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
infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he had learned no
news since his captivity, was detained in a castle, where she was in
danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and that if he obtained his
liberty, and repaired to a wood 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 fainting 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 glosing of a peasant’s son: he forgets the reverence he
owes you; but he is not accustomed—”

Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for
his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the
conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord? As the
Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise 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—

“Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my hour come?”

“My dearest, gracious Lord,” cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms,
“what is it you see! Why do you fix your eye-balls thus?”

“What!” cried Manfred breathless; “dost thou see nothing, Hippolita? Is
this ghastly phantom sent to me alone—to me, who did not—”

“For mercy’s sweetest self, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “resume your soul,
command your reason. There is none here, but us, your friends.”

“What, is not that Alfonso?” cried Manfred. “Dost thou not see him? can
it be my brain’s delirium?”

“This! my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this is Theodore, the youth who has
been so unfortunate.”

“Theodore!” 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: neither 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 ever 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 out, ‘The Princess is dead!’ and
Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the castle—”

“And what made you faint?” said Isabella, indifferent to the rest.
Matilda blushed and stammered—

“My father—he was sitting in judgment on a criminal—”

“What criminal?” said Isabella eagerly.

“A young man,” said Matilda; “I believe—I think it was that young man that—”

“What, Theodore?” said Isabella.

“Yes,” answered she; “I never saw him before; I do not know how he had
offended my father, 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
a man who has been on the point of making me miserable for ever.”

Matilda held down her head and replied: “I hope my dearest Isabella does
not doubt her Matilda’s friendship: I never beheld that youth until
yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have
pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour
uncharitable resentment 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 not you observe his extreme resemblance to
the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice of it to Bianca
even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on, he is the very
image of that picture.”

“I do not much observe pictures,” said Isabella: “much less have I
examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done. Ah?
Matilda, your heart is in danger, but let me warn you as a friend, he has
owned to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was
the first time you ever met—was 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 authorises 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 yet be well. Manfred, in
the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps
Isabella misunderstood him; his heart is good—and, my child, thou knowest
not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is
stretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck! Yes,” continued
she in a firmer tone, “perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all;
I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of
me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the
remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince!”

“Thou art as much too good for this world,” said Isabella, “as Manfred is
execrable; but think not, lady, that thy weakness shall determine for me.
I swear, hear me all ye angels—”

“Stop, I adjure thee,” cried Hippolita: “remember thou dost not depend on
thyself; thou hast a father.”

“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
intention. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear; will you leave
me a prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent.”

“Be at peace, my child,” said Hippolita: “I will return instantly. I
will never abandon thee, until I know it is the will of heaven, and for
thy benefit.”

“Do not deceive me,” said Matilda. “I will not marry Frederic until thou
commandest it. Alas! what will become of me?”

“Why that exclamation?” 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 burthen 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 the proposal she had suggested
to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was
gone to make to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the
notion, 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 caught 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 that 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 lance her anathema at thy head.”

“Audacious rebel!” said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awe with
which the Friar’s words inspired him. “Dost thou presume to threaten 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 sank 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 never more harbour a traitor—and for thy Reverence’s offspring,”
continued he, “I banish him from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sacred
personage, nor under the protection of the Church. Whoever weds
Isabella, it shall 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.