CHAPTER 2
Matilda, who by Hippolita's order had retired to her apartment, was ill-disposed to
take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had deeply affected her. She was
surprised at not seeing Isabella; but the strange words which had fallen from her
father, and his obscure menace to the Princess his wife, accompanied by the most
furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited
anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had
sent to learn what was become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared, and informed her
mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be
found. She related the adventure of the young peasant who had been discovered in the
vault, though with many simple additions from the incoherent accounts of the
domestics; and she dwelt principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen
in the gallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she
was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but would watch till
the Princess should rise.
The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of Isabella, and on the
threats of Manfred to her mother. "But what business could he have so urgent with
the chaplain?" said Matilda, "Does he intend to have my brother's body interred
privately in the chapel?"
"Oh, Madam!" said Bianca, "now I guess. As you are become his heiress, he is
impatient to have you married: he has always been raving for more sons; I warrant he
is now impatient for grandsons. As sure as I live, Madam, I shall see you a bride at
last.—Good madam, you won't cast off your faithful Bianca: you won't put Donna
Rosara over me now you are a great Princess."
"My poor Bianca," said Matilda, "how fast your thoughts amble! I a great
princess! What hast thou seen in Manfred's behaviour since my brother's death that
bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me? No, Bianca; his heart was ever a stranger
to me—but he is my father, and I must not complain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my
father's heart against me, it overpays my little merit in the tenderness of my mother—
O that dear mother! yes, Bianca, 'tis there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I can
support his harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I am witness
to his causeless severity towards her."
"Oh! Madam," said Bianca, "all men use their wives so, when they are weary of
them."
"And yet you congratulated me but now," said Matilda, "when you fancied my father
intended to dispose of me!"
"I would have you a great Lady," replied Bianca, "come what will. I do not wish to
see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had your will, and if my Lady,
your mother, who knows that a bad husband is better than no husband at all, did not
hinder you.—Bless me! what noise is that! St. Nicholas forgive me! I was but in
jest."
"It is the wind," said Matilda, "whistling through the battlements in the tower above:
you have heard it a thousand times."
"Nay," said Bianca, "there was no harm neither in what I said: it is no sin to talk of
matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my Lord Manfred should offer you a
handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, you would drop him a curtsey, and tell him
you would rather take the veil?"
"Thank Heaven! I am in no such danger," said Matilda: "you know how many
proposals for me he has rejected—"
"And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam? But come, Madam;
suppose, to-morrow morning, he was to send for you to the great council chamber,
and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young Prince, with large black eyes, a
smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like jet; in short, Madam, a young
hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze
at for hours together—"
"Do not speak lightly of that picture," interrupted Matilda sighing; "I know the
adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon—but I am not in love with a
coloured panel. The character of that virtuous Prince, the veneration with which my
mother has inspired me for his memory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has
enjoined me to pour forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that
somehow or other my destiny is linked with something relating to him."
"Lord, Madam! how should that be?" said Bianca; "I have always heard that your
family was in no way related to his: and I am sure I cannot conceive why my Lady,
the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a damp evening to pray at his tomb: he is
no saint by the almanack. If you must pray, why does she not bid you address
yourself to our great St. Nicholas? I am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband."
"Perhaps my mind would be less affected," said Matilda, "if my mother would explain
her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes, that inspires me with this—I
know not what to call it. As she never acts from caprice, I am sure there is some fatal
secret at bottom—nay, I know there is: in her agony of grief for my brother's death
she dropped some words that intimated as much."
"Oh! dear Madam," cried Bianca, "what were they?"
"No," said Matilda, "if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes it recalled, it is not for a
child to utter it."
"What! was she sorry for what she had said?" asked Bianca; "I am sure, Madam, you
may trust me—"
"With my own little secrets when I have any, I may," said Matilda; "but never with
my mother's: a child ought to have no ears or eyes but as a parent directs."
"Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint," said Bianca, "and there is no
resisting one's vocation: you will end in a convent at last. But there is my Lady
Isabella would not be so reserved to me: she will let me talk to her of young men: and
when a handsome cavalier has come to the castle, she has owned to me that she
wished your brother Conrad resembled him."
"Bianca," said the Princess, "I do not allow you to mention my friend
disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul is pure as virtue
itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhaps has now and then
encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven the solitude in which my father keeps
us—"
"Blessed Mary!" said Bianca, starting, "there it is again! Dear Madam, do you hear
nothing? this castle is certainly haunted!"
"Peace!" said Matilda, "and listen! I did think I heard a voice—but it must be fancy:
your terrors, I suppose, have infected me."
"Indeed! indeed! Madam," said Bianca, half-weeping with agony, "I am sure I heard
a voice."
"Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?" said the Princess.
"Nobody has dared to lie there," answered Bianca, "since the great astrologer, that
was your brother's tutor, drowned himself. For certain, Madam, his ghost and the
young Prince's are now met in the chamber below—for Heaven's sake let us fly to
your mother's apartment!"
"I charge you not to stir," said Matilda. "If they are spirits in pain, we may ease their
sufferings by questioning them. They can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured
them—and if they should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than in
another? Reach me my beads; we will say a prayer, and then speak to them."
"Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!" cried Bianca. As she
said those words they heard the casement of the little chamber below Matilda's
open. They listened attentively, and in a few minutes thought they heard a person
sing, but could not distinguish the words.
"This can be no evil spirit," said the Princess, in a low voice; "it is undoubtedly one of
the family—open the window, and we shall know the voice."
"I dare not, indeed, Madam," said Bianca.
"Thou art a very fool," said Matilda, opening the window gently herself. The noise
the Princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath, who stopped; and they
concluded had heard the casement open.
"Is anybody below?" said the Princess; "if there is, speak."
"Yes," said an unknown voice.
"Who is it?" said Matilda.
"A stranger," replied the voice.
"What stranger?" said she; "and how didst thou come there at this unusual hour, when
all the gates of the castle are locked?"
"I am not here willingly," answered the voice. "But pardon me, Lady, if I have
disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard. Sleep had forsaken me; I left a
restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach
of morning, impatient to be dismissed from this castle."
"Thy words and accents," said Matilda, "are of melancholy cast; if thou art unhappy, I
pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it; I will mention thee to the Princess,
whose beneficent soul ever melts for the distressed, and she will relieve thee."
"I am indeed unhappy," said the stranger; "and I know not what wealth is. But I do
not complain of the lot which Heaven has cast for me; I am young and healthy, and
am not ashamed of owing my support to myself—yet think me not proud, or that I
disdain your generous offers. I will remember you in my orisons, and will pray for
blessings on your gracious self and your noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for
others, not for myself."
"Now I have it, Madam," said Bianca, whispering the Princess; "this is certainly the
young peasant; and, by my conscience, he is in love—Well! this is a charming
adventure!—do, Madam, let us sift him. He does not know you, but takes you for one
of my Lady Hippolita's women."
"Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!" said the Princess. "What right have we to pry into
the secrets of this young man's heart? He seems virtuous and frank, and tells us he is
unhappy. Are those circumstances that authorise us to make a property of him? How
are we entitled to his confidence?"
"Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!" replied Bianca; "why, lovers have no
pleasure equal to talking of their mistress."
"And would you have me become a peasant's confidante?" said the Princess.
"Well, then, let me talk to him," said Bianca; "though I have the honour of being your
Highness's maid of honour, I was not always so great. Besides, if love levels ranks, it
raises them too; I have a respect for any young man in love."
"Peace, simpleton!" said the Princess. "Though he said he was unhappy, it does not
follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has happened to-day, and tell me if
there are no misfortunes but what love causes.—Stranger," resumed the Princess, "if
thy misfortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the
compass of the Princess Hippolita's power to redress, I will take upon me to answer
that she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair to
holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church of St. Nicholas, and make
thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet. He will not fail to inform the
Princess, who is the mother of all that want her assistance. Farewell; it is not seemly
for me to hold farther converse with a man at this unwonted hour."
"May the saints guard thee, gracious Lady!" replied the peasant; "but oh! if a poor and
worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute's audience farther; am I so happy?
the casement is not shut; might I venture to ask—"
"Speak quickly," said Matilda; "the morning dawns apace: should the labourers come
into the fields and perceive us—What wouldst thou ask?"
"I know not how, I know not if I dare," said the Young stranger, faltering; "yet the
humanity with which you have spoken to me emboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?"
"Heavens!" said Matilda, "what dost thou mean? With what wouldst thou trust
me? Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a virtuous breast."
"I would ask," said the peasant, recollecting himself, "whether what I have heard from
the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing from the castle?"
"What imports it to thee to know?" replied Matilda. "Thy first words bespoke a
prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pry into the secrets of
Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee." Saying these words she shut the
casement hastily, without giving the young man time to reply.
"I had acted more wisely," said the Princess to Bianca, with some sharpness, "if I had
let thee converse with this peasant; his inquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own."
"It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness," replied Bianca; "but perhaps the
questions I should have put to him would have been more to the purpose than those
you have been pleased to ask him."
"Oh! no doubt," said Matilda; "you are a very discreet personage! May I know
what you would have asked him?"
"A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play," answered
Bianca. "Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question about my Lady
Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, there is more in it than you
great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the servants believe this young fellow
contrived my Lady Isabella's escape; now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both
know that my Lady Isabella never much fancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is
killed just in a critical minute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so,
my Lord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that this young spark is a
magician, and stole it from Alfonso's tomb—"
"Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence," said Matilda.
"Nay, Madam, as you please," cried Bianca; "yet it is very particular though, that my
Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, and that this young sorcerer
should be found at the mouth of the trap-door. I accuse nobody; but if my young Lord
came honestly by his death—"
"Dare not on thy duty," said Matilda, "to breathe a suspicion on the purity of my dear
Isabella's fame."
"Purity, or not purity," said Bianca, "gone she is—a stranger is found that nobody
knows; you question him yourself; he tells you he is in love, or unhappy, it is the same
thing—nay, he owned he was unhappy about others; and is anybody unhappy about
another, unless they are in love with them? and at the very next word, he asks
innocently, pour soul! if my Lady Isabella is missing."
"To be sure," said Matilda, "thy observations are not totally without foundation—
Isabella's flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger is very particular; yet
Isabella never concealed a thought from me."
"So she told you," said Bianca, "to fish out your secrets; but who knows, Madam, but
this stranger may be some Prince in disguise? Do, Madam, let me open the window,
and ask him a few questions."
"No," replied Matilda, "I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of Isabella; he is not
worthy I should converse farther with him." She was going to open the casement,
when they heard the bell ring at the postern-gate of the castle, which is on the right
hand of the tower, where Matilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing the
conversation with the stranger.
After continuing silent for some time, "I am persuaded," said she to Bianca, "that
whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight it had no unworthy motive. If this stranger
was accessory to it, she must be satisfied with his fidelity and worth. I observed, did
not you, Bianca? that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of
piety. It was no ruffian's speech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth."
"I told you, Madam," said Bianca, "that I was sure he was some Prince in disguise."
"Yet," said Matilda, "if he was privy to her escape, how will you account for his not
accompanying her in her flight? why expose himself unnecessarily and rashly to my
father's resentment?"
"As for that, Madam," replied she, "if he could get from under the helmet, he will find
ways of eluding your father's anger. I do not doubt but he has some talisman or other
about him."
"You resolve everything into magic," said Matilda; "but a man who has any
intercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of those tremendous and
holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with what fervour he vowed to
remember me to heaven in his prayers? Yes; Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of
his piety."
"Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult to elope!" said
Bianca. "No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of another guess mould than you take
her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift up her eyes in your company, because she
knows you are a saint; but when your back was turned—"
"You wrong her," said Matilda; "Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a due sense of
devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the contrary, she always combated
my inclination for the cloister; and though I own the mystery she has made to me of
her flight confounds me; though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us;
I cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the
veil. She wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to her
and my brother's children. For her sake I will believe well of this young peasant."
"Then you do think there is some liking between them," said Bianca. While she was
speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber and told the Princess that the Lady
Isabella was found.
"Where?" said Matilda.
"She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas's church," replied the servant; "Father
Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with his Highness."
"Where is my mother?" said Matilda.
"She is in her own chamber, Madam, and has asked for you."
Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita's apartment, to
inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioning her, word was
brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the
cause of the Friar's arrival, and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her
charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave them together, while he
pursued his search after Isabella.
"Is your business with me or the Princess?" said Manfred.
"With both," replied the holy man. "The Lady Isabella—"
"What of her?" interrupted Manfred, eagerly.
"Is at St. Nicholas's altar," replied Jerome.
"That is no business of Hippolita," said Manfred with confusion; "let us retire to my
chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither."
"No, my Lord," replied the good man, with an air of firmness and authority, that
daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help revering the saint-like virtues
of Jerome; "my commission is to both, and with your Highness's good-liking, in the
presence of both I shall deliver it; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess,
whether she is acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella's retirement from your
castle."
"No, on my soul," said Hippolita; "does Isabella charge me with being privy to it?"
"Father," interrupted Manfred, "I pay due reverence to your holy profession; but I am
sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest to interfere in the affairs of my
domestic. If you have aught to say attend me to my chamber; I do not use to let my
wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state; they are not within a woman's
province."
"My Lord," said the holy man, "I am no intruder into the secrets of families. My
office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach repentance, and teach mankind
to curb their headstrong passions. I forgive your Highness's uncharitable apostrophe;
I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to
him who speaks through my organs."
Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita's countenance declared her
astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Her silence more
strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.
"The Lady Isabella," resumed Jerome, "commends herself to both your Highnesses;
she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been treated in your castle: she
deplores the loss of your son, and her own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of
such wise and noble Princes, whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for
uninterrupted union and felicity between you" [Manfred's colour changed]: "but as it
is no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to remain in
sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by the certainty of his death, be at
liberty, with the approbation of her guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable
marriage."
"I shall give no such consent," said the Prince, "but insist on her return to the castle
without delay: I am answerable for her person to her guardians, and will not brook her
being in any hands but my own."
"Your Highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper," replied the
Friar.
"I want no monitor," said Manfred, colouring; "Isabella's conduct leaves room for
strange suspicions—and that young villain, who was at least the accomplice of her
flight, if not the cause of it—"
"The cause!" interrupted Jerome; "was a young man the cause?"
"This is not to be borne!" cried Manfred. "Am I to be bearded in my own palace by
an insolent Monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours."
"I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises," said Jerome, "if your
Highness were not satisfied in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do
pray to heaven to pardon that uncharitableness: and I implore your Highness to leave
the Princess at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such
vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man."
"Cant not to me," said Manfred, "but return and bring the Princess to her duty."
"It is my duty to prevent her return hither," said Jerome. "She is where orphans and
virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world; and nothing but a parent's
authority shall take her thence."
"I am her parent," cried Manfred, "and demand her."
"She wished to have you for her parent," said the Friar; "but Heaven that forbad that
connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and I announce to your
Highness—"
"Stop! audacious man," said Manfred, "and dread my displeasure."
"Holy farther," said Hippolita, "it is your office to be no respecter of persons: you
must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not
my Lord I should hear. Attend the Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory,
and pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the
heart of my gracious Lord to its wonted peace and gentleness."
"Excellent woman!" said the Friar. "My Lord, I attend your pleasure."
Manfred, accompanied by the Friar, passed to his own apartment, where shutting the
door, "I perceive, Father," said he, "that Isabella has acquainted you with my
purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my
own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have a son. It is in vain to
expect an heir from Hippolita. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her
back; and you must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita: her
conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on
heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you can withdraw her from it
entirely. Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into
a monastery—she shall endow one if she will; and she shall have the means of being
as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the calamities
that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saying the principality of
Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and though the warmth of my
temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honour your virtue, and
wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and the preservation of my
family."
"The will of heaven be done!" said the Friar. "I am but its worthless instrument. It
makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thy unwarrantable designs. The
injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art
reprimanded for thy adulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned
not to pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven that delivered
her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thy house ought to have
inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and
despised Friar, am able to protect her from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and
uncharitably reviled by your Highness as an accomplice of I know not what amours,
scorn the allurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty. I love my
order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy Princess—but I will not betray
the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even the cause of religion by foul and
sinful compliances—but forsooth! the welfare of the state depends on your Highness
having a son! Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn,
whose house was so great, so flourishing as Manfred's?—where is young Conrad
now?—My Lord, I respect your tears—but I mean not to check them—let them flow,
Prince! They will weigh more with heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects, than a
marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. The sceptre, which
passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot be preserved by a match which the
church will never allow. If it is the will of the Most High that Manfred's name must
perish, resign yourself, my Lord, to its decrees; and thus deserve a crown that can
never pass away. Come, my Lord; I like this sorrow—let us return to the Princess:
she is not apprised of your cruel intentions; nor did I mean more than to alarm
you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love, she heard, she
rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. I know she longs to fold you in her arms,
and assure you of her unalterable affection."
"Father," said the Prince, "you mistake my compunction: true, I honour Hippolita's
virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for my soul's health to tie faster the knot
that has united us—but alas! Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs! it is
some time that I have had scruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to
me in the fourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been informed
that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavy at my heart: to
this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation that has fallen on me in the death
of Conrad!—ease my conscience of this burden: dissolve our marriage, and
accomplish the work of godliness—which your divine exhortations have commenced
in my soul."
How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceived this turn in
the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was determined; and
he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella, that his impatience for a son
would direct him to some other object, who might not be equally proof against the
temptation of Manfred's rank. For some time the holy man remained absorbed in
thought. At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest conduct
would be to prevent the Prince from despairing of recovering Isabella. Her the Friar
knew he could dispose, from her affection to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had
expressed to him for Manfred's addresses, to second his views, till the censures of the
church could be fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with the
Prince's scruples, he at length said:
"My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if in truth it is
delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your repugnance to your virtuous
Lady, far be it from me to endeavour to harden your heart. The church is an indulgent
mother: unfold your griefs to her: she alone can administer comfort to your soul,
either by satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, by setting
you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means of continuing your lineage. In
the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can be brought to consent—"
Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, or that his
first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was overjoyed at this sudden
turn, and repeated the most magnificent promises, if he should succeed by the Friar's
mediation. The well-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined
to traverse his views, instead of seconding them.
"Since we now understand one another," resumed the Prince, "I expect, Father, that
you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found in the vault? He must have
been privy to Isabella's flight: tell me truly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for
another's passion? I have often suspected Isabella's indifference to my son: a
thousand circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself
was so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, she outran my
suspicious, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness to Conrad."
The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learnt occasionally from
the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and not sufficiently reflecting on the
impetuosity of Manfred's temper, conceived that it might not be amiss to sow the
seeds of jealousy in his mind: they might be turned to some use hereafter, either by
prejudicing the Prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting his
attention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionary intrigue,
prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy policy, he answered in a
manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of some connection between Isabella and the
youth. The Prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell
into a rage at the idea of what the Friar suggested.
"I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue," cried he; and quitting Jerome abruptly,
with a command to remain there till his return, he hastened to the great hall of the
castle, and ordered the peasant to be brought before him.
"Thou hardened young impostor!" said the Prince, as soon as he saw the youth; "what
becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, was it, and the light of the
moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who
thou art, and how long thou hast been acquainted with the Princess—and take care to
answer with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring the
truth from thee."
The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princess was discovered,
and concluding that anything he should say could no longer be of any service or
detriment to her, replied—
"I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. I answered
to every question your Highness put to me last night with the same veracity that I shall
speak now: and that will not be from fear of your tortures, but because my soul abhors
a falsehood. Please to repeat your questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the
satisfaction in my power."
"You know my questions," replied the Prince, "and only want time to prepare an
evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast thou been known to the
Princess?"
"I am a labourer at the next village," said the peasant; "my name is Theodore. The
Princess found me in the vault last night: before that hour I never was in her
presence."
"I may believe as much or as little as I please of this," said Manfred; "but I will hear
thy own story before I examine into the truth of it. Tell me, what reason did the
Princess give thee for making her escape? thy life depends on thy answer."
"She told me," replied Theodore, "that she was on the brink of destruction, and that if
she could not escape from the castle, she was in danger in a few moments of being
made miserable for ever."
"And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl's report," said Manfred, "thou didst
hazard my displeasure?"
"I fear no man's displeasure," said Theodore, "when a woman in distress puts herself
under my protection."
During this examination, Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita. At the
upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery with latticed
windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing her father's voice,
and seeing the servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the occasion. The
prisoner soon drew her attention: the steady and composed manner in which he
answered, and the gallantry of his last reply, which were the first words she heard
distinctly, interested her in his flavour. His person was noble, handsome, and
commanding, even in that situation: but his countenance soon engrossed her whole
care.
"Heavens! Bianca," said the Princess softly, "do I dream? or is not that youth the
exact resemblance of Alfonso's picture in the gallery?"
She could say no more, for her father's voice grew louder at every word.
"This bravado," said he, "surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt experience
the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him," continued Manfred, "and bind
him—the first news the Princess hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his
head for her sake.
"The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me," said Theodore, "convinces me
that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess from thy tyranny. May she be
happy, whatever becomes of me!"
"This is a lover!" cried Manfred in a rage: "a peasant within sight of death is not
animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy, who thou art, or the rack
shall force thy secret from thee."
"Thou hast threatened me with death already," said the youth, "for the truth I have
told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am not
tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther."
"Then thou wilt not speak?" said Manfred.
"I will not," replied he.
"Bear him away into the courtyard," said Manfred; "I will see his head this instant
severed from his body."
Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—
"Help! help! the Princess is dead!" Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded
what was the matter! The young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror,
and asked eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into the
court, and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself of the cause of
Bianca's shrieks. When he learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic,
and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, and
calling for one of his guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the
fatal blow.
The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that touched
every heart but Manfred's. He wished earnestly to know the meaning of the words he
had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing to exasperate the tyrant more against
her, he desisted. The only boon he deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to
have a confessor, and make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the
confessor's means to come at the youth's history, readily granted his request; and
being convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be
called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe
that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the Prince, and adjured him in the
most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood. He accused himself in the bitterest
terms for his indiscretion, endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method
untried to soften the tyrant's rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by
Jerome's intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed
upon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would not allow the
prisoner many minutes for confession.
"Nor do I ask many, my Lord," said the unhappy young man. "My sins, thank
heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected at my
years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is a bad world; nor have
I had cause to leave it with regret."
"Oh wretched youth!" said Jerome; "how canst thou bear the sight of me with
patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour upon thee!"
"I forgive thee from my soul," said the youth, "as I hope heaven will pardon me. Hear
my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing."
"How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?" said Jerome. "Thou canst not be
saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive that impious man there?"
"I can," said Theodore; "I do."
"And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?" said the Friar.
"I sent for thee to confess him," said Manfred, sternly; "not to plead for him. Thou
didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thy head!"
"It will! it will!" said the good main, in an agony of sorrow. "Thou and I must never
hope to go where this blessed youth is going!"
"Despatch!" said Manfred; "I am no more to be moved by the whining of priests than
by the shrieks of women."
"What!" said the youth; "is it possible that my fate could have occasioned what I
heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?"
"Thou dost but remember me of my wrath," said Manfred. "Prepare thee, for this
moment is thy last."
The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the sorrow which
he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as into the Friar, suppressed his
emotions, and putting off his doublet, and unbuttoning, his collar, knelt down to his
prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the
mark of a bloody arrow.
"Gracious heaven!" cried the holy man, starting; "what do I see? It is my child! my
Theodore!"
The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The tears of the
assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by joy. They seemed to
inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness,
respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of the youth. He received with
modest submission the effusion of the old man's tears and embraces. Yet afraid of
giving a loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of
Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say, canst thou be
unmoved at such a scene as this?
Manfred's heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his
astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even doubted
whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save the youth.
"What may this mean?" said he. "How can he be thy son? Is it consistent with thy
profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant's offspring for the fruit of thy
irregular amours!"
"Oh, God!" said the holy man, "dost thou question his being mine? Could I feel the
anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! good Prince! spare him! and revile
me as thou pleasest."
"Spare him! spare him!" cried the attendants; "for this good man's sake!"
"Peace!" said Manfred, sternly. "I must know more ere I am disposed to pardon. A
Saint's bastard may be no saint himself."
"Injurious Lord!" said Theodore, "add not insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable
man's son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood that flows in my veins—"
"Yes," said the Friar, interrupting him, "his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing,
my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and Sicily can boast of few houses
more ancient than that of Falconara. But alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is
nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can
distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return."
"Truce to your sermon," said Manfred; "you forget you are no longer Friar Jerome,
but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will have time to moralise
hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there."
"Mother of God!" said the Friar, "is it possible my Lord can refuse a father the life of
his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, my Lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life
for his, but spare my son!"
"Thou canst feel, then," said Manfred, "what it is to lose an only son! A little hour
ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: my house, if fate so pleased, must
perish—but the Count of Falconara—"
"Alas! my Lord," said Jerome, "I confess I have offended; but aggravate not an old
man's sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such vanities—it is nature,
that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the dear woman that bore him. Is she,
Theodore, is she dead?"
"Her soul has long been with the blessed," said Theodore.
"Oh! how?" cried Jerome, "tell me—no—she is happy! Thou art all my care now!—
Most dread Lord! will you—will you grant me my poor boy's life?"
"Return to thy convent," answered Manfred; "conduct the Princess hither; obey me in
what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy son."
"Oh! my Lord," said Jerome, "is my honesty the price I must pay for this dear youth's
safety?"
"For me!" cried Theodore. "Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than stain thy
conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the Princess still safe from
his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man; and let all the weight of his wrath fall
on me."
Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere Manfred could
reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hung without
the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the same instant the sable plumes on
the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end of the court, were
tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer.