, and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he

meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his

passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he

had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she could,

for that night at least, avoid his odious purpose. Yet where conceal

herself? how avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout the

castle? As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she

recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the

castle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before

she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred's violence would not dare to

profane the sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other

means of deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy

virgins, whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In this

resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase,

and hurried towards the secret passage.

The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate

cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the

door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout

those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind

that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty

hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every

murmur struck her with new terror;--yet more she dreaded to hear the

wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her. She trod

as softly as impatience would give her leave,--yet frequently stopped,

and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she

thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a

moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled:

she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror could inspire

rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash flight, which had thus

exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to

draw anybody to her assistance. Yet the sound seemed not to come from

behind: if Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her: she

was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had heard were too

distinct to proceed from the way she had come. Cheered with this

reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not the prince,

she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at some distance

to the left, was opened gently; but ere her lamp, which she held up,

could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on

seeing the light.

Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated

whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every

other terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her, gave her

a sort of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic

belonging to the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy,

and conscious innocence made her hope that, unless sent by the prince's

order to seek her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her

flight. Fortifying herself with these reflections, and believing, by

what she could observe, that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous

cavern, she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust

of wind, that met her at the door, extinguished her lamp, and left her

in total darkness.

Words cannot paint the horror of the princess's situation. Alone, in so

dismal a place, her mind impressed with all the terrible events of the

day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of

Manfred, and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of

somebody, she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed

thereabouts; all these thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she

was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She addressed herself to

every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance. For a

considerable time she remained in an agony of despair. At last, as

softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having found it,

entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the sigh and

steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray

of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to

be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or building, she

could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been crushed inwards.

She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form

standing close against the wall.

She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The

figure, advancing, said in a submissive voice, "Be not alarmed, lady, I

will not injure you."

Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the

stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened

the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply, "Sir, whoever you are,

take pity on a wretched princess, standing on the brink of destruction:

assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or, in a few moments, I may

be made miserable for ever."

"Alas!" said the stranger, "what can I do to assist you? I will die in

your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, and want----"

"Oh!" said Isabella, hastily interrupting him, "help me but to find a

trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can

do me, for I have not a minute to lose." Saying these words, she felt

about on the pavement, and directed the stranger to search likewise, for

a smooth piece of brass enclosed in one of the stones. "That," said she,

"is the lock which opens with a spring, of which I know the secret. If

we can find that, I may escape; if not, alas! courteous stranger, I fear

I shall have involved you in my misfortunes. Manfred will suspect you

for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his

resentment."

"I value not my life," said the stranger; "and it will be some comfort

to lose it, in trying to deliver you from his tyranny."

"Generous youth!" said Isabella, "how shall I ever requite----"

As she uttered these words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a

cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought.--"Oh!

transport!" said Isabella, "here is the trap-door"; and, taking out the

key, she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered an iron

ring. "Lift up the door," said the princess. The stranger obeyed; and

beneath appeared some stone steps descending into a vault totally dark.

"We must go down here," said Isabella: "follow me; dark and dismal as

it is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St.

Nicholas--but, perhaps," added the princess, modestly, "you have no

reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your

service; in a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred's rage--only let

me know to whom I am so much obliged."

"I will never quit you," said the stranger eagerly, "until I have placed

you in safety--nor think me, princess, more generous than I am; though

you are my principal care----"

The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed

approaching, and they soon distinguished these words: "Talk not to me of

necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I will find her in

spite of enchantment."

"Oh, heavens!" cried Isabella, "it is the voice of Manfred; make haste,

or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you." Saying this, she

descended the steps precipitately; and as the stranger hastened to

follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell, and the

spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having observed

Isabella's method of touching the spring; nor had he many moments to

make an essay. The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred,

who, directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants

with torches.

"It must be Isabella," cried Manfred, before he entered the vault: "she

is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far."

What was the astonishment of the prince, when, instead of Isabella, the

light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant, whom he

thought confined under the fatal helmet. "Traitor!" said Manfred, "how

camest thou here? I thought thee in durance above in the court."

"I am no traitor," replied the young man boldly, "nor am I answerable

for your thoughts."

"Presumptuous villain!" cried Manfred, "dost thou provoke my wrath? Tell

me; how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy guards,

and their lives shall answer it."

"My poverty," said the peasant calmly, "will disculpate them: though the

ministers of a tyrant's wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too

willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed upon them."

"Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?" said the prince; "but

tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will know thy

accomplices."

"There was my accomplice!" said the youth, smiling and pointing to the

roof.

Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of

the cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way through the

pavement of the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant,

and had broken through into the vault, leaving a gap through which the

peasant had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by

Isabella. "Was that the way by which thou didst descend?" said Manfred.

"It was," said the youth.

"But what noise was that," said Manfred, "which I heard, as I entered

the cloister?"

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

"What door?" said Manfred hastily.

"I am not acquainted with your castle," said the peasant: "this is the

first time I ever entered it; and this vault the only part of it within

which I ever was."

"But I tell thee," said Manfred, wishing to find out if the youth had

discovered the trap-door, "it was this way I heard the noise; my

servants heard it too."

"My lord," interrupted one of them officiously, "to be sure it was the

trap-door, and he was going to make his escape."

"Peace! blockhead," said the prince angrily; "if he was going to escape,

how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what

noise it was I heard. Tell me truly, thy life depends on thy veracity."

"My veracity is dearer to me than my life," said the peasant; "nor would

I purchase the one by forfeiting the other."

"Indeed, young philosopher!" said Manfred, contemptuously; "tell me,

then, what was that noise I heard?"

"Ask me, what I can answer," said he, "and put me to death instantly, if

I tell you a lie."

Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the

youth, cried, "Well, then, thou man of truth! answer; was it the fall of

the trap-door that I heard?"

"It was," said the youth.

"It was!" said the prince; "and how didst thou come to know there was a

trap-door here?"

"I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine," replied he.

"But what told thee it was a lock?" said Manfred; "how didst thou

discover the secret of opening it?"

"Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me to

the spring of a lock," said he.

"Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out

of the reach of my resentment," said Manfred: "when Providence had

taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who did not

know how to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path

pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before

thou hadst descended the steps?"

"I might ask you, my lord," said the peasant, "how I, totally

unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any

outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever those steps led

to, perhaps, I should have explored the way. I could not be in a worse

situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your

immediate arrival followed. I had given the alarm--what imported it to

me whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?"

"Thou art a resolute villain for thy years," said Manfred; "yet, on

reflection, I suspect thou dost but trifle with me: thou hast not yet

told me how thou didst open the lock."

"That I will show you, my lord," said the peasant; and, taking up a

fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the

trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it;

meaning to gain time for the escape of the princess. This presence of

mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even

felt a disposition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no

crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty

unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to

his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always

ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.

While the prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed

through the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished

the clamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the

castle in search of Isabella, calling out, "Where is my lord? where is

the prince?"

"Here I am," said Manfred, as they came nearer; "have you found the

princess?"

The first that arrived replied, "Oh, my lord, I am glad we have found

you."

"Found me!" said Manfred; "have you found the princess?"

"We thought we had, my lord," said the fellow, looking terrified;

"but----"

"But what?" cried the prince; "has she escaped?"

"Jaquez and I, my lord----"

"Yes, I and Diego," interrupted the second, who came up in still greater

consternation.

"Speak one of you at a time," said Manfred; "I ask you, where is the

princess?"

"We do not know," said they both together; "but we are frightened out of

our wits."

"So I think, blockheads," said Manfred; "what is it has scared you

thus?"

"Oh, my lord," said Jaquez, "Diego has seen such a sight! your highness

would not believe your eyes."

"What new absurdity is this?" cried Manfred; "give me a direct answer,

or by Heaven----"

"Why, my lord, if it please your highness to hear me," said the poor

fellow, "Diego and I----"

"Yes, I and Jaquez," cried his comrade.

"Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?" said the prince: "you,

Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou art:

what is the matter?"

"My gracious lord," said Jaquez, "if it please your highness to hear me,

Diego and I, according to your highness's orders, went to search for the

young lady; but being apprehensive 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; "those blockheads distract me. Out of

my sight, Diego; and thou, Jaquez, tell me, in one word, art thou sober?

art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense; has the other sot

frightened himself and thee too? speak; what is it he fancies he has

seen?"

"Why, my lord," replied Jaquez, trembling. "I was going to tell your

highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young lord, God

rest his precious soul! not one of us, your highness's faithful

servants, indeed we are, my lord, though poor men; I say, not one of us

has dared to set a foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and

I, thinking that my young lady might be in the great gallery, went up

there to look for her, and tell her your highness wanted something to

impart to her."

"O blundering fools!" cried Manfred; "and in the meantime she has made

her escape, because you were afraid of goblins! Why, thou knave! she

left me in the gallery; I came from thence myself."

"For all that, she may be there still for aught I know," said Jaquez;

"but the devil shall have me before I seek her there again: poor Diego!

I do not believe he will ever recover it."

"Recover what?" said Manfred; "am I never to learn what it is has

terrified these rascals? But I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will

see if she is in the gallery."

"For Heaven's sake, my dear good lord," cried Jaquez, "do not go to the

gallery! Satan himself, I believe, is in the chamber next to the

gallery."

Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle

panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the

apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the

end of the gallery--his voice faltered, and he asked with disorder,

"What is in the great chamber?"

"My lord," said Jaquez, "when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went

first, for he said he had more courage than I;--so, when we came into

the gallery, we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; and

still we found nobody."

"Were all the pictures in their places?" said Manfred.

"Yes, my lord," answered Jaquez; "but we did not think of looking behind

them."

"Well, well," said Manfred, "proceed."

"When we came to the door of the great chamber," continued Jaquez, "we

found it shut."

"And could not you open it?" said Manfred.

"Oh yes, my lord; would to Heaven we had not!" replied he: "nay, it was

not I neither, it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on,

though I advised him not: if ever I open a door that is shut again!"

"Trifle not," said Manfred, shuddering, "but tell me what you saw in the

great chamber, on opening the door."

"I! my lord!" said Jaquez, "I 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 heardest?"

"It was Diego saw it, my lord, it was not I," replied Jaquez; "I only

heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out,

and ran back--I ran back too, and said, 'Is it the ghost?'--'The ghost!

no, no,' said Diego, and his hair stood an end--'it is a giant, I

believe: he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his

leg, and they are as large as the helmet below in the court.' As he said

these words, my lord, we heard a violent motion, and the rattling of

armour, as if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he

believes the giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched

at length on the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery,

we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not

dare turn back to see if the giant was following us--yet, now I think on

it, we must have heard him if he pursued us; but for Heaven's sake, good

my lord, send for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcized, for, for

certain, it is enchanted."

"Ay, pray do, my lord," cried all the servants at once, "or we must

leave your highness's service."

"Peace, dotards!" said Manfred, "and follow me; I will know what all

this means."

"We! my lord?" cried they, with one voice; "we would not go up to the

gallery for your highness's revenue."

The young peasant, who had stood silent, now spoke. "Will your

highness," said he, "permit me to try this adventure? my life is of

consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no good

one."

"Your behaviour is above your seeming," said Manfred, viewing him with

surprise and admiration: "hereafter I will reward your bravery; but

now," continued he with a sigh, "I am so circumstanced, that I dare

trust no eyes but my own. However, I give you leave to accompany me."

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone

directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the princess had

retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious

fondness to meet her lord, whom she had not seen since the death of her

son. She would have flown in a transport, mixed of joy and grief, to his

bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, and said, "Where is Isabella?"

"Isabella, my lord!" said the astonished Hippolita.

"Yes, Isabella," cried Manfred imperiously; "I want Isabella."

"My lord," replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had

shocked her mother, "she has not been with us since your highness

summoned her to your apartment."

"Tell me where she is," said the prince; "I do not want to know where

she has been."

"My good lord," says Hippolita, "your daughter tells you the truth:

Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since; but, my

good lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest; this dismal day has

disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning."

"What, then, you know where she is?" cried Manfred. "Tell me directly,

for I will not lose an instant; and you, woman," speaking to his wife,

"order your chaplain to attend me forthwith."

"Isabella," said Hippolita, calmly, "is retired, I suppose to her

chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my

lord," continued she, "let me know what has disturbed you. Has Isabella

offended you?"

"Trouble me not with questions," said Manfred, "but tell me where she

is."

"Matilda shall call her," said the princess. "Sit down, my lord, and

resume your wonted fortitude."

"What! art thou jealous of Isabella?" replied he, "that you wish to be

present at our interview?"

"Good heavens! my lord," said Hippolita; "what is it your highness

means?"

"Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed," said the cruel prince.

"Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here." At these words he

flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving the amazed ladies

thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost in vain

conjectures on what he was meditating.

Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a

few of his servants, whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended

the staircase without stopping, till he arrived at the gallery, at the

door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been

dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the princess's apartment

with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent lady, who no more

than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat

it as a delirium of the servants. Willing, however, to save her lord

from any additional shock, and prepared by a series of grief not to

tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first

sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction.

Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave

to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita

had visited the gallery and great chamber; and now, with more serenity

of soul than she had felt for many hours, she met her lord, and assured

him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no

doubt an impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the

night, on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had examined

the chamber, and found everything in the usual order.

Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no

work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so

many strange events had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman

treatment of a princess, who returned every injury with new marks of

tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into his

eyes; but not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom

he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the

yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to lean even towards pity. The

next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy. Presuming on the

unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself that she would

not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it was

his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him her

hand--but ere he could indulge this horrid hope, he reflected that

Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders that

every avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded, and charged his

domestics, on pain of their lives, to suffer nobody to pass out. The

young peasant to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to remain in a

small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the

key of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with

him in the morning. Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a

sullen kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber.

CHAPTER II

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

ill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had

deeply affected her. She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the

strange words which had fallen from her father, and his obscure menace

to the princess, his wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour,

had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited anxiously

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

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

informed her mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that

Isabella was nowhere to be found. She related the adventure of the young

peasant who had been discovered in the vault, though with many simple

additions from the incoherent accounts of the domestics; and she dwelt

principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the

gallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much,

that she was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to

rest, but would watch till the princess should rise.

The young princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of

Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. "But what

business could he have so urgent with the chaplain?" said Matilda. "Does

he intend to have my brother's body interred privately in the chapel?"

"Oh, madam," said Bianca, "now I guess. As you are become his heiress,

he is impatient to have you married. He has always been raving for more

sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons. As sure as I live,

madam, I shall see you a bride at last. Good madam, you won't cast off

your faithful Bianca: you won't put Donna Rossara over me, now you are a

great princess!"

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

great princess! What hast thou seen in Manfred's behaviour since my

brother's death that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me? No,

Bianca; his heart was ever a stranger to me--but he is my father, and I

must not complain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my father's heart against me, it

overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother.--O that dear

mother! Yes, Bianca, 'tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I

can support his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul

when I am witness to his causeless severity towards her."

"Oh, madam," said Bianca, "all men use their wives so, when they are

weary of them."

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

my father intended to dispose of me!"

"I would have you a great lady," replied Bianca, "come what will. I do

not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had your

will, and if my lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is

better than no husband at all, did not hinder you.--Bless me! what noise

is that? St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in jest."

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

the tower above. You have heard it a thousand times."

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

sin to talk of matrimony--and so, madam, as I was saying, if my Lord

Manfred should offer you a handsome young prince for a bridegroom, you

would drop him a curtsy, and tell him you would rather take the veil?"

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

proposals for me he has rejected."

"And you thank him like a dutiful daughter, do you, madam?--but come,

madam; suppose to-morrow morning he was to send for you to the great

council-chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young

prince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly

curling locks like jet; in short, madam, a young hero resembling the

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

for hours together."

"Do not speak lightly of that picture," interrupted Matilda, sighing: "I

know the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon--but I

am not in love with a coloured panel. The character of that virtuous

prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me for his

memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pour

forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that, somehow or

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

"Lord, madam! how should that be?" said Bianca: "I have always heard

that your family was 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 almanac. If you

must pray, why does she not bid you address yourself to our great St.

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

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

would explain her reasons to me; but it is the mystery she observes,

that inspires me with this--I know not what to call it. As she never

acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom--nay,

I know there is. In her agony of grief for my brother's death she

dropped some words that intimated as much."

"Oh, dear madam," cried Bianca, "what were they?"

"No," said Matilda, "if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it

recalled, it is not for a child to utter it."

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

madam, you may trust me."

"With my own little secrets, when I have any, I may," said Matilda; "but

never with my mother's. A child ought to have no ears or eyes, but as a

parent directs."

"Well, to be sure, madam, you were born to be a saint," said Bianca,

"and there is no resisting one's vocation: you will end in a convent at

last. But there is my Lady Isabella would not be so reserved to me: she

will let me talk to her of young men; and when a handsome cavalier has

come to the castle, she has owned to me that she wished your brother

Conrad resembled him."

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

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

as pure as virtue itself. She knows your idling, babbling humour, and

perhaps has now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and

enliven the solitude in which my father keeps us."

"Blessed Mary!" said Bianca, starting, "there it is again! Dear madam,

do you hear nothing? The castle is certainly haunted!"

"Peace!" said Matilda, "and listen! I did think I heard a voice--but it

must be fancy; your terrors, I suppose, have infected me."

"Indeed! indeed! madam," said Bianca, half weeping with agony, "I am

sure I heard a voice."

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

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

astrologer, that was your brother's tutor, drowned himself. For certain,

madam, his ghost and the young prince's are now met in the chamber

below; for Heaven's sake let us fly to your mother's apartment!"

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

we may ease their sufferings by questioning them. They can mean no hurt

to us, for we have not injured them; and if they should, shall we be

more safe in one chamber than in another? Reach me my beads; we will say

a prayer, and then speak to them."

"Oh, dear lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world," cried

Bianca. As she said these words, they heard the casement of the little

chamber below Matilda's open. They listened attentively, and in a few

minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish the

words.

"This can be no evil spirit," said the princess, in a low voice: "it is

undoubtedly one of the family--open the window, and we shall know the

voice."

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

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

The noise that the princess made was, however, heard by the person

beneath, who stopped, and they concluded had heard the casement open.

"Is anybody below?" said the princess: "if there is, speak."

"Yes," said an unknown voice.

"Who is it?" said Matilda.

"A stranger," replied the voice.

"What stranger?" said she, "and how didst thou come here 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 has

forsaken me: I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome

hours with gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient to be

dismissed from this castle."

"Thy words and accents," said Matilda, "are of a melancholy cast: if

thou art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it:

I will mention thee to the princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts

for the distressed; and she will relieve thee."

"I am, indeed, unhappy," said the stranger, "and I know not what wealth

is; but I do not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me. I am

young and healthy and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself; yet

think me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. I will

remember you in my orisons, and I will pray for blessings on your

gracious self and your noble mistress--if I sigh, lady, it is for

others, not for myself."

"Now I have it, madam," said Bianca, whispering the princess. "This is

certainly the young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in

love:--well, this is a charming adventure! Do, madam, let us sift him.

He does not know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita's

women."

"Art thou not ashamed, Bianca?" said the princess. "What right have we

to pry into the secrets of this young man's heart? He seems virtuous and

frank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances that

authorize us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to his

confidence?"

"Lord! madam, how little you know of love!" replied Bianca: "why, lovers

have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress."

"And would you have me become a peasant's confidant?" 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

a young man in love."

"Peace, simpleton," said the princess. "Though he said he was unhappy,

it does not follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has

happened to-day, and tell me, if there are no misfortunes but what love

causes.--Stranger," resumed the princess, "if thy misfortunes have not

been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of the

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

that she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this

castle, repair to holy Father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the

church of St. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou

thinkest meet. He will not fail to inform the princess, who is the

mother of all that want her assistance. Farewell! It is not seemly for

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

"May the saints guard thee, gracious lady!" replied the peasant; "but,

oh! if a poor and worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute's

audience further--am I so happy?--the casement is not shut--might I

venture to ask----"

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

labourers come into the fields and perceive us--what wouldst thou ask?"

"I know not how--I know not if I dare," said the young stranger,

faltering; "yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me

emboldens--lady, dare I trust you?"

"Heavens," said Matilda, "what dost thou mean? with what wouldst thou

trust me?--speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a

virtuous breast."

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

have heard from the domestics is true, that the princess is missing from

the castle."

"What imports it to thee to know?" replied Matilda: "thy first words

bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pry

into the secrets of Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee."

Saying these words, she shut the casement hastily, without giving the

young man time to reply.

"I had acted more wisely," said the princess to Bianca, with some

sharpness, "if I had let thee converse with this peasant: his

inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own."

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

perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been more to

the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him."

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

know what you would have asked him?"

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

Bianca. "Does your highness think, madam, that his question about my

Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, madam; there is

more in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me, that all

the servants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella's

escape--now, pray, madam, observe--you and I both know that my Lady

Isabella never much fancied the prince your brother--well, he is killed

just in the critical minute--I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the

moon--so my lord, your father, says; but Lopez and all the servants say,

that this young spark is a magician, and stole it from Alfonso's tomb."

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

"Nay, madam, as you please," cried Bianca; "yet it is very particular,

though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and

that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the

trap-door--I accuse nobody--but if my young lord came honestly by his

death----"

"Dare not, on thy duty," said Matilda, "to breathe a suspicion on the

purity of my dear Isabella's fame."

"Purity or not purity," said Bianca, "gone she is--a stranger is found

that nobody knows. You question him yourself. He tells you he is in

love, or unhappy, it is the same thing--nay, he owned he was unhappy

about others; and is anybody unhappy about another unless they are in

love with them? and at the very next word he asks innocently, poor soul,

if my Lady Isabella is missing."

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

foundation; Isabella's flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger

is very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought from me."

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

knows, madam, but this stranger may be some prince in disguise? Do,

madam, let me open the window, and ask him a few questions."

"No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself: if he knows aught of

Isabella, he is not worthy that I should converse farther with him." She

was going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the

postern gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower

where Matilda lay. This prevented the princess from renewing the

conversation with the stranger.

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

Bianca, "that whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight, it had no

unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be

satisfied of his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca?

that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was

no ruffian's speech: his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth."

"I told you, madam," said Bianca, "that I was sure he was some prince in

disguise."

"Yet," said Matilda, "if he was privy to her escape how will you account

for his not accompanying her in her flight? Why expose himself

unnecessarily and rashly to my father's resentment?"

"As for that, madam," replied she, "if he could get from under the

helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father's anger. I do not doubt

but he has some talisman or other about him."

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

any intercourse with infernal spirits does not dare to make use of those

tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with

what fervour he vowed to remember me to Heaven in his prayers? yes;

Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety."

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

elope!" said Bianca. "No, no, madam; my Lady Isabella is of another

guess-mould than you take her for. She used, indeed, to sigh and lift up

her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when

your back was turned----"

"You wrong her," said Matilda. "Isabella is no hypocrite: she has a due

sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the

contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and

though I own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds

me--though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us--I

cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my

taking the veil: she wished to see me married, though my dower would

have been a loss to her and my brother's children. For her sake, I will

believe well of this young peasant."

"Then you do think there is some liking between them?" said Bianca.

While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber, and

told the princess that the Lady Isabella was found.

"Where?" said Matilda.

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

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

highness."

"Where is my mother?" said Matilda.

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

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

apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was

questioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with

him. Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the friar's arrival, and

knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be

admitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his search

after Isabella.

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

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

"What of her?" interrupted Manfred, eagerly.

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

"That is no business of Hippolita's," said Manfred with confusion: "let

us retire to my chamber, father, and inform me how she came thither."

"No, my lord," replied the good man with an air of firmness and

authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help

revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome, "my commission is to both;

and, with your highness's good liking, in the presence of both, I shall

deliver it: but first, my lord, I must interrogate the princess, whether

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

your castle."

"No, on my soul," said Hippolita: "does Isabella charge me with being

privy to it?"

"Father," interrupted Manfred, "I pay due reverence to your holy

profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest

to interfere in the affairs of my domestic. If you have aught to say,

attend me to my chamber. I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with

the secret affairs of my state: they are not within a woman's province."

"My lord," said the holy man, "I am no intruder into the secrets of

families. My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach

repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. I

forgive your highness's uncharitable apostrophe: I know my duty, and am

the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to him who

speaks through my organs."

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

her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end: her

silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.

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

highnesses: she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been

treated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her own

misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble princes,

whom she shall always respect as parents: she prays for uninterrupted

union and felicity between you (Manfred's colour changed); but, as it is

no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your

consent to remain in sanctuary till she can learn news of her father,

or, by the certainty of his death, be at liberty, by the approbation of

her guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable marriage."

"I shall give no such consent," said the prince; "but insist on her

return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to

her guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own."

"Your highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper,"

replied the friar.

"I want no monitor," said Manfred, colouring: "Isabella's conduct leaves

room for strange suspicions; and that young villain, who was at least

the accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it----"

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

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

palace by an insolent monk? thou art privy, I guess, to their amours."

"I would pray to Heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises," said

Jerome, "if your highness were not satisfied in your conscience how

unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to Heaven to pardon that

uncharitableness; and I implore your highness to leave the princess at

peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by

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

"Cant not to me," said Manfred, "but return and bring the princess to

her duty."

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

orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world;

and nothing but a parent's authority shall take her thence."

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

"She wished to have you for her parent," said the friar: "but Heaven,

that forbade that connection, has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt

you: and I announce to your highness----"

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

"Holy father," said Hippolita, "it is your office to be no respecter of

persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes; but it is my duty to

hear nothing that it pleases not my lord I should hear. Attend the

prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the

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

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

"Excellent woman!" said the friar.--"My lord, I attend your pleasure."

Manfred, accompanied by the friar, passed to his own apartment, where,

shutting the door, "I perceive, father," said he, "that Isabella has

acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons

of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people,

demand that I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from

Hippolita; I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back, and

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

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

soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you

can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to the

dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery: she shall

endow one if she will; and shall have the means of being as liberal to

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

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

principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and,

though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming

expressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for

the repose of my life and the preservation of my family."

"The will of Heaven be done," said the friar. "I am but its worthless

instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, prince, of thy

unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have

mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy

adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned not to

pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven, that

delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on

thy house ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue

to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised friar, am able to protect

her from thy violence. I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by

your highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn the

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

my order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy princess;

but I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even

the cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances: but, forsooth, the

welfare of the state depends on your highness having a son! Heaven mocks

the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn, whose house was so

great, so flourishing as Manfred's? Where is young Conrad now? My lord,

I respect your tears, but I mean not to check them: let them flow,

prince! they will weigh more with Heaven towards the welfare of thy

subjects, than a marriage which, founded on lust or policy, could never

prosper. The sceptre which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine

cannot be preserved by a match which the Church will never allow. If it

is the will of the Most High that Manfred's name must perish, resign

yourself, my lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can

never pass away. Come, my lord, I like this sorrow; let us return to the

princess; she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean

more than to alarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what

efforts of love, she heard, she rejected hearing, the extent of your

guilt. I know she longs to fold you in her arms, and assure you of her

unalterable affection."

"Father," said the prince, "you mistake my compunction. True, I honour

Hippolita's virtues; I think her a saint; and wish it were for my soul's

health to tie faster the knot that has united us; but, alas, father, you

know not the bitterest of my pangs; it is some time that I have had

scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me in the

fourth degree--it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been

informed, that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that

sits heavy at my heart; to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the

visitation that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad. Ease my

conscience of this burden, dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the

work of godliness which your divine exhortations have commenced in my

soul."

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

this turn in the wily prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he

saw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering

Isabella, that his impatience for a son would direct him to some other

object who might not be equally proof against the temptation of

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

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

conduct would be to prevent the prince from despairing of recovering

Isabella. Her the friar knew he could dispose, from her affection to

Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred's

addresses, to second his views till the censures of the Church could be

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

prince's scruples, he at length said:

"My lord, I have been pondering on what your highness has said; and if

in truth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your

repugnance to your virtuous lady, far be it from me to endeavour to

harden your heart. The Church is an indulgent mother; unfold your griefs

to her; she alone can administer comfort to your soul, either by

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

setting you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of

continuing your lineage. In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be

brought to consent----"

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

that his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was

overjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent

promises, if he should succeed by the friar's mediation. The

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

traverse his views, instead of seconding them.

"Since we now understand one another," resumed the prince, "I expect,

father, that you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found

in the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella's flight. Tell me

truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another's passion? I have

often suspected Isabella's indifference to my son; a thousand

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

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

outran my suspicions, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness

to Conrad."

The friar, who knew nothing of the youth but what he had learnt

occasionally from the princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not

sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred's temper,

conceived that it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in his

mind: they might be turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing

the prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that union; or, by

diverting his attention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on

a visionary intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this

unhappy policy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the belief

of some connection between Isabella and the youth. The prince, whose

passions wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell into a rage

at the idea of what the friar had suggested.

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

Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his return, he

hastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to be

brought before him.

"Thou hardened young impostor," said the prince, as soon as he saw the

youth; "what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? It was Providence, was

it, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door

to thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast

been acquainted with the princess; and take care to answer with less

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

truth from thee."

The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the princess

was discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no

longer be of service or detriment to her, replied, "I am no impostor, my

lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I answered to every

question your highness put to me last night with the same veracity that

I shall speak now; and that will not be from fear of your tortures, but

because my soul abhors a falsehood. Please to repeat your questions, my

lord; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in my power."