prepare an evasion. Speak directly; who art thou, and how long hast thou
been known to the princess?"
"I am a labourer at the next village," said the peasant; "my name is
Theodore. The princess found me in the vault last night; before that
hour I never was in her presence."
"I may believe as much or as little as I please of this," said Manfred;
"but I will hear thy own story, before I examine into the truth of it.
Tell me, what reason did the princess give thee for making her escape?
Thy life depends on thy answer."
"She told me," replied Theodore, "that she was on the brink of
destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was
in danger in a few moments of being made miserable for ever."
"And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl's report," said Manfred,
"thou didst hazard my displeasure!"
"I fear no man's displeasure," said Theodore, "when a woman in distress
puts herself under my protection."
During this examination Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita.
At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery,
with latticed windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass.
Hearing her father's voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him,
she stopped to learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention:
the steady and composed manner in which he answered, and the gallantry
of his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly,
interested her in his favour. His person was noble, handsome, and
commanding, even in that situation, but his countenance soon engrossed
her whole care.
"Heavens! Bianca," said the princess softly, "do I dream, or is not that
youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso's picture in the gallery?" She
could say no more, for her father's voice grew louder at every word.
"This bravado," said he, "surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt
experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him,"
continued Manfred, "and bind him--the first news the princess hears of
her champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her sake."
"The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me," said Theodore,
"convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the princess
from thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!"
"This is a lover," cried Manfred, in a rage; "a peasant within sight of
death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy,
who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee."
"Thou hast threatened me with death already," said the youth, "for the
truth I have told thee; if that is all the encouragement I am to expect
for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity further."
"Then thou wilt not speak?" said Manfred.
"I will not," replied he.
"Bear him away into the court-yard," said Manfred; "I will see his head
this instant severed from his body."
Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked and cried,
"Help, help! the princess is dead!" Manfred started at this ejaculation,
and demanded what was the matter. The young peasant, who heard it too,
was struck with horror, and asked eagerly the same question; but Manfred
ordered him to be hurried into the court, and kept there for execution,
till he had informed himself of the cause of Bianca's shrieks. When he
learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering
Matilda to be carried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, and
calling for one of his guards, bade Theodore kneel down and prepare to
receive the fatal blow.
The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that
touched every heart but Manfred's. He wished earnestly to know the
meaning of the words he had heard relating to the princess; but fearing
to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he
deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and
make his peace with Heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor's means
to come at the youth's history, readily granted his request; and being
convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to
be called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen
the catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the
prince, and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent
blood. He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion,
endeavoured to exculpate the youth, and left no method untried to soften
the tyrant's rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome's
intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed
upon by both, commanded the friar to do his duty, telling him he would
not allow the prisoner many minutes for confession.
"Nor do I ask many, my lord," said the unhappy young man. "My sins,
thank Heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected
at my years. Dry your tears, good father, and let us dispatch: this is a
bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret."
"Oh, wretched youth!" said Jerome, "how canst thou bear the sight of me
with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour
upon thee!"
"I forgive thee from my soul," said the youth, "as I hope Heaven will
pardon me. Hear my confession, father, and give me thy blessing."
"How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?" said Jerome. "Thou
canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes, and canst thou forgive
that impious man there?"
"I can," said Theodore; "and do."
"And does not this touch thee, cruel prince?" said the friar.
"I sent for thee to confess him," said Manfred, sternly; "not to plead
for him. Thou didst first incense me against him; his blood be upon thy
head."
"It will, it will!" said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. "Thou and
I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going."
"Dispatch," said Manfred; "I am no more to be moved by the whining of
priests than by the shrieks of women."
"What!" said the youth; "is it possible that my fate could have
occasioned what I heard? Is the princess, then, again in thy power?"
"Thou dost but remember me of my wrath," said Manfred; "prepare thee,
for this moment is thy last."
The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the
sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as
into the friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet,
and unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped,
his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a
bloody arrow.
"Gracious Heaven!" cried the holy man, starting, "what do I see? It is
my child, my Theodore!"
The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The
tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by
joy. They seemed to inquire into the eyes of their lord what they ought
to feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in
the countenance of the youth. He received with modest submission the
effusion of the old man's tears and embraces; yet, afraid of giving a
loose to hope, and suspecting, from what had passed, the inflexibility
of Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards the prince, as if to say,
Canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this?
Manfred's heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his
astonishment; yet his pride forbade his owning himself affected. He even
doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the friar to
save the youth. "What may this mean?" said he; "how can he be thy son?
Is it consistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a
peasant's offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours?"
"Oh God!" said the holy man, "dost thou question his being mine? Could I
feel the anguish I do, if I were not his father? Spare him, good prince!
spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest."
"Spare him! spare him!" cried the attendants, "for this good man's
sake."
"Peace!" said Manfred, sternly; "I must know, ere I am disposed to
pardon. A saint's bastard may be no saint himself."
"Injurious lord!" said Theodore; "add not insult to cruelty. If I am
this venerable man's son, though no prince, as thou art, know, the blood
that flows in my veins----"
"Yes," said the friar, interrupting him, "his blood is noble; nor is he
that abject thing, my lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son; and
Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara--but,
alas! my lord, what is blood? what is nobility? We are all reptiles,
miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us
from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return."
"Truce to your sermon," said Manfred; "you forget you are no longer
Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history: you
will have time enough to moralize hereafter, if you should not happen to
obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there."
"Mother of God!" said the friar, "is it possible my lord can refuse a
father the life of his only, his long-lost child? Trample me, my lord,
scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!"
"Thou canst feel, then," said Manfred, "what it is to lose an only son!
A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: _my_ house, if
fate so pleased, must perish--but the Count of Falconara----"
"Alas! my lord," said Jerome, "I confess I have offended; but aggravate
not an old man's sufferings. I boast not of my family, nor think of such
vanities; it is nature that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the
dear woman that bore him--is she, Theodore, is she dead?"
"Her soul has long been with the blessed," said Theodore.
"Oh! how?" cried Jerome; "tell me--no--she is happy! Thou art all my
care now. Most dread lord! will you--will you grant me my poor boy's
life?"
"Return to thy convent," answered Manfred; "conduct the princess hither;
obey me in what else thou knowest, and I promise thee the life of thy
son."
"Oh, my lord!" said Jerome, "is my honesty the price I must pay for this
dear youth's safety?"
"For me!" cried Theodore; "let me die a thousand deaths, rather than
stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the
princess still safe from his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man,
and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me."
Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere
Manfred could reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen
trumpet, which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly
sounded. At the same instant the sable plumes on the enchanted helmet,
which still remained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously
agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer.
CHAPTER III
Manfred's heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage on the miraculous
casque shaken in concert with the sounding of the brazen trumpet.
"Father," said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Count of
Falconara, "what mean these portents? If I have offended"--the plumes
were shaken with greater violence than before. "Unhappy prince that I
am!" cried Manfred. "Holy father, will you not assist me with your
prayers?"
"My lord," replied Jerome, "Heaven is no doubt displeased with your
mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the Church, and cease to
persecute her ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth, and learn to
respect the holy character I wear: Heaven will not be trifled with. You
see"--the trumpet sounded again.
"I acknowledge I have been too hasty," said Manfred. "Father, do you go
to the wicket, and demand who is at the gate."
"Do you grant me the life of Theodore?" replied the friar.
"I do," said Manfred; "but inquire who is without."
Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears,
that spoke the fullness of his soul.
"You promised to go to the gate," said Manfred.
"I thought," replied the friar, "your highness would excuse my thanking
you first in this tribute of my heart."
"Go, dearest sir," said Theodore, "obey the prince; I do not deserve
that you should delay his satisfaction for me."
Jerome, inquiring who was without, was answered, "A herald."
"From whom?" said he.
"From the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre," said the herald; "and I must
speak with the usurper of Otranto."
Jerome returned to the prince, and did not fail to repeat the message in
the very words it had been uttered. The first sounds struck Manfred with
terror; but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled,
and all his courage revived.
"Usurper!--insolent villain!" cried he; "who dares to question my title?
Retire, father; this is no business for monks: I will meet this
presumptuous man myself. Go to your convent, and prepare the princess's
return; your son shall be a hostage for your fidelity: his life depends
on your obedience."
"Good Heaven! my lord," cried Jerome, "your highness did but this
instant freely pardon my child. Have you so soon forgot the
interposition of Heaven?"
"Heaven," replied Manfred, "does not send heralds to question the title
of a lawful prince. I doubt whether it even notifies its will through
friars; but that is your affair, not mine. At present you know my
pleasure; and it is not a saucy herald that shall save your son, if you
do not return with the princess."
It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be
conducted to the postern gate, and shut out from the castle; and he
ordered some of his attendants to carry Theodore to the top of the Black
Tower, and guard him strictly, scarce permitting the father and son to
exchange a hasty embrace at parting. He then withdrew to the hall, and
seating himself in princely state, ordered the herald to be admitted to
his presence.
"Well, thou insolent!" said the prince, "what wouldst thou with me?"
"I come," replied he, "to thee, Manfred, usurper of the principality of
Otranto, from the renowned and invincible knight, the Knight of the
Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his lord, Frederic Marquis of Vicenza, he
demands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that prince, whom thou hast
basely and traitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false
guardians during his absence; and he requires thee to resign the
principality of Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord
Frederic, the nearest of blood to the last rightful lord, Alfonso the
Good. If thou dost not instantly comply with these just demands, he
defies thee to single combat to the last extremity." And so saying the
herald cast down his warder.
"And where is this braggart who sends thee?" said Manfred.
"At the distance of a league," said the herald: "he comes to make good
his lord's claim against thee, as he is a true knight, and thou an
usurper and ravisher."
Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his
interest to provoke the marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of
Frederic was, nor was this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic's
ancestors had assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of
Alfonso the Good without issue; but Manfred, his father, and
grandfather, had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to
dispossess them. Frederic, a martial, amorous young prince, had married
a beautiful young lady, of whom he was enamoured, and who had died in
childbed of Isabella. Her death affected him so much, that he had taken
the cross and gone to the Holy Land, where he was wounded in an
engagement against the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead.
When the news reached Manfred's ears, he bribed the guardians of the
Lady Isabella to deliver her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by
which alliance he had proposed to unite the claims of the two houses.
This motive, on Conrad's death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly
resolve on espousing her himself; and the same reflection determined him
now to endeavour at obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage.
A like policy inspired him with the thought of inviting Frederic's
champion into his castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella's
flight, which he strictly enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any
of the knight's retinue.
"Herald," said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these reflections,
"return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by
the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid him welcome to
my castle, where, by my faith, as I am a true knight, he shall have
courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we
cannot adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in
safety, and shall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms.
So help me God and his Holy Trinity!" The herald made three obeisances,
and retired.
During this interview, Jerome's mind was agitated by a thousand contrary
passions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was
to persuade Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less
alarmed at the thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita's
unbounded submission to the will of her lord; and though he did not
doubt but he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he
could get access to her, yet, should Manfred discover that the
obstruction came from him, it might be equally fatal to Theodore. He was
impatient to know whence came the herald, who, with so little
management, had questioned the title of Manfred; yet he did not dare
absent himself from the convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her
flight be imputed to him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery,
uncertain on what conduct to resolve. A monk, who met him in the porch,
and observed his melancholy air, said, "Alas! brother, is it then true
that we have lost our excellent Princess Hippolita?"
The holy man started, and cried, "What meanest thou, brother? I came
this instant from the castle, and left her in perfect health."
"Martelli," replied the other friar, "passed by the convent but a
quarter of an hour ago, on his way from the castle, and reported that
her highness was dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray
for her happy transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy
arrival. They know thy holy attachment to that good lady, and are
anxious for the affliction it will cause thee--indeed we have all reason
to weep; she was a mother to our house. But this life is but a
pilgrimage; we must not murmur--we shall all follow her: may our end be
like hers!"
"Good brother, thou dreamest," said Jerome; "I tell thee I come from
the castle, and left the princess well:--where is the Lady Isabella?"
"Poor gentlewoman," replied the friar, "I told her the sad news, and
offered her spiritual comfort; I reminded her of the transitory
condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the
example of the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon."
"Thy zeal was laudable," said Jerome, impatiently; "but at present it
was unnecessary. Hippolita is well--at least I trust in the Lord she is;
I heard nothing to the contrary--yet methinks, the prince's
earnestness--well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella?"
"I know not," said the friar: "she wept much, and said she would retire
to her chamber."
Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the princess, but she
was not in her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but
could learn no news of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery
and the church, and dispatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to
get intelligence if she had been seen, but to no purpose. Nothing could
equal the good man's perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting
Manfred of having precipitated his wife's death, had taken the alarm,
and withdrawn herself to some more secret place of concealment. This new
flight would probably carry the prince's fury to the height. The report
of Hippolita's death, though it seemed almost incredible, increased his
consternation; and though Isabella's escape bespoke her aversion of
Manfred for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it while it
endangered the life of his son. He determined to return to the castle,
and made several of his brethren accompany him, to attest his innocence
to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their intercessions with his for
Theodore.
The prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the
gates of the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger
knight and his train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First came
two harbingers with wands; next a herald, followed by two pages and two
trumpeters; then a hundred foot-guards. These were attended by as many
horse. After them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the
colours of the knight; then a led horse. Two heralds on each side of a
gentleman on horseback, bearing a banner, with the arms of Vicenza and
Otranto quarterly--a circumstance that much offended Manfred, but he
stifled his resentment. Two more pages; the knight's confessor telling
his beads; fifty more footmen clad as before; two knights habited in
complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal knight;
the squires of the two knights, carrying their shields and devices; the
knight's own squire; a hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of it. The knight himself, on a
chestnut steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face
entirely concealed by his visor, which was surmounted by a large plume
of scarlet and black feathers. Fifty foot-guards, with drums and
trumpets, closed the procession, which wheeled off to the right and
left, to make room for the principal knight.
As soon as he approached the gate, he stopped; and the herald,
advancing, read again the words of the challenge. Manfred's eyes were
fixed on the gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the
cartel; but his attention was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that
rose behind him: he turned, and beheld the plumes of the enchanted
helmet agitated in the same extraordinary manner as before. It required
intrepidity like Manfred's not to sink under a concurrence of
circumstances that seemed to announce his fate. Yet, scorning in the
presence of strangers to betray the courage he had always manifested, he
said boldly:
"Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal
mould, thy valour shall meet its equal; and if thou art a true knight,
thou wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be these omens
from heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of his cause,
and to the aid of St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his house.
Alight, Sir Knight, and repose thyself; to-morrow thou shalt have a fair
field; and Heaven befriend the juster side!"
The knight made no reply, but, dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to
the great hall of the castle. As they traversed the court, the knight
stopped to gaze on the miraculous casque; and, kneeling down, seemed to
pray inwardly for some minutes. Rising, he made a sign to the prince to
lead on. As soon as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the
stranger to disarm, but the knight shook his head in token of refusal.
"Sir Knight," said Manfred, "this is not courteous: but by my good faith
I will not cross thee; nor shalt thou have cause to complain of the
Prince of Otranto. No treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is
intended on thine; here, take my gage," giving him his ring, "your
friends and you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here until
refreshments are brought; I will but give orders for the accommodation
of your train, and return to you."
The three knights bowed, as accepting his courtesy. Manfred directed the
stranger's retinue to be conducted to an adjacent hospital, founded by
the Princess Hippolita for the reception of pilgrims. As they made the
circuit of the court to return towards the gate, the gigantic sword
burst from the supporters, and falling to the ground opposite to the
helmet, remained immovable. Manfred, almost hardened to preternatural
appearances, surmounted the shock of this new prodigy; and returning to
the hall, where by this time the feast was ready, he invited his silent
guests to take their places. Manfred, however ill his heart was at ease,
endeavoured to inspire the company with mirth. He put several questions
to them, but was answered only by signs. They raised their visors but
sufficiently to feed themselves, and that but sparingly.
"Sirs," said the prince, "ye are the first guests I ever treated within
these walls, who scorned to hold any intercourse with me; nor has it oft
been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and dignity
against strangers and mutes. You say you come in the name of Frederic of
Vicenza; I have ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous knight;
nor would he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social
converse with a prince who is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in
arms.--Still ye are silent--well, be it as it may, by the laws of
hospitality and chivalry, ye are masters under this roof: ye shall do
your pleasure--but come, give me a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to
pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses." The principal knight
sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the board. "Sir Knight,"
said Manfred, "what I said was but in sport; I shall constrain you in
nothing. Use your good liking; since mirth is not your mood, let us be
sad. Business may hit your fancies better; let us withdraw, and hear if
what I have to unfold may be better relished than the vain efforts I
have made for your pastime."
Manfred then conducting the three knights into an inner chamber, shut
the door, and inviting them to be seated, began thus, addressing himself
to the chief personage:
"You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of
Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been
contracted, in the face of Holy Church, to my son, by the consent of her
legal guardians; and to require me to resign my dominions to your lord,
who gives himself for the nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul
God rest! I shall speak to the latter article of your demands first. You
must know, your lord knows, that I enjoy the principality of Otranto
from my father Don Manuel, as he received it from his father Don
Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless in the Holy Land,
bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in consideration
of his faithful services."--The stranger shook his head.--"Sir Knight,"
said Manfred, warmly, "Ricardo was a valiant and upright man; he was a
pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the adjoining church and
two convents. He was peculiarly patronized by St. Nicholas--my
grandfather was incapable--I say, sir, Don Ricardo was incapable--excuse
me, your interruption has disordered me.--I venerate the memory of my
grandfather.--Well! sirs, he held this estate; he held it by his good
sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas--so did my father; and so, sirs,
will I, come what come will.--But Frederic, your lord, is nearest in
blood.--I have consented to put my title to the issue of the sword--does
that imply a vicious title?--I might have asked, where is Frederic, your
lord? Report speaks him dead in captivity. You say, your actions say, he
lives--I question it not--I might, sirs, I might, but I do not. Other
princes would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if he can:
they would not stake their dignity on a single combat: they would not
submit it to the decision of unknown mutes!--Pardon me, gentlemen, I am
too warm; but suppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are stout
knights, would it not move your choler to have your own and the honour
of your ancestors called in question?--But to the point: ye require me
to deliver up the Lady Isabella.--Sirs, I must ask if ye are authorized
to receive her?"--The knight nodded.--"Receive her!" continued Manfred;
"well, you are authorized to receive her--but, gentle knight, may I ask
if you have full powers?"--The knight nodded.--"'Tis well," said
Manfred. "Then hear what I have to offer.--Ye see, gentlemen, before you
the most unhappy of men (he began to weep); afford me your compassion; I
am entitled to it; indeed I am. Know, I have lost my only hope, my joy,
the support of my house--Conrad died yester-morning."--The knights
discovered signs of surprise.--"Yes, sirs, fate has disposed of my son.
Isabella is at liberty."
"Do you then restore her?" cried the chief knight, breaking silence.
"Afford me your patience," said Manfred. "I rejoice to find, by this
testimony of your good will, that this matter may be adjusted without
bloodshed. It is no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther
to say. Ye behold in me a man disgusted with the world; the loss of my
son has weaned me from earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer
any charms in my eyes. I wished to transmit the sceptre I had received
from my ancestors with honour to my son--but that is over! Life itself
is so indifferent to me, that I accepted your defiance with joy: a good
knight cannot go to the grave with more satisfaction than when falling
in his vocation. Whatever is the will of Heaven I submit; for, alas!
sirs, I am a man of many sorrows. Manfred is no object of envy--but no
doubt you are acquainted with my story."--The knight made signs of
ignorance, and seemed curious to have Manfred proceed.--"Is it possible,
sirs," continued the prince, "that my story should be a secret to you?
Have you heard nothing relating to me and the Princess Hippolita?"--They
shook their heads.--"No! thus, then sirs, it is. You think me ambitious:
ambition alas! is composed of more rugged materials. If I were
ambitious, I should not for so many years have been a prey to all the
hell of conscientious scruples--but I weary your patience: I will be
brief. Know, then, that I have long been troubled in mind on my union
with the Princess Hippolita.--Oh, sirs, if ye were acquainted with that
excellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her like a mistress, and
cherish her as a friend--but man was not born of perfect happiness! She
shares my scruples, and with her consent I have brought this matter
before the Church, for we are related within the forbidden degrees. I
expect every hour the definitive sentence that must separate us for
ever--I am sure you feel for me--I see you do--pardon these tears!"--The
knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end. Manfred
continued:--"The death of my son betiding while my soul was under this
anxiety, I thought of nothing but resigning my dominions, and retiring
for ever from the sight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a
successor, who would be tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady
Isabella, who is dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to restore
the line of Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred; and though,
pardon me, I am satisfied it was his will that Ricardo's lineage should
take place of his own relations, yet where was I to search for those
relations? I knew of none but Frederic, your lord: he was a captive to
the infidels, or dead; and were he living, and at home, would he quit
the flourishing state of Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality of
Otranto? If he would not, could I bear the thought of seeing a hard
unfeeling viceroy set over my poor faithful people?--for, sirs, I love
my people, and, thank Heaven, am beloved by them. But ye will ask,
whither tends this long discourse? briefly, then, thus, sirs. Heaven in
your arrival seems to point out a remedy for these difficulties and my
misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall soon be so--I
would submit to anything for the good of my people--were it not the
best, the only way to extinguish the feuds between our families if I was
to take the Lady Isabella to wife--you start--but though Hippolita's
virtues will ever be dear to me, a prince must not consider himself; he
is born for his people."--A servant at that instant entering the
chamber, apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of his brethren
demanded immediate access to him.
The prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the friar
would discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was
going to forbid Jerome's entrance. But recollecting that he was
certainly arrived to notify the princess's return, Manfred began to
excuse himself to the knights for leaving them for a few moments, but
was prevented by the arrival of the friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded
them for their intrusion, and would have forced them back from the
chamber; but Jerome was too much agitated to be repulsed. He declared
aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of his own innocence.
Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the
knowledge of the strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences,
now upbraiding the friar, now apologizing to the knights; earnest to
know what was become of Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing;
impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to have them join in the pursuit.
He offered to dispatch messengers in quest of her--but the chief knight,
no longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in bitter terms for his
dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of Isabella's first
absence from the castle. Manfred, casting a stern look at Jerome,
implying a command of silence, pretended that on Conrad's death he had
placed her in sanctuary until he could determine how to dispose of her.
Jerome, who trembled for his son's life, did not dare contradict this
falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared
frankly that she had fled to their church in the preceding night. The
prince in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed
him with shame and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at the
contradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had
secreted the princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her
flight, rushing to the door, said,--"Thou traitor-prince! Isabella shall
be found." Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other knights
assisting their comrade, he broke from the prince, and hastened into the
court, demanding his attendants. Manfred, finding it vain to divert him
from the pursuit, offered to accompany him; and summoning his
attendants, and taking Jerome and some of the friars to guide them, they
issued from the castle; Manfred privately giving orders to have the
knight's company secured, while to the knight he affected to dispatch a
messenger to require their assistance.
The company had no sooner quitted the castle, than Matilda, who felt
herself deeply interested for the young peasant, since she had seen him
condemned to death in the hall, and whose thoughts had been taken up
with concerting measures to save him, was informed by some of the female
attendants that Manfred had dispatched all his men various ways in
pursuit of Isabella. He had in his hurry given this order in general
terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore,
but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to obey so peremptory a
prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty to join in
any precipitate chase, had to a man left the castle. Matilda disengaged
herself from her women, stole up to the Black Tower, and unbolting the
door, presented herself to the astonished Theodore. "Young man," said
she, "though filial duty and womanly modesty condemn the step I am
taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all other ties, justifies this
act. Fly; the doors of thy prison are open; my father and his domestics
are absent; but they may soon return; begone in safety; and may the
angels of heaven direct thy course!"
"Thou art surely one of those angels!" said the enraptured Theodore:
"none but a blessed saint could speak, could act, could look like thee!
May I not know the name of my divine protectress? Methought thou namedst
thy father: is it possible? can Manfred's blood feel holy pity? Lovely
lady, thou answerest not--but how art thou here thyself? why dost thou
neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch like Theodore?
Let us fly together. The life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to thy
defence."
"Alas! thou mistakest," said Matilda, sighing: "I am Manfred's daughter,
but no dangers await me."
"Amazement!" said Theodore; "but last night I blessed myself for
yielding thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns
me now."
"Still thou art in error," said the princess; "but this is no time for
explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee.
Should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to
tremble."
"How?" said Theodore, "thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept
of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? better I endure a
thousand deaths."
"I run no risk," said Matilda, "but by thy delay. Depart; it cannot be
known that I assisted thy flight."
"Swear by the saints above," said Theodore, "that thou canst not be
suspected; else here I vow to wait whatever can befall me."
"Oh, thou art too generous," said Matilda; "but rest assured that no
suspicion can alight on me."
"Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,"
said Theodore; "and let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude."
"Forbear," said the princess; "this must not be."
"Alas!" said Theodore, "I have never known but calamity until this
hour--perhaps shall never know other fortune again: suffer the chaste
raptures of holy gratitude: 'tis my soul would print its effusions on
thy hand."
"Forbear, and be gone," said Matilda; "how would Isabella approve of
seeing thee at my feet?"
"Who is Isabella?" said the young man with surprise.
"Ah me! I fear," said the princess, "I am serving a deceitful one;--hast
thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?"
"Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self, seem an emanation of
divinity," said Theodore; "but thy words are dark and mysterious:--speak,
lady; speak to thy servant's comprehension."
"Thou understandest but too well!" said Matilda. "But once more, I
command thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my
head, if I waste the time in vain discourse."
"I go, lady," said Theodore, "because it is thy will, and because I
would not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave.
Say but, adored lady, that I have thy gentle pity."
"Stay," said Matilda; "I will conduct thee to the subterraneous vault by
which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas,
where thou mayest take sanctuary."
"What!" said Theodore, "was it another, and not thy lovely self, that I
assisted to find the subterraneous passage?"
"It was," said Matilda; "but ask no more; I tremble to see thee still
abide here: fly to the sanctuary."
"To sanctuary!" said Theodore; "no, princess, sanctuaries are for
helpless damsels, or for criminals. Theodore's soul is free from guilt,
nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a sword, lady, and thy
father shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight."
"Rash youth!" said Matilda, "thou wouldst not dare to lift thy
presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?"
"Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not," said Theodore: "excuse me,
lady; I had forgotten--but could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art
sprung from the tyrant Manfred?--but he is thy father, and from this
moment my injuries are buried in oblivion." A deep and hollow groan,
which seemed to come from above, startled the princess and Theodore.
"Good Heavens! we are overheard!" said the princess. They listened, but
perceived no farther noise: they both concluded it the effect of pent-up
vapours. And the princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her
father's armoury, where equipping him with a complete suit, he was
conducted by Matilda to the postern-gate.
"Avoid the town," said the princess, "and all the western side of the
castle: 'tis there the search must be making by Manfred and the
strangers; but hie thee to the opposite quarter. Yonder, behind that
forest to the east, is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of
caverns that reach to the sea-coast. There thou mayest lie concealed
till thou canst make signs to some vessel to put on shore and take thee
off. Go; Heaven be thy guide!--and sometimes in thy prayers
remember--Matilda!" Theodore flung himself at her feet; and seizing her
lily hand, which with struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on
the earliest opportunity to get himself knighted, and fervently
entreated her permission to swear himself eternally her knight. Ere the
princess could reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly heard that shook
the battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest, would have urged
his suit, but the princess, dismayed, retreated hastily into the castle,
and commanded the youth to be gone with an air that would not be
disobeyed. He sighed and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate until
Matilda, closing it, put an end to an interview in which the hearts of
both had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the
first time.
Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with his
deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit
that was making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose
story he now first became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his
nature prompted him to wish to assist her; but the monks could lend him
no lights to guess at the route she had taken. He was not tempted to
wander far in search of her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted
itself so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear to absent
himself at much distance from her abode. The tenderness Jerome had
expressed for him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he even
persuaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause of his
hovering between the castle and monastery, until Jerome should return at
night. Theodore at length determined to repair to the forest that
Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he sought the gloomiest
shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that reigned in his
mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to the caves which had formerly
served as a retreat to hermits, and were now reported round the country
to be haunted by evil spirits. He recollected to have heard this
tradition; and being of a brave and adventurous disposition, he
willingly indulged his curiosity in exploring the secret recesses of
this labyrinth. He had not penetrated far before he thought he heard the
steps of some person who seemed to retreat before him. Theodore, though
firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be believed, had no
apprehension that good men were abandoned without cause to the malice of
the powers of darkness. He thought the place more likely to be infested
by robbers than by those infernal agents who are reported to molest and
bewilder travellers. He had long burned with impatience to approve his
valour: drawing his sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing
his steps, as the imperfect rustling round before him led the way. The
armour he wore was a like indication to the person who avoided him.
Theodore, now convinced that he was not mistaken, redoubled his pace,
and evidently gained on the person that fled, whose haste increasing,
Theodore came up just as a woman fell breathless before him. He hasted
to raise her; but her terror was so great that he apprehended she would
faint in his arms. He used every gentle word to dispel her alarms, and
assured her that, far from injuring, he would defend her at the peril of
his life. The lady recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour,
and gazing on her protector, said, "Sure, I have heard that voice
before!"
"Not to my knowledge," replied Theodore, "unless, as I conjecture, thou
art the Lady Isabella."
"Merciful Heaven!" cried she, "thou art not sent in quest of me, art
thou?" And saying these words she threw herself at his feet, and
besought him not to deliver her up to Manfred.
"To Manfred!" cried Theodore; "no, lady, I have once already delivered
thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now, but I will
place thee out of the reach of his daring."
"Is it possible," said she, "that thou shouldst be the generous unknown
whom I met last night in the vault of the castle? Sure thou art not a
mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees let me thank----"
"Hold, gentle princess," said Theodore, "nor demean thyself before a
poor and friendless young man. If Heaven has selected me for thy
deliverer, it will accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy
cause: but come, lady, we are too near the mouth of the cavern; let us
seek its inmost recesses; I can have no tranquillity till I have placed
thee beyond the reach of danger."
"Alas, what mean you, sir?" said she. "Though all your actions are
noble, though your sentiments speak the purity of your soul, is it
fitting that I should accompany you alone in these perplexed retreats?
should we be found together, what would a censorious world think of my
conduct?"
"I respect your virtuous delicacy," said Theodore; "nor do you harbour a
suspicion that wounds my honour. I meant to conduct you into the most
private cavity of these rocks, and then, at the hazard of my life, to
guard their entrance against every living thing. Besides, lady,"
continued he, drawing a deep sigh, "beauteous and all perfect as your
form is, and though my wishes are not guiltless of aspiring, know, my
soul is dedicated to another; and although----" A sudden noise prevented
Theodore from proceeding. They soon distinguished these sounds,
"Isabella! what ho! Isabella!"
The trembling princess relapsed into her former agony of fear. Theodore
endeavoured to encourage her, but in vain. He assured her he would
rather die than suffer her to return under Manfred's power, and begging
her to remain concealed, he went forth to prevent the person in search
of her from approaching.
At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed knight discoursing with a
peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the
rock. The knight was preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing
himself in his way, with his sword drawn, sternly forbade him at his
peril to advance.
"And who art thou who darest to cross my way?" said the knight
haughtily.
"One who does not dare more than he will perform," said Theodore.
"I seek the Lady Isabella," said the knight, "and understand she has
taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent
having provoked my resentment."
"Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible," said
Theodore: "return whence thou camest, or we shall soon know whose
resentment is most terrible."
The stranger, who was the principal knight that had arrived from the
Marquis of Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in
getting information of the princess, and giving various orders to
prevent her falling into the power of the three knights. Their chief had
suspected Manfred of being privy to the princess's absconding; and this
insult from a man who, he concluded, was stationed by that prince to
secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made no reply, but
discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore, would soon have removed
all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred's
captains, and who had no sooner given the provocation than he prepared
to support it, had not received the stroke on his shield. The valour
that had so long been smothered in his breast broke forth at once; he
rushed impetuously on the knight, whose pride and wrath were not less
powerful incentives to hardy deeds. The combat was furious, but not
long: Theodore wounded the knight in three several places, and at last
disarmed him, as he fainted by the loss of blood. The peasant, who had
fled on the first onset, had given the alarm to some of Manfred's
domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through the forest in
pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the knight fell, whom they soon
discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding his
hatred to Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without
emotions of pity and generosity. But he was more touched when he learned
the quality of his adversary, and was informed that he was no retainer,
but an enemy of Manfred. He assisted the servants of the latter in
disarming the knight, and in endeavouring to stanch the blood that
flowed from his wounds. The knight recovering his speech, said, in a
faint and faltering voice, "Generous foe, we have both been in an error:
I took thee for an instrument of the tyrant: I perceive thou hast made
the like mistake: it is too late for excuses--I faint--if Isabella is at
hand, call her; I have important secrets to----"
"He is dying," said one of the attendants; "has nobody a crucifix about
them? Andrea, do thou pray over him."
"Fetch some water," said Theodore, "and pour it down his throat, while I
hasten to the princess." Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few
words told her modestly, that he had been so unfortunate by mistake as
to wound a gentleman from her father's court, who wished, ere he died,
to impart something of consequence to her. The princess, who had been
transported at hearing the voice of Theodore, as he called to her to
come forth, was astonished at what she heard. Suffering herself to be
conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose valour recalled her
dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding knight lay speechless on
the ground--but her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of
Manfred. She would again have fled, if Theodore had not made her observe
that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with instant death
if they should dare to seize the princess. The stranger, opening his
eyes, and beholding a woman, said, "Art thou--pray tell me truly--art
thou Isabella of Vicenza?"
"I am," said she. "Good Heaven restore thee!"
"Then thou----then thou----" said the knight, struggling for utterance,
"seest--thy father. Give me one----"
"Oh, amazement! horror! what do I hear? what do I see?" cried Isabella.
"My father! you my father! how came you here, sir? for Heaven's sake
speak!--Oh, run for help, or he will expire!"
"'Tis most true," said the wounded knight, exerting all his force; "I am
Frederic thy father--yes, I came to deliver thee--it will not be--give
me a parting kiss, and take----"
"Sir," said Theodore, "do not exhaust yourself: suffer us to convey you
to the castle."
"To the castle!" said Isabella; "is there no help nearer than the
castle? would you expose my father to the tyrant? if he goes thither, I
cannot accompany him--and yet, can I leave him?"
"My child," said Frederic, "it matters not to me whither I am carried:
a few minutes will place me beyond danger--but while I have eyes to dote
on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave knight, I know not
who he is, will protect thy innocence.--Sir, you will not abandon my
child, will you?"
Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the
princess at the expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer
himself to be conducted to the castle. They placed him on a horse
belonging to one of the domestics, after binding up his wounds as well
as they were able. Theodore marched by his side, and the afflicted
Isabella, who could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully behind.
CHAPTER IV
The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle than they were met
by Hippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics
before to advertise of their approach. The ladies, causing Frederic to
be conveyed into the nearest chamber, retired, while the surgeons
examined his wounds. Matilda blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella
together; but endeavoured to conceal it by embracing the latter, and
condoling with her on her father's mischance. The surgeons soon came to
acquaint Hippolita that none of the marquis's wounds were dangerous, and
that he was desirous of seeing his daughter and the princesses.
Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from his
apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist
the impulse of following Matilda. Her eyes were so often cast down on
meeting his, that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he
gazed on Matilda, soon divined who the object was that he had told her
in the cave engaged his affections. While this mute scene passed,
Hippolita demanded of Frederic the cause of his having taken that
mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various
apologies to excuse her lord for the match contracted between their
children. Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible
to the courtesy and benevolence of Hippolita; but he was still more
struck with the lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his
bedside, he informed Hippolita of his story. He told her, that, while
prisoner to the infidel, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he
had learned no news since his captivity, was detained in a castle,
where she was in danger of the most dreadful misfortunes; and that if he
obtained his liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn
more. Alarmed at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction
given by it, his chains became more grievous than ever. But while his
thoughts were occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he
received the agreeable news that the confederate princes, who were
warring in Palestine, had paid his ransom. He instantly set out for the
wood that had been marked in his dream. For three days he and his
attendants had wandered in the forest without seeing a human form; but
on the evening of the third they came to a cell, in which they found a
venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying rich cordials, they
brought the saint-like man to his speech. "My sons," said he, "I am
bounden to your charity--but it is in vain--I am going to my eternal
rest--yet I die with the satisfaction of performing the will of Heaven.
When first I repaired to this solitude, after seeing my country become a
prey to unbelievers--it is, alas! above fifty years since I was witness
to that dreadful scene--St. Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a
secret, which he bade me never disclose to mortal man, but on my
death-bed. This is that tremendous hour, and ye are no doubt the chosen
warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon as ye have
done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh tree
on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will---- Oh, good
Heaven, receive my soul!" With those words the devout man breathed his
last.
"By break of day," continued Frederic, "when we had committed the holy
relics to earth, we dug according to direction; but what was our
astonishment, when, about the depth of six feet, we discovered an
enormous sabre--the very weapon yonder in the court. On the blade, which
was then partly out of the scabbard, though since closed by our efforts
in removing it, were written the following lines--no; excuse me, madam,"
added the marquis, turning to Hippolita, "if I forbear to repeat them: I
respect your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your ear
with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you."
He paused--Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but Frederic was
destined by Heaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to threaten her
house. Looking with anxious fondness at Matilda, a silent tear stole
down her cheek; but recollecting herself, she said, "Proceed, my lord,
Heaven does nothing in vain; mortals must receive its divine behests
with lowliness and submission. It is our part to deprecate its wrath, or
bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my lord; we listen resigned."
Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and
patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect; and the
tender, silent affection with which the princess and her daughter
regarded each other melted him almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that
his forbearance to obey would be more alarming, he repeated, in a
faltering and low voice, the following lines:
Where'er a casque that suits this sword is found,
With perils is thy daughter compass'd round;
Alfonso's blood alone can save the maid,
And quiet a long-restless prince's shade.
"What is there in these lines," said Theodore, impatiently, "that
affects these princesses? Why were they to be shocked by a mysterious
delicacy, that has so little foundation?"
"Your words are rude, young man," said the marquis; "and though fortune
has favoured you once----"
"My honoured lord," said Isabella, who resented Theodore's warmth, which
she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for Matilda, "discompose
not yourself for the glozing of a peasant's son: he forgets the
reverence he owes you; but he is not accustomed----"
Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for
his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the
conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her lord?
As the marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise without, and
rising to inquire the cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who
had met an imperfect rumour of what had happened, entered the chamber.
Manfred advanced hastily towards Frederic's bed to condole with him on
his misfortune, and to learn the circumstances of the combat, when,
starting in an agony of terror and amazement, he cried:
"Ah! what art thou? Thou dreadful spectre! Is my hour come?"
"My dearest, gracious lord," cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms,
"what is it you see? Why do you fix your eyeballs thus?"
"What," cried Manfred, breathless, "dost thou see nothing, Hippolita?
Is this ghastly phantom sent to me alone--to me, who did not----"
"For mercy's sweetest self, my lord," said Hippolita, "resume your soul,
command your reason; there are none here, but us, your friends."
"What, is not that Alfonso?" cried Manfred; "dost thou not see him? Can
it be my brain's delirium?"
"This! my lord," said Hippolita: "this is Theodore, the youth who has
been so unfortunate."
"Theodore," said Manfred mournfully, and striking his
forehead--"Theodore, or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred.
But how comes he here? and how comes he in armour?"
"I believe he went in search of Isabella," said Hippolita.
"Of Isabella," said Manfred, relapsing into rage. "Yes, yes, that is not
doubtful--but how did he escape from durance, in which I left him? Was
it Isabella, or this hypocritical old friar, that procured his
enlargement?"
"And would a parent be criminal, my lord," said Theodore, "if he
meditated the deliverance of his child?"
Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and
without foundation, knew not what to think. He could not comprehend how
Theodore had escaped--how he came to be armed, and to encounter
Frederic. Still he would not venture to ask any questions that might
tend to inflame Manfred's wrath against his son. Jerome's silence
convinced Manfred that he had contrived Theodore's release.
"And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man," said the prince, addressing
himself to the friar, "that thou repayest mine and Hippolita's bounties?
And not content with traversing my heart's nearest wishes, thou armest
thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle to insult me!"
"My lord," said Theodore, "you wrong my father: nor he nor I are capable
of harbouring a thought against your peace. Is it insolence thus to
surrender myself to your highness's pleasure?" added he, laying his
sword respectfully at Manfred's feet. "Behold my bosom; strike, my lord,
if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there. There is not a
sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you and yours."
The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested
every person present in his favour. Even Manfred was touched; yet still
possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed
with secret horror.
"Rise," said he; "thy life is not my present purpose. But tell me thy
history, and how thou camest connected with this old traitor here."
"My lord----" said Jerome, eagerly.
"Peace! impostor," said Manfred; "I will not have him prompted."
"My lord," said Theodore, "I want no assistance: my story is very brief.
I was carried at five years of age to Algiers with my mother, who had
been taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily. She died of grief in
less than a twelvemonth." The tears gushed from Jerome's eyes, on whose
countenance a thousand anxious passions stood expressed. "Before she
died," continued Theodore, "she bound a writing about my arm under my
garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara."
"It is most true," said Jerome; "I am that wretched father."
"Again I enjoin thee silence," said Manfred. "Proceed."
"I remained in slavery," said Theodore, "until within these two years;
when, attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by a
Christian vessel which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to
the captain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily:--but, alas!
instead of finding a father, I learned that his estate, which was
situated on the coast, had, during his absence, been laid waste by the
rover, who had carried my mother and me into captivity; that his castle
had been burnt to the ground, and that my father, on his return, had
sold what remained, and was retired into religion in the kingdom of
Naples, but where, no man could inform me. Destitute and friendless,
hopeless almost of attaining the transport of a parent's embrace, I took
the first opportunity of setting sail for Naples; from whence, within
these six days, I wandered into this province, still supporting myself
by the labour of my hands: nor until yester-morn did I believe that
Heaven had reserved any lot for me but peace of mind and contented
poverty. This, my lord, is Theodore's story. I am blessed beyond my hope
in finding a father; I am unfortunate beyond my desert in having
incurred your highness's displeasure."
He ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience.
"This is not all," said Frederic: "I am bound in honour to add what he
suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be generous--he is one of the
bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and from the short
knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity; if what
he reports of himself were not true, he would not utter it.--And for me,
youth, I honour a frankness which becomes thy birth. But now, and thou
didst offend me; yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins may well
be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its
source.--Come, my lord," turning to Manfred, "if I can pardon him,
surely you may: it is not the youth's fault, if you took him for a
spectre."
This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred. "If beings from another
world," replied he haughtily, "have power to impress my mind with awe,
it is more than living man can do: nor could a stripling's arm----"
"My lord," interrupted Hippolita, "your guest has occasion for repose:
shall we not leave him to his rest?" Saying this, and taking Manfred by
the hand, she took leave of Frederic, and led the company forth. The
prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to
be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though
under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the
young man gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent.
Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections,
and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse
that night. They separated, each to her chamber, with more expressions
of ceremony and fewer of affection than had passed between them since
their childhood.
If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater
impatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a
situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions
which she wished she had put to the other overnight. Matilda reflected
that Isabella had been twice delivered by Theodore in very critical
situations, which she could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was
true, had been fixed on her in Frederic's chamber; but that might have
been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of both. It
were better to clear this up. She wished to know the truth, lest she
should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella's lover.
Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed, an excuse from
friendship to justify its curiosity.
Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her suspicions.
Both Theodore's tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged--it
was true--yet perhaps Matilda might not correspond to his passion; she
had ever appeared insensible to love: all her thoughts were set on
heaven. "Why did I dissuade her?" said Isabella to herself: "I am
punished for my generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be.
I have deceived myself; perhaps last night was the first time they
beheld each other; it must be some other object that has prepossessed
his affections. If it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not
my friend Matilda--how! can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man
who rudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and
that at the very moment in which common courtesy demanded at least
expressions of civility? I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm
me in this becoming pride--man is false--I will advise with her on
taking the veil: she will rejoice to find me in this disposition; and I
will acquaint her that I no longer oppose her inclination for the
cloister." In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart
entirely to Matilda, she went to that princess's chamber, whom she found
already dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm. This attitude, so
correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella's suspicions,
and destroyed the confidence she had purposed to place in her friend.
They blushed at meeting, and were too much novices to disguise their
sensations with address. After some unmeaning questions and replies,
Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight. The latter, who
had almost forgotten Manfred's passion, so entirely was she occupied by
her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape from the
convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening,
replied, "Martelli brought word to the convent that your mother was
dead----"
"Oh!" said Matilda, interrupting her, "Bianca has explained that mistake
to me: on seeing me faint, she cried, 'The princess is dead'; and
Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the castle----"
"And what made you faint?" said Isabella, indifferent to the rest.
Matilda blushed, and stammered, "My father--he was sitting in judgment
on a criminal."
"What criminal?" said Isabella, eagerly.
"A young man," said Matilda:--"I believe--I think it was that young man
that----"
"What, Theodore?" said Isabella.
"Yes," answered she; "I never saw him before; I do not know how he had
offended my father--but as he has been of service to you, I am glad my
lord has pardoned him."
"Served me!" replied Isabella; "do you term it serving me, to wound my
father, and almost occasion his death? Though it is but since yesterday
that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not think I
am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness of
that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel any
affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my
being. No, Matilda, my heart abhors him; and if you still retain the
friendship for me that you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest
the man who has been on the point of making me miserable for ever."
Matilda held down her head, and replied, "I hope my dearest Isabella
does not doubt her Matilda's friendship: I never beheld that youth until
yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have
pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour
uncharitable resentment against one, who, I am persuaded, did not know
the marquis was related to you."
"You plead his cause very pathetically," said Isabella, "considering he
is so much a stranger to you! I am mistaken, or he returns your
charity."
"What mean you?" said Matilda.
"Nothing," said Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda a hint of
Theodore's inclination for her. Then, changing the discourse, she asked
Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre?
"Bless me," said Matilda, "did you not observe his extreme resemblance
to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice of it to Bianca
even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on he is the very
image of that picture."
"I do not much observe pictures," said Isabella: "much less have I
examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done. Ah,
Matilda, your heart is in danger; but let me warn you as a friend--he
has owned to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday
was the first time you ever met--was it not?"
"Certainly," replied Matilda; "but why does my dearest Isabella conclude
from anything I have said, that"--she paused--then continuing: "he saw
you first, and I am far from having the vanity to think that my little
portion of charms could engage a heart devoted to you--may you be happy,
Isabella, whatever is the fate of Matilda!"
"My lovely friend," said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist
a kind expression, "it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it; I am
persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me to
interfere with yours." This frankness drew tears from the gentle
Matilda; and jealousy, that for a moment had raised a coolness between
these amiable maidens, soon gave way to the natural sincerity and
candour of their souls. Each confessed to the other the impression that
Theodore had made on her; and this confidence was followed by a struggle
of generosity, each insisting on yielding her claim to her friend. At
length the dignity of Isabella's virtue reminding her of the preference
which Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her determine to
conquer her passion, and cede the beloved object to her friend.
During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter's chamber.
"Madam," said she to Isabella, "you have so much tenderness for Matilda,
and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched house,
that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you to
hear." The princesses were all attention and anxiety.
"Know then, madam," continued Hippolita, "and you, my dearest Matilda,
that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days
that Heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred's
hands into those of the Marquis Frederic; I have been perhaps inspired
with the thought of averting our total destruction by the union of our
rival houses. With this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord,
to tender this dear, dear child to Frederic your father."
"Me to Lord Frederic!" cried Matilda. "Good heavens! my gracious mother,
and have you named it to my father?"
"I have," said Hippolita: "he listened benignly to my proposal, and is
gone to break it to the marquis."
"Ah! wretched princess," cried Isabella, "what hast thou done? what ruin
has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for
Matilda!"
"Ruin from me, to you, and to my child!" said Hippolita; "what can this
mean?"
"Alas!" said Isabella, "the purity of your own heart prevents your
seeing the depravity of others. Manfred, your lord, that impious
man----"
"Hold!" said Hippolita, "you must not, in my presence, young lady,
mention Manfred with disrespect; he is my lord and husband, and----"
"Will not long be so," said Isabella, "if his wicked purposes can be
carried into execution."
"This language amazes me," said Hippolita. "Your feeling, Isabella, is
warm: but until this hour I never knew it betray you into intemperance.
What deed of Manfred authorizes you to treat him as a murderer, an
assassin?"
"Thou virtuous, and too credulous princess!" replied Isabella; "it is
not thy life he aims at--it is to separate himself from thee! to divorce
thee! to----"
"To divorce me!"--"To divorce my mother!" cried Hippolita and Matilda at
once.
"Yes," said Isabella; "and, to complete his crime, he meditates--I
cannot speak it!"
"What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?" said Matilda.
Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech; and the recollection of
Manfred's late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard.
"Excellent, dear lady!--madam! mother!" cried Isabella, flinging herself
at Hippolita's feet in a transport of passion; "trust me, believe me, I
will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield
to so odious----"
"Oh, this is too much!" cried Hippolita. "What crimes does one crime
suggest! Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue. Oh, Matilda,
this stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur,
I charge thee. Remember, he is _thy_ father still!"
"But you are my mother, too," said Matilda, fervently; "and _you_ are
virtuous, _you_ are guiltless! Oh, must not I, must not I complain?"
"You must not," said Hippolita; "come, all will be well. Manfred, in the
agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps
Isabella misunderstood him: his heart is good--and, my child, thou
knowest not all. There is a destiny hangs over us: the hand of
Providence is stretched out. Oh, could I but save thee from the
wreck.--Yes," continued she, in a firmer tone, "perhaps the sacrifice
of myself may atone for all; I will go and offer myself to this
divorce--it boots not what becomes of me. I will withdraw into the
neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of life in prayers and
tears for my child and--the prince."
"Thou art as much too good for this world," said Isabella, "as Manfred
is execrable--but think not, lady, that thy weakness shall determine for
me. I swear, hear me all ye angels----"
"Stop, I adjure thee," cried Hippolita: "remember thou dost not depend
on thyself; thou hast a father----"
"My father is too pious, too noble," interrupted Isabella, "to command
an impious deed. But should he command it; can a father enjoin a cursed
act? I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father?--No, madam, no;
force should not drag me to Manfred's hated bed. I loathe him, I abhor
him: divine and human laws forbid; and, my friend, my dearest Matilda,
would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own
mother--I never have known another."
"Oh, she is the mother of both," cried Matilda: "can we, can we,
Isabella, adore her too much?"
"My lovely children," said the touched Hippolita, "your tenderness
overpowers me; but I must not give way to it. It is not ours to make
election for ourselves; Heaven, our fathers, and our husbands, must
decide for us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic
have determined. If the marquis accepts Matilda's hand, I know she will
readily obey. Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my
child?" continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of
speechless tears.--"But no; answer me not, my daughter; I must not hear
a word against the pleasure of thy father."
"Oh, doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to you!"
said Matilda. "But can I, most respected of women, can I experience all
this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought from the
best of mothers?"
"What art thou going to utter?" said Isabella, trembling. "Recollect
thyself, Matilda."
"No, Isabella," said the princess, "I should not deserve this
incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a
thought without her permission--nay, I have offended her; I have
suffered a passion to enter my heart without her avowal; but here I
disclaim it; here I vow to Heaven and her----"
"My child! my child!" said Hippolita, "what words are these? what new
calamities has fate in store for us? Thou, a passion! Thou, in this hour
of destruction!"
"Oh, I see all my guilt," said Matilda. "I abhor myself, if I cost my
mother a pang: she is the dearest thing I have on earth. Oh, I will
never, never behold him more!"
"Isabella," said Hippolita, "thou art conscious to this unhappy secret,
whatever it is. Speak!"
"What!" cried Matilda, "have I so forfeited my mother's love, that she
will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? Oh, wretched, wretched
Matilda!"
"Thou art too cruel," said Isabella to Hippolita; "canst thou behold
this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?"
"Not pity my child!" said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms. "Oh,
I know she is good; she is all virtue, all tenderness and duty. I do
forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!"
The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for
Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda.
Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability
that either father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man,
though nobly born. Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so
recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it
in either. She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with
him. This Matilda fervently promised; but Isabella, who flattered
herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her
friend, could not determine to avoid him, and made no reply.
"I will go to the convent," said Hippolita, "and order new masses to be
said for a deliverance from these calamities."
"Oh, my mother," said Matilda, "you mean to quit us: you mean to take
sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal
intentions. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear: will you
leave me a prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent."
"Be at peace, my child," said Hippolita; "I will return instantly. I
will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of Heaven, and for
thy benefit."
"Do not deceive me," said Matilda. "I will not marry Frederic until thou
commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?"
"Why that exclamation?" said Hippolita. "I have promised thee to
return."
"Ah, my mother," replied Matilda; "stay and save me from myself. A
frown from thee can do more than all my father's severity. I have given
away my heart, and you alone can make me recall it."
"No more," said Hippolita: "thou must not relapse, Matilda."
"I can quit Theodore," said she, "but must I wed another? Let me attend
thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever."
"Thy fate depends on thy father," said Hippolita: "I have ill bestowed
my tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu!
my child, I go to pray for thee."
Hippolita's real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscience
she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to
resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered
an hourly burden to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation
from her husband appear less dreadful to her, than it would have seemed
in any other situation.
Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore
severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape.
Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred's suspicion
from alighting on Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome's life and
character secured him from the tyrant's wrath. Jerome was heartily
grieved to discover his son's inclination for that princess; and leaving
him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important
reasons for conquering his passion. Theodore, like Isabella, was too
recently acquainted with parental authority to submit to its decisions
against the impulse of his heart. He had little curiosity to learn the
friar's reasons, and less disposition to obey them. The lovely Matilda
had made stronger impressions on him than filial affection. All night he
pleased himself with visions of love; and it was not till late after the
morning office that he recollected the friar's commands to attend him at
Alfonso's tomb.
"Young man," said Jerome, when he saw him, "this tardiness does not
please me. Have a father's commands already so little weight?"
Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having
overslept himself.
"And on whom were thy dreams employed?" said the friar sternly. His son
blushed. "Come, come," resumed the friar, "inconsiderate youth, this
must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast."
"Guilty passion!" cried Theodore: "can guilt dwell with innocent beauty
and virtuous modesty?"
"It is sinful," replied the friar, "to cherish those whom Heaven has
doomed to destruction. A tyrant's race must be swept from the earth to
the third and fourth generation."
"Will Heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?" said
Theodore. "The fair Matilda has virtues enough----"
"To undo thee," interrupted Jerome. "Hast thou so soon forgotten that
twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?"
"Nor have I forgotten, sir," said Theodore, "that the charity of his
daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget injuries, but never
benefits."
"The injuries thou hast received from Manfred's race," said the friar,
"are beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, but view this holy
image! Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso;
a prince adorned with every virtue; the father of his people; the
delight of mankind! Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father
unfolds a tale of horror, that will expel every sentiment from thy soul,
but sensations of sacred vengeance. Alfonso! much injured prince! let
thy unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these
trembling lips----Ha! who comes there?"
"The most wretched of women," said Hippolita, entering the choir. "Good
father, art thou at leisure? but why this kneeling youth? What means the
horror imprinted on each countenance? Why at this venerable tomb?--alas!
hast thou seen aught?"
"We were pouring forth our orisons to Heaven," replied the friar, with
some confusion, "to put an end to the woes of this deplorable province.
Join with us, lady: thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption from the
judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounce
against thy house."
"I pray fervently to Heaven to divert them," said the pious princess.
"Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life to wrest a blessing
for my lord and my harmless children. One, alas! is taken from me; would
Heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father, intercede for her."
"Every heart will bless her!" cried Theodore with rapture.
"Be dumb, rash youth," said Jerome. "And thou, fond princess, contend
not with the powers above. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away:
bless His holy name, and submit to His decrees."
"I do most devoutly," said Hippolita; "but will He not spare my only
comfort? Must Matilda perish too?--Ah, father, I came--but dismiss thy
son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter."
"May Heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent princess!" said
Theodore, retiring. Jerome frowned.
Hippolita then acquainted the friar with a proposal she had suggested to
Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was
gone to make to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the
motion, which he covered under pretence of the improbability that
Frederic, the nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his
succession, would yield to an alliance with the usurper of his right.
But nothing could equal the perplexity of the friar, when Hippolita
confessed her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his
opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. The friar catched eagerly
at her request of his advice; and without explaining his aversion to the
proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted to Hippolita, in
the most alarming colours, the sinfulness of her consent, denounced
judgments against her if she complied, and enjoined her, in the severest
terms, to treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and
refusal.
Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Frederic, and
proposed the double marriage. That weak prince, who had been struck with
the charms of Matilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer. He forgot
his enmity to Manfred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by
force; and flattering himself that no issue might succeed from the union
of his daughter with the tyrant, he looked upon his own succession to
the principality as facilitated by wedding Matilda. He made faint
opposition to the proposal; affecting, for form only, not to acquiesce
unless Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfred took that upon
himself. Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a
situation to expect sons, he hastened to his wife's apartment,
determined to extort her compliance. He learned with indignation that
she was absent at the convent. His guilt suggested to him that she had
probably been informed by Isabella of his purpose. He doubted whether
her retirement to the convent did not import an intention of remaining
there, until she could raise obstacles to their divorce; and the
suspicions he had already entertained of Jerome made him apprehend that
the friar would not only traverse his views, but might have inspired
Hippolita with the resolution of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel
this clue, and to defeat its success, Manfred hastened to the convent,
and arrived there, as the friar was earnestly exhorting the princess
never to yield to the divorce.
"Madam," said Manfred, "what business drew you hither? why did you not
await my return from the marquis?"
"I came to implore a blessing on your councils," replied Hippolita.
"My councils do not need a friar's intervention," said Manfred; "and of
all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to
confer with?"
"Profane prince!" said Jerome; "is it at the altar thou choosest to
insult the servants of the altar?--but, Manfred, thy impious schemes are
known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them:--nay, frown not, prince.
The Church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above thy
wrath. Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her
sentence be known, and here I launch her anathema at thy head."
"Audacious rebel!" said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awe with
which the friar's words inspired him; "dost thou presume to threaten thy
lawful prince?"
"Thou art no lawful prince," said Jerome; "thou art no prince:--go,
discuss thy claim with Frederic; and when that is done----"
"It is done," replied Manfred: "Frederic accepts Matilda's hand, and is
content to waive his claim, unless I have no male issue."--As he spoke
those words, three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso's
statue. Manfred turned pale, and the princess sunk on her knees.
"Behold!" said the friar; "mark this miraculous indication that the
blood of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred!"
"My gracious lord," said Hippolita, "let us submit ourselves to Heaven.
Think not thy ever obedient wife rebels against thy authority. I have no
will but that of my lord and the Church. To that revered tribunal let us
appeal. It does not depend on us to burst the bonds that unite us. If
the Church shall approve the dissolution of our marriage, be it so--I
have but few years, and those of sorrow, to pass. Where can they be worn
away so well as at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and
Matilda's safety?"
"But thou shalt not remain here until then," said Manfred. "Repair with
me to the castle, and there I will advise on the proper measures for a
divorce. But this meddling friar comes not thither: my hospitable roof
shall nevermore harbour a traitor--and for thy reverence's offspring,"
continued he, "I banish him from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sacred
personage, nor under the protection of the Church. Whoever weds
Isabella, it shall not be Father Falconara's started-up son."
"They start up," said the friar, "who are suddenly beheld in the seat of
lawful princes; but they wither away like the grass, and their place
knows them no more."
Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the friar, led Hippolita forth; but
at the door of the church whispered one of his attendants to remain
concealed about the convent, and bring him instant notice if any one
from the castle should repair thither.
CHAPTER V
Every reflection which Manfred made on the friar's behaviour conspired
to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella and
Theodore. But Jerome's new presumption, so dissonant from his former
meekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions. The prince even
suspected that the friar depended on some secret support from Frederic,
whose arrival coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore seemed to
bespeak a correspondence. Still more was he troubled with the
resemblance of Theodore to Alfonso's portrait. The latter he knew had
unquestionably died without issue. Frederic had consented to bestow
Isabella on him. These contradictions agitated his mind with numberless
pangs. He saw but two methods of extricating himself from his
difficulties. The one was to resign his dominions to the
marquis.--Pride, ambition, and his reliance on ancient prophecies, which
had pointed out a possibility of his preserving them to his posterity,
combated that thought. The other was to press his marriage with
Isabella. After long ruminating on these anxious thoughts, as he marched
silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed with that
princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every insinuating and
plausible argument to extract her consent to, even her promise of
promoting, the divorce. Hippolita needed little persuasions to bend her
to his pleasure. She endeavoured to win him over to the measure of
resigning his dominions; but finding her exhortations fruitless she
assured him, that, as far as her conscience would allow, she would raise
no opposition to a separation, though without better founded scruples
than what he yet alleged she would not engage to be active in demanding
it.
This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise Manfred's
hopes. He trusted that his power and wealth would easily advance his
suit at the court of Rome, whither he resolved to engage Frederic to
take a journey on purpose. That prince had discovered so much passion
for Matilda, that Manfred hoped to obtain all he wished by holding out
or withdrawing his daughter's charms, according as the marquis should
appear more or less disposed to co-operate in his views. Even the
absence of Frederic would be a material point gained, until he could
take further measures for his security.
Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of the
marquis; but crossing the great hall, through which he was to pass, he
met Bianca. The damsel he knew was in the confidence of both the young
ladies. It immediately occurred to him to sift her on the subject of
Isabella and Theodore. Calling her aside into the recess of the oriel
window of the hall, and soothing her with many fair words and promises,
he demanded of her whether she knew aught of the state of Isabella's
affections.
"I! my lord! no, my lord--yes, my lord--poor lady! she is wonderfully
alarmed about her father's wounds! but I tell her he will do well; don't
your highness think so?"
"I do not ask you," replied Manfred, "what she thinks about her father;
but you are in her secrets. Come, be a good girl, and tell me; is there
any young man--ha!--you understand me."
"Lord bless me! understand your highness, no, not I: I told her a few
vulnerary herbs and repose----"
"I am not talking," replied the prince, impatiently, "about her father;
I know he will do well."
"Bless me, I rejoice to hear your highness say so; for though I thought
it not right to let my young lady despond, methought his greatness had a
wan look, and a something--I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded
by the Venetian----"
"Thou answerest from the point," interrupted Manfred; "but here, take
this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention; nay, no reverences: my
favour shall not stop here:--come, tell me truly, how stands Isabella's
heart."
"Well, your highness has such a way!" said Bianca, "to be sure; but can
your highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out of your
lips----"
"It shall not, it shall not," cried Manfred.
"Nay, but swear, your highness. By my halidame, if it should ever be
known that I said it--why, truth is truth, I do not think my Lady
Isabella ever much affectioned my young lord, your son--yet he was a
sweet youth, as one should see. I am sure, if I had been a princess--but
bless me! I must attend my Lady Matilda; she will marvel what is become
of me."
"Stay!" cried Manfred, "thou hast not satisfied my question. Hast thou
ever carried any message, any letter?"
"I! good gracious!" cried Bianca; "I carry a letter? I would not to be a
queen. I hope your highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest--did
your highness never hear what Count Marsigli offered me when he came
a-wooing to my Lady Matilda?"
"I have not leisure," said Manfred, "to listen to thy tales. I do not
question thy honesty; but it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me. How
long has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore?"
"Nay, there is nothing can escape your highness," said Bianca: "not that
I know anything of the matter. Theodore, to be sure, is a proper young
man, and, as my Lady Matilda says, the very image of good Alfonso: has
not your highness remarked it?"
"Yes, yes,--no,--thou torturest me," said Manfred: "where did they meet?
when?"
"Who? my Lady Matilda?" said Bianca.
"No, no, not Matilda; Isabella. When did Isabella first become
acquainted with this Theodore?"
"Virgin Mary!" said Bianca, "how should I know?"
"Thou dost know," said Manfred, "and I must know; I will."
"Lord! your highness is not jealous of young Theodore!" said Bianca.
"Jealous! no, no: why should I be jealous? perhaps I mean to unite them,
if I were sure Isabella would have no repugnance."
"Repugnance! no, I'll warrant her," said Bianca: "he is as comely a
youth as ever trod on Christian ground. We are all in love with him;
there is not a soul in the castle but would be rejoiced to have him for
our prince--I mean, when it shall please Heaven to call your highness to
itself."
"Indeed," said Manfred, "has it gone so far? oh, this cursed friar! but
I must not lose time:--go, Bianca, attend Isabella; but I charge thee,
not a word of what has passed. Find out how she is affected towards
Theodore: bring me good news, and that ring has a companion. Wait at the
foot of the winding staircase: I am going to visit the marquis, and will
talk further with thee at my return."
Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss
the two knights his companions, having to talk with him on urgent
affairs. As soon as they were alone, he began, in artful guise, to sound
the marquis on the subject of Matilda; and finding him disposed to his
wish, he let drop hints on the difficulties that would attend the
celebration of their marriage, unless--At that instant Bianca burst into
the room with a wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the utmost
terror.
"Oh, my lord, my lord!" cried she; "we are all undone! it is come again!
it is come again!"
"What is come again?" cried Manfred, amazed.
"Oh, the hand! the giant! the hand!--support me! I am terrified out of
my senses," cried Bianca; "I will not sleep in the castle to-night.
Where shall I go? my things may come after me to-morrow--would I had
been content to wed Francesco!--this comes of ambition."
"What has terrified thee thus, young woman?" said the marquis. "Thou art
safe here; be not alarmed."
"Oh, your greatness is wonderfully good," said Bianca, "but I dare
not--no, pray let me go. I had rather leave everything behind me, than
stay another hour under this roof."
"Go to, thou hast lost thy senses," said Manfred. "Interrupt us not; we
were communing on important matters. My lord, this wench is subject to
fits. Come with me, Bianca."
"Oh, the saints, no," said Bianca; "for certain it comes to warn your
highness: why should it appear to me else? I say my prayers morning and
evening. Oh, if your highness had believed Diego! 'Tis the same hand
that he saw the foot to in the gallery chamber. Father Jerome has often
told us the prophecy would be out one of these days. 'Bianca,' said he,
'mark my words----'"
"Thou ravest," said Manfred in a rage! "begone, and keep these fooleries
to frighten thy companions."
"What, my lord!" cried Bianca, "do you think I have seen nothing? Go to
the foot of the great stairs yourself--as I live I saw it."
"Saw what? Tell us, fair maid, what thou hast seen," said Frederic.
"Can your highness listen," said Manfred, "to the delirium of a silly
wench, who has heard stories of apparitions until she believes them?"
"This is more than fancy," said the marquis; "her terror is too natural
and too strongly impressed to be the work of imagination. Tell us, fair
maiden, what it is has moved thee thus."
"Yes, my lord, thank your greatness," said Bianca. "I believe I look
very pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself. I was going
to my Lady Isabella's chamber by his highness's order----"
"We do not want the circumstances," interrupted Manfred. "Since his
highness will have it so, proceed; but be brief."
"Lord! your highness thwarts one so!" replied Bianca. "I fear my hair--I
am sure I never in my life--well, as I was telling your greatness, I was
going, by his highness's order, to my Lady Isabella's chamber. She lies
in the watchet-coloured chamber, on the right hand, one pair of stairs.
So when I came to the great stairs, I was looking on his highness's
present here----"
"Grant me patience!" said Manfred; "will this wench never come to the
point? What imports it to the marquis, that I gave thee a bauble for thy
faithful attendance on my daughter; we want to know what thou sawest."