THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO

MATILDA, who by Hippolita's order had retired to her apartment, was 
ill-disposed to take any rest.  The shocking fate of her brother had 
deeply affected her.  She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but 
the strange words which had fallen from her father, and his obscure 
menace to the Princess his wife, accompanied by the most furious 
behaviour, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm.  She 
waited anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel that 
attended her, whom she had sent to learn what was become of Isabella.  
Bianca soon appeared, and informed her mistress of what she had 
gathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be found.  
She related the adventure of the young peasant who had been discovered 
in the vault, though with many simple additions from the incoherent 
accounts of the domestics; and she dwelt principally on the gigantic 
leg and foot which had been seen in the gallery-chamber.  This last 
circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she was rejoiced when 
Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but would watch till 
the Princess should rise.

The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of 
Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother.  "But what 
business could he have so urgent with the chaplain?" said Matilda, 
"Does he intend to have my brother's body interred privately in the 
chapel?"

"Oh, Madam!" said Bianca, "now I guess.  As you are become his 
heiress, he is impatient to have you married:  he has always been 
raving for more sons; I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons.  As 
sure as I live, Madam, I shall see you a bride at last. - Good madam, 
you won't cast off your faithful Bianca:  you won't put Donna Rosara 
over me now you are a great Princess."

"My poor Bianca," said Matilda, "how fast your thoughts amble!  I a 
great princess!  What hast thou seen in Manfred's behaviour since my 
brother's death that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me?  No, 
Bianca; his heart was ever a stranger to me - but he is my father, and 
I must not complain.  Nay, if Heaven shuts my father's heart against 
me, it overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother - O 
that dear mother! yes, Bianca, 'tis there I feel the rugged temper of 
Manfred.  I can support his harshness to me with patience; but it 
wounds my soul when I am witness to his causeless severity towards 
her."

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

"And yet you congratulated me but now," said Matilda, "when you 
fancied my father intended to dispose of me!"

"I would have you a great Lady," replied Bianca, "come what will.  I 
do not wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had 
your will, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband 
is better than no husband at all, did not hinder you. - Bless me! what 
noise is that!  St. Nicholas forgive me!  I was but in jest."

"It is the wind," said Matilda, "whistling through the battlements in 
the tower above:  you have heard it a thousand times."

"Nay," said Bianca, "there was no harm neither in what I said:  it is 
no sin to talk of matrimony - and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my 
Lord Manfred should offer you a handsome young Prince for a 
bridegroom, you would drop him a curtsey, and tell him you would 
rather take the veil?"

"Thank Heaven!  I am in no such danger," said Matilda:  "you know how 
many proposals for me he has rejected - "

"And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam?  But come, 
Madam; suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great 
council chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young 
Prince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly 
curling locks like jet; in short, Madam, a young hero resembling the 
picture of the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at 
for hours together - "

"Do not speak lightly of that picture," interrupted Matilda sighing; 
"I know the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon - 
but I am not in love with a coloured panel.  The character of that 
virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me 
for his memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me 
to pour forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that 
somehow or other my destiny is linked with something relating to him."

"Lord, Madam! how should that be?" said Bianca; "I have always heard 
that your family was in no way related to his:  and I am sure I cannot 
conceive why my Lady, the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a 
damp evening to pray at his tomb:  he is no saint by the almanack.  If 
you must pray, why does she not bid you address yourself to our great 
St. Nicholas?  I am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband."

"Perhaps my mind would be less affected," said Matilda, "if my mother 
would explain her reasons to me:  but it is the mystery she observes, 
that inspires me with this - I know not what to call it.  As she never 
acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom - 
nay, I know there is:  in her agony of grief for my brother's death 
she dropped some words that intimated as much."

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

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

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

"With my own little secrets when I have any, I may," said Matilda; 
"but never with my mother's:  a child ought to have no ears or eyes 
but as a parent directs."

"Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint," said Bianca, 
"and there is no resisting one's vocation:  you will end in a convent 
at last.  But there is my Lady Isabella would not be so reserved to 
me:  she will let me talk to her of young men:  and when a handsome 
cavalier has come to the castle, she has owned to me that she wished 
your brother Conrad resembled him."

"Bianca," said the Princess, "I do not allow you to mention my friend 
disrespectfully.  Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul 
is pure as virtue itself.  She knows your idle babbling humour, and 
perhaps has now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and 
enliven the solitude in which my father keeps us - "

"Blessed Mary!" said Bianca, starting, "there it is again!  Dear 
Madam, do you hear nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!"

"Peace!" said Matilda, "and listen!  I did think I heard a voice - but 
it must be fancy:  your terrors, I suppose, have infected me."

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

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

"Nobody has dared to lie there," answered Bianca, "since the great 
astrologer, that was your brother's tutor, drowned himself.  For 
certain, Madam, his ghost and the young Prince's are now met in the 
chamber below - for Heaven's sake let us fly to your mother's 
apartment!"

"I charge you not to stir," said Matilda.  "If they are spirits in 
pain, we may ease their sufferings by questioning them.  They can mean 
no hurt to us, for we have not injured them - and if they should, 
shall we be more safe in one chamber than in another?  Reach me my 
beads; we will say a prayer, and then speak to them."

"Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!" cried 
Bianca.  As she said those words they heard the casement of the little 
chamber below Matilda's open.  They listened attentively, and in a few 
minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish 
the words.

"This can be no evil spirit," said the Princess, in a low voice; "it 
is undoubtedly one of the family - open the window, and we shall know 
the voice."

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

"Thou art a very fool," said Matilda, opening the window gently 
herself.  The noise the Princess made was, however, heard by the 
person beneath, who stopped; and they concluded had heard the casement 
open.

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

"Yes," said an unknown voice.

"Who is it?" said Matilda.

"A stranger," replied the voice.

"What stranger?" said she; "and how didst thou come there at this 
unusual hour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?"

"I am not here willingly," answered the voice.  "But pardon me, Lady, 
if I have disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard.  Sleep 
had forsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste the 
irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient 
to be dismissed from this castle."

"Thy words and accents," said Matilda, "are of melancholy cast; if 
thou art unhappy, I pity thee.  If poverty afflicts thee, let me know 
it; I will mention thee to the Princess, whose beneficent soul ever 
melts for the distressed, and she will relieve thee."

"I am indeed unhappy," said the stranger; "and I know not what wealth 
is.  But I do not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me; I 
am young and healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself 
- yet think me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers.  I 
will remember you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your 
gracious self and your noble mistress - if I sigh, Lady, it is for 
others, not for myself."

"Now I have it, Madam," said Bianca, whispering the Princess; "this is 
certainly the young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love - 
Well! this is a charming adventure! - do, Madam, let us sift him.  He 
does not know you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita's 
women."

"Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!" said the Princess.   "What right have 
we to pry into the secrets of this young man's heart?  He seems 
virtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy.  Are those 
circumstances that authorise us to make a property of him?  How are we 
entitled to his confidence?"

"Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!" replied Bianca; "why, 
lovers have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress."

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

"Well, then, let me talk to him," said Bianca; "though I have the 
honour of being your Highness's maid of honour, I was not always so 
great.  Besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too; I have a 
respect for any young man in love."

"Peace, simpleton!" said the Princess.  "Though he said he was 
unhappy, it does not follow that he must be in love.  Think of all 
that has happened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but 
what love causes. - Stranger," resumed the Princess, "if thy 
misfortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within 
the compass of the Princess Hippolita's power to redress, I will take 
upon me to answer that she will be thy protectress.  When thou art 
dismissed from this castle, repair to holy father Jerome, at the 
convent adjoining to the church of St. Nicholas, and make thy story 
known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet.  He will not fail to 
inform the Princess, who is the mother of all that want her 
assistance.  Farewell; it is not seemly for me to hold farther 
converse with a man at this unwonted hour."

"May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!" replied the peasant; "but 
oh! if a poor and worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute's 
audience farther; am I so happy? the casement is not shut; might I 
venture to ask - "

"Speak quickly," said Matilda; "the morning dawns apace:  should the 
labourers come into the fields and perceive us - What wouldst thou 
ask?"

"I know not how, I know not if I dare," said the Young stranger, 
faltering; "yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me 
emboldens - Lady! dare I trust you?"

"Heavens!" said Matilda, "what dost thou mean?  With what wouldst thou 
trust me?  Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a 
virtuous breast."

"I would ask," said the peasant, recollecting himself, "whether what I 
have heard from the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing 
from the castle?"

"What imports it to thee to know?" replied Matilda.  "Thy first words 
bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity.  Dost thou come hither to pry 
into the secrets of Manfred?  Adieu.  I have been mistaken in thee."  
Saying these words she shut the casement hastily, without giving the 
young man time to reply.

"I had acted more wisely," said the Princess to Bianca, with some 
sharpness, "if I had let thee converse with this peasant; his 
inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own."

"It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness," replied Bianca; 
"but perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been 
more to the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him."

"Oh! no doubt," said Matilda; "you are a very discreet personage!  May 
I know what YOU would have asked him?"

"A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play," 
answered Bianca.  "Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question 
about my Lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity?  No, no, 
Madam, there is more in it than you great folks are aware of.  Lopez 
told me that all the servants believe this young fellow contrived my 
Lady Isabella's escape; now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know 
that my Lady Isabella never much fancied the Prince your brother.  
Well! he is killed just in a critical minute - I accuse nobody.  A 
helmet falls from the moon - so, my Lord, your father says; but Lopez 
and all the servants say that this young spark is a magician, and 
stole it from Alfonso's tomb - "

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

"Nay, Madam, as you please," cried Bianca; "yet it is very particular 
though, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and 
that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the trap-
door.  I accuse nobody; but if my young Lord came honestly by his 
death - "

"Dare not on thy duty," said Matilda, "to breathe a suspicion on the 
purity of my dear Isabella's fame."

"Purity, or not purity," said Bianca, "gone she is - a stranger is 
found that nobody knows; you question him yourself; he tells you he is 
in love, or unhappy, it is the same thing - nay, he owned he was 
unhappy about others; and is anybody unhappy about another, unless 
they are in love with them? and at the very next word, he asks 
innocently, pour soul! if my Lady Isabella is missing."

"To be sure," said Matilda, "thy observations are not totally without 
foundation - Isabella's flight amazes me.  The curiosity of the 
stranger is very particular; yet Isabella never concealed a thought 
from me."

"So she told you," said Bianca, "to fish out your secrets; but who 
knows, Madam, but this stranger may be some Prince in disguise?  Do, 
Madam, let me open the window, and ask him a few questions."

"No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of 
Isabella; he is not worthy I should converse farther with him."  She 
was going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the 
postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower, 
where Matilda lay.  This prevented the Princess from renewing the 
conversation with the stranger.

After continuing silent for some time, "I am persuaded," said she to 
Bianca, "that whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight it had no 
unworthy motive.  If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be 
satisfied with his fidelity and worth.  I observed, did not you, 
Bianca? that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of 
piety.  It was no ruffian's speech; his phrases were becoming a man of 
gentle birth."

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

"Yet," said Matilda, "if he was privy to her escape, how will you 
account for his not accompanying her in her flight? why expose himself 
unnecessarily and rashly to my father's resentment?"

"As for that, Madam," replied she, "if he could get from under the 
helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father's anger.  I do not 
doubt but he has some talisman or other about him."

"You resolve everything into magic," said Matilda; "but a man who has 
any intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of 
those tremendous and holy words which he uttered.  Didst thou not 
observe with what fervour he vowed to remember ME to heaven in his 
prayers?  Yes; Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety."

"Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult 
to elope!" said Bianca.  "No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of 
another guess mould than you take her for.  She used indeed to sigh 
and lift up her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a 
saint; but when your back was turned - "

"You wrong her," said Matilda; "Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a 
due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not.  On the 
contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and 
though I own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds 
me; though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us; I 
cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she always opposed 
my taking the veil.  She wished to see me married, though my dower 
would have been a loss to her and my brother's children.  For her sake 
I will believe well of this young peasant."

"Then you do think there is some liking between them," said Bianca.  
While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and 
told the Princess that the Lady Isabella was found.

"Where?" said Matilda.

"She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas's church," replied the 
servant; "Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with 
his Highness."

"Where is my mother?" said Matilda.

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

Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita's 
apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella.  While he was 
questioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with 
him.  Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the Friar's arrival, and 
knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to 
be admitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his 
search after Isabella.

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

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

"What of her?" interrupted Manfred, eagerly.

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

"That is no business of Hippolita," said Manfred with confusion; "let 
us retire to my chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither."

"No, my Lord," replied the good man, with an air of firmness and 
authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help 
revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome; "my commission is to both, 
and with your Highness's good-liking, in the presence of both I shall 
deliver it; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess, 
whether she is acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella's 
retirement from your castle."

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

"Father,"  interrupted Manfred, "I pay due reverence to your holy 
profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest 
to interfere in the affairs of my domestic.  If you have aught to say 
attend me to my chamber; I do not use to let my wife be acquainted 
with the secret affairs of my state; they are not within a woman's 
province."

"My Lord," said the holy man, "I am no intruder into the secrets of 
families.  My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach 
repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions.  I 
forgive your Highness's uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and 
am the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred.  Hearken to him who 
speaks through my organs."

Manfred trembled with rage and shame.  Hippolita's countenance 
declared her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end.  
Her silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.

"The Lady Isabella," resumed Jerome, "commends herself to both your 
Highnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been 
treated in your castle:  she deplores the loss of your son, and her 
own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble 
Princes, whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for 
uninterrupted union and felicity between you" [Manfred's colour 
changed]:  "but as it is no longer possible for her to be allied to 
you, she entreats your consent to remain in sanctuary, till she can 
learn news of her father, or, by the certainty of his death, be at 
liberty, with the approbation of her guardians, to dispose of herself 
in suitable marriage."

"I shall give no such consent," said the Prince, "but insist on her 
return to the castle without delay:  I am answerable for her person to 
her guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own."

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

"I want no monitor," said Manfred, colouring; "Isabella's conduct 
leaves room for strange suspicions - and that young villain, who was 
at least the accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it - "

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

"This is not to be borne!" cried Manfred.  "Am I to be bearded in my 
own palace by an insolent Monk?  Thou art privy, I guess, to their 
amours."

"I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises," said 
Jerome, "if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how 
unjustly you accuse me.  I do pray to heaven to pardon that 
uncharitableness:  and I implore your Highness to leave the Princess 
at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed 
by such vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any 
man."

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

"It is my duty to prevent her return hither," said Jerome.  "She is 
where orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this 
world; and nothing but a parent's authority shall take her thence."

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

"She wished to have you for her parent," said the Friar; "but Heaven 
that forbad that connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt 
you:  and I announce to your Highness - "

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

"Holy farther," said Hippolita, "it is your office to be no respecter 
of persons:  you must speak as your duty prescribes:  but it is my 
duty to hear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear.  
Attend the Prince to his chamber.  I will retire to my oratory, and 
pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and 
to restore the heart of my gracious Lord to its wonted peace and 
gentleness."

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

Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where 
shutting the door, "I perceive, Father," said he, "that Isabella has 
acquainted you with my purpose.  Now hear my resolve, and obey.  
Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my 
people, demand that I should have a son.  It is in vain to expect an 
heir from Hippolita.  I have made choice of Isabella.  You must bring 
her back; and you must do more.  I know the influence you have with 
Hippolita:  her conscience is in your hands.  She is, I allow, a 
faultless woman:  her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little 
grandeur of this world:  you can withdraw her from it entirely.  
Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to 
retire into a monastery - she shall endow one if she will; and she 
shall have the means of being as liberal to your order as she or you 
can wish.  Thus you will divert the calamities that are hanging over 
our heads, and have the merit of saying the principality of Otranto 
from destruction.  You are a prudent man, and though the warmth of my 
temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honour your 
virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and 
the preservation of my family."

"The will of heaven be done!" said the Friar.  "I am but its worthless 
instrument.  It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy 
unwarrantable designs.  The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have 
mounted to the throne of pity.  By me thou art reprimanded for thy 
adulterous intention of repudiating her:  by me thou art warned not to 
pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter.  Heaven that 
delivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on 
thy house ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will 
continue to watch over her.  Even I, a poor and despised Friar, am 
able to protect her from thy violence - I, sinner as I am, and 
uncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not 
what amours, scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to 
tempt mine honesty.  I love my order; I honour devout souls; I respect 
the piety of thy Princess - but I will not betray the confidence she 
reposes in me, nor serve even the cause of religion by foul and sinful 
compliances - but forsooth! the welfare of the state depends on your 
Highness having a son!  Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man.  
But yester-morn, whose house was so great, so flourishing as 
Manfred's? - where is young Conrad now? - My Lord, I respect your 
tears - but I mean not to check them - let them flow, Prince!  They 
will weigh more with heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects, than a 
marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper.  The 
sceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be 
preserved by a match which the church will never allow.  If it is the 
will of the Most High that Manfred's name must perish, resign 
yourself, my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can 
never pass away.  Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow - let us return to 
the Princess:  she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I 
mean more than to alarm you.  You saw with what gentle patience, with 
what efforts of love, she heard, she rejected hearing, the extent of 
your guilt.  I know she longs to fold you in her arms, and assure you 
of her unalterable affection."

"Father," said the Prince, "you mistake my compunction:  true, I 
honour Hippolita's virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for 
my soul's health to tie faster the knot that has united us - but alas! 
Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that I 
have had scruples on the legality of our union:  Hippolita is related 
to me in the fourth degree - it is true, we had a dispensation:  but I 
have been informed that she had also been contracted to another.  This 
it is that sits heavy at my heart:  to this state of unlawful wedlock 
I impute the visitation that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad! 
- ease my conscience of this burden:  dissolve our marriage, and 
accomplish the work of godliness - which your divine exhortations have 
commenced in my soul."

How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived 
this turn in the wily Prince!  He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin 
he saw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of 
recovering Isabella, that his impatience for a son would direct him to 
some other object, who might not be equally proof against the 
temptation of Manfred's rank.  For some time the holy man remained 
absorbed in thought.  At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he 
thought the wisest conduct would be to prevent the Prince from 
despairing of recovering Isabella.  Her the Friar knew he could 
dispose, from her affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she 
had expressed to him for Manfred's addresses, to second his views, 
till the censures of the church could be fulminated against a divorce.  
With this intention, as if struck with the Prince's scruples, he at 
length said:

"My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if 
in truth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your 
repugnance to your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to 
harden your heart.  The church is an indulgent mother:  unfold your 
griefs to her:  she alone can administer comfort to your soul, either 
by satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, 
by setting you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of 
continuing your lineage.  In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can 
be brought to consent - "

Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, 
or that his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, 
was overjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent 
promises, if he should succeed by the Friar's mediation.  The well-
meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined to 
traverse his views, instead of seconding them.

"Since we now understand one another," resumed the Prince, "I expect, 
Father, that you satisfy me in one point.  Who is the youth that I 
found in the vault?  He must have been privy to Isabella's flight:  
tell me truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another's 
passion?  I have often suspected Isabella's indifference to my son:  a 
thousand circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion.  
She herself was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the 
gallery, she outran my suspicious, and endeavoured to justify herself 
from coolness to Conrad."

The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt 
occasionally from the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and 
not sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred's temper, 
conceived that it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in 
his mind:  they might be turned to some use hereafter, either by 
prejudicing the Prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that union 
or by diverting his attention to a wrong scent, and employing his 
thoughts on a visionary intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new 
pursuit.  With this unhappy policy, he answered in a manner to confirm 
Manfred in the belief of some connection between Isabella and the 
youth.  The Prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them 
into a blaze, fell into a rage at the idea of what the Friar 
suggested.

 "I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue," cried he; and 
quitting Jerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his 
return, he hastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the 
peasant to be brought before him.

"Thou hardened young impostor!" said the Prince, as soon as he saw the 
youth; "what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, 
was it, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the 
trap-door to thee?  Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long 
thou hast been acquainted with the Princess - and take care to answer 
with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall 
wring the truth from thee."

The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess 
was discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no 
longer be of any service or detriment to her, replied -

"I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language.  
I answered to every question your Highness put to me last night with 
the same veracity that I shall speak now:  and that will not be from 
fear of your tortures, but because my soul abhors a falsehood.  Please 
to repeat your questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the 
satisfaction in my power."

"You know my questions," replied the Prince, "and only want time to 
prepare an evasion.  Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast 
thou been known to the Princess?"

"I am a labourer at the next village," said the peasant; "my name is 
Theodore.  The Princess found me in the vault last night:  before that 
hour I never was in her presence."

"I may believe as much or as little as I please of this," said 
Manfred; "but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the 
truth of it.  Tell me, what reason did the Princess give thee for 
making her escape? thy life depends on thy answer."

"She told me," replied Theodore, "that she was on the brink of 
destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was 
in danger in a few moments of being made miserable for ever."

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

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

During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of 
Hippolita.  At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a 
boarded gallery with latticed windows, through which Matilda and 
Bianca were to pass.  Hearing her father's voice, and seeing the 
servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the occasion.  The 
prisoner soon drew her attention:  the steady and composed manner in 
which he answered, and the gallantry of his last reply, which were the 
first words she heard distinctly, interested her in his flavour.  His 
person was noble, handsome, and commanding, even in that situation:  
but his countenance soon engrossed her whole care.

"Heavens!  Bianca," said the Princess softly, "do I dream? or is not 
that youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso's picture in the gallery?"

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

"This bravado," said he, "surpasses all thy former insolence.  Thou 
shalt experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle.  Seize 
him," continued Manfred, "and 'bind him - the first news the Princess 
hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her 
sake."

"The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me," said Theodore, 
"convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess 
from thy tyranny.  May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!"

"This is a lover!" cried Manfred in a rage:  "a peasant within sight 
of death is not animated by such sentiments.  Tell me, tell me, rash 
boy, who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee."

"Thou hast threatened me with death already," said the youth, "for the 
truth I have told thee:  if that is all the encouragement I am to 
expect for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity 
farther."

"Then thou wilt not speak?" said Manfred.

"I will not," replied he.

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

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

"Help! help! the Princess is dead!"  Manfred started at this 
ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter!  The young peasant, who 
heard it too, was struck with horror, and asked eagerly the same 
question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into the court, and 
kept there for execution, till he had informed himself of the cause of 
Bianca's shrieks.  When he learned the meaning, he treated it as a 
womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment, 
he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his guards, bade 
Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow.

The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation 
that touched every heart but Manfred's.  He wished earnestly to know 
the meaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but 
fearing to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted.  The 
only boon he deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a 
confessor, and make his peace with heaven.  Manfred, who hoped by the 
confessor's means to come at the youth's history, readily granted his 
request; and being convinced that Father Jerome was now in his 
interest, he ordered him to be called and shrive the prisoner.  The 
holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe that his imprudence 
occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in the 
most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood.  He accused himself in 
the bitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate 
the youth, and left no method untried to soften the tyrant's rage.  
Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome's intercession, whose 
retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed upon by both, 
commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would not allow the 
prisoner many minutes for confession.

"Nor do I ask many, my Lord," said the unhappy young man.  "My sins, 
thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be 
expected at my years.  Dry your tears, good Father, and let us 
despatch.  This is a bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with 
regret."

"Oh wretched youth!" said Jerome; "how canst thou bear the sight of me 
with patience?  I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal 
hour upon thee!"

"I forgive thee from my soul," said the youth, "as I hope heaven will 
pardon me.  Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing."

"How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?" said Jerome.  
"Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes - and canst thou 
forgive that impious man there?"

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

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

"I sent for thee to confess him," said Manfred, sternly; "not to plead 
for him.  Thou didst first incense me against him - his blood be upon 
thy head!"

"It will! it will!" said the good main, in an agony of sorrow.  "Thou 
and I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!"

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

"What!" said the youth; "is it possible that my fate could have 
occasioned what I heard!  Is the Princess then again in thy power?"

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

The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the 
sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as 
into the Friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, 
and unbuttoning, his collar, knelt down to his prayers.  As he 
stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the 
mark of a bloody arrow.

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

The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted.  
The tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than 
stopped by joy.  They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what 
they ought to feel.  Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded 
each other in the countenance of the youth.  He received with modest 
submission the effusion of the old man's tears and embraces.  Yet 
afraid of giving a loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed 
the inflexibility of Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards the 
Prince, as if to say, canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this?

Manfred's heart was capable of being touched.  He forgot his anger in 
his astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected.  
He even doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the 
Friar to save the youth.

"What may this mean?" said he.  "How can he be thy son?  Is it 
consistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant's 
offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours!"

"Oh, God!" said the holy man, "dost thou question his being mine?  
Could I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father?  Spare him! 
good Prince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest."

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

"Peace!" said Manfred, sternly.  "I must know more ere I am disposed 
to pardon.  A Saint's bastard may be no saint himself."

"Injurious Lord!" said Theodore, "add not insult to cruelty.  If I am 
this venerable man's son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the 
blood that flows in my veins - "

"Yes," said the Friar, interrupting him, "his blood is noble; nor is 
he that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him.  He is my lawful son, 
and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of 
Falconara.  But alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility!  We 
are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures.  It is piety alone that 
can distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must 
return."

"Truce to your sermon," said Manfred; "you forget you are no longer 
Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara.  Let me know your history; 
you will have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to 
obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there."

"Mother of God!" said the Friar, "is it possible my Lord can refuse a 
father the life of his only, his long-lost, child!  Trample me, my 
Lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!"

"Thou canst feel, then," said Manfred, "what it is to lose an only 
son!  A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me:  MY 
house, if fate so pleased, must perish - but the Count of Falconara - 
"

"Alas! my Lord," said Jerome, "I confess I have offended; but 
aggravate not an old man's sufferings!  I boast not of my family, nor 
think of such vanities - it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is 
the memory of the dear woman that bore him.  Is she, Theodore, is she 
dead?"

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

"Oh! how?" cried Jerome, "tell me - no - she is happy!  Thou art all 
my care now! - Most dread Lord! will you - will you grant me my poor 
boy's life?"

"Return to thy convent," answered Manfred; "conduct the Princess 
hither; obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life 
of thy son."

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

"For me!" cried Theodore.  "Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than 
stain thy conscience.  What is it the tyrant would exact of thee?  Is 
the Princess still safe from his power?  Protect her, thou venerable 
old man; and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me."

Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere 
Manfred could reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen 
trumpet, which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly 
sounded.  At the same instant the sable plumes on the enchanted 
helmet, which still remained at the other end of the court, were 
tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some 
invisible wearer.


CHAPTER III
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