CHAPTER II.
Matilda, who by Hippolita’s order had retired to her apartment, wasill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother haddeeply affected her. She was surprised at not seeing Isabella; but thestrange words which had fallen from her father, and his obscure menace tothe Princess his wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, hadfilled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited anxiously forthe return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had sentto learn what was become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared, and informedher mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabellawas nowhere to be found. She related the adventure of the young peasantwho had been discovered in the vault, though with many simple additionsfrom the incoherent accounts of the domestics; and she dwelt principallyon the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the gallery-chamber.This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much, that she wasrejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest, but wouldwatch till the Princess should rise.
The young Princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight ofIsabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. “But whatbusiness could he have so urgent with the chaplain?” said Matilda, “Doeshe 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 moresons; 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 offyour faithful Bianca: you won’t put Donna Rosara over me now you are agreat Princess.”
“My poor Bianca,” said Matilda, “how fast your thoughts amble! I a greatprincess! What hast thou seen in Manfred’s behaviour since my brother’sdeath that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me? No, Bianca; hisheart was ever a stranger to me—but he is my father, and I must notcomplain. Nay, if Heaven shuts my father’s heart against me, it overpaysmy 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 supporthis harshness to me with patience; but it wounds my soul when I amwitness to his causeless severity towards her.”
“Oh! Madam,” said Bianca, “all men use their wives so, when they areweary of them.”
“And yet you congratulated me but now,” said Matilda, “when you fanciedmy father intended to dispose of me!”
“I would have you a great Lady,” replied Bianca, “come what will. I donot wish to see you moped in a convent, as you would be if you had yourwill, and if my Lady, your mother, who knows that a bad husband is betterthan 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 thetower above: you have heard it a thousand times.”
“Nay,” said Bianca, “there was no harm neither in what I said: it is nosin to talk of matrimony—and so, Madam, as I was saying, if my LordManfred should offer you a handsome young Prince for a bridegroom, youwould 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 manyproposals 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 greatcouncil chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely youngPrince, with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curlinglocks like jet; in short, Madam, a young hero resembling the picture ofthe good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hourstogether—”
“Do not speak lightly of that picture,” interrupted Matilda sighing; “Iknow the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon—but I amnot in love with a coloured panel. The character of that virtuousPrince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me for hismemory, the orisons which, I know not why, she has enjoined me to pourforth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that somehow orother my destiny is linked with something relating to him.”
“Lord, Madam! how should that be?” said Bianca; “I have always heard thatyour family was in no way related to his: and I am sure I cannot conceivewhy my Lady, the Princess, sends you in a cold morning or a damp eveningto 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? Iam sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband.”
“Perhaps my mind would be less affected,” said Matilda, “if my motherwould explain her reasons to me: but it is the mystery she observes, thatinspires me with this—I know not what to call it. As she never acts fromcaprice, I am sure there is some fatal secret at bottom—nay, I know thereis: in her agony of grief for my brother’s death she dropped some wordsthat intimated as much.”
“Oh! dear Madam,” cried Bianca, “what were they?”
“No,” said Matilda, “if a parent lets fall a word, and wishes itrecalled, 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; “butnever with my mother’s: a child ought to have no ears or eyes but as aparent directs.”
“Well! to be sure, Madam, you were born to be a saint,” said Bianca, “andthere 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 willlet me talk to her of young men: and when a handsome cavalier has come tothe castle, she has owned to me that she wished your brother Conradresembled him.”
“Bianca,” said the Princess, “I do not allow you to mention my frienddisrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul ispure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babbling humour, and perhapshas now and then encouraged it, to divert melancholy, and enliven thesolitude 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 itmust be fancy: your terrors, I suppose, have infected me.”
“Indeed! indeed! Madam,” said Bianca, half-weeping with agony, “I amsure I heard a voice.”
“Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?” said the Princess.
“Nobody has dared to lie there,” answered Bianca, “since the greatastrologer, that was your brother’s tutor, drowned himself. For certain,Madam, his ghost and the young Prince’s are now met in the chamberbelow—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 hurtto us, for we have not injured them—and if they should, shall we be moresafe in one chamber than in another? Reach me my beads; we will say aprayer, and then speak to them.”
“Oh! dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world!” criedBianca. As she said those words they heard the casement of the littlechamber below Matilda’s open. They listened attentively, and in a fewminutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish thewords.
“This can be no evil spirit,” said the Princess, in a low voice; “it isundoubtedly one of the family—open the window, and we shall know thevoice.”
“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.
<
br /> “What stranger?” said she; “and how didst thou come there at this unusualhour, when all the gates of the castle are locked?”
“I am not here willingly,” answered the voice. “But pardon me, Lady, ifI have disturbed your rest; I knew not that I was overheard. Sleep hadforsaken me; I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hourswith gazing on the fair approach of morning, impatient to be dismissedfrom this castle.”
“Thy words and accents,” said Matilda, “are of melancholy cast; if thouart unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it; Iwill mention thee to the Princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts forthe 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 youngand healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself—yet thinkme not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. I will rememberyou in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious self andyour noble mistress—if I sigh, Lady, it is for others, not for myself.”
“Now I have it, Madam,” said Bianca, whispering the Princess; “this iscertainly 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 notknow you, but takes you for one of my Lady Hippolita’s women.”
“Art thou not ashamed, Bianca!” said the Princess. “What right have weto pry into the secrets of this young man’s heart? He seems virtuous andfrank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances thatauthorise us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to hisconfidence?”
“Lord, Madam! how little you know of love!” replied Bianca; “why, lovershave no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress.”
“And would you have _me_ become a peasant’s confidante?” said thePrincess.
“Well, then, let me talk to him,” said Bianca; “though I have the honourof 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 forany 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 hashappened to-day, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what lovecauses.—Stranger,” resumed the Princess, “if thy misfortunes have notbeen occasioned by thy own fault, and are within the compass of thePrincess Hippolita’s power to redress, I will take upon me to answer thatshe will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle,repair to holy father Jerome, at the convent adjoining to the church ofSt. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkestmeet. He will not fail to inform the Princess, who is the mother of allthat want her assistance. Farewell; it is not seemly for me to holdfarther 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 audiencefarther; am I so happy? the casement is not shut; might I venture toask—”
“Speak quickly,” said Matilda; “the morning dawns apace: should thelabourers 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 meemboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?”
“Heavens!” said Matilda, “what dost thou mean? With what wouldst thoutrust me? Speak boldly, if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to avirtuous breast.”
“I would ask,” said the peasant, recollecting himself, “whether what Ihave heard from the domestics is true, that the Princess is missing fromthe castle?”
“What imports it to thee to know?” replied Matilda. “Thy first wordsbespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. Dost thou come hither to pryinto the secrets of Manfred? Adieu. I have been mistaken in thee.”Saying these words she shut the casement hastily, without giving theyoung man time to reply.
“I had acted more wisely,” said the Princess to Bianca, with somesharpness, “if I had let thee converse with this peasant; hisinquisitiveness seems of a piece with thy own.”
“It is not fit for me to argue with your Highness,” replied Bianca; “butperhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been more tothe purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him.”
“Oh! no doubt,” said Matilda; “you are a very discreet personage! May Iknow what _you_ would have asked him?”
“A bystander often sees more of the game than those that play,” answeredBianca. “Does your Highness think, Madam, that this question about myLady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, Madam, there ismore in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all theservants believe this young fellow contrived my Lady Isabella’s escape;now, pray, Madam, observe you and I both know that my Lady Isabella nevermuch fancied the Prince your brother. Well! he is killed just in acritical minute—I accuse nobody. A helmet falls from the moon—so, myLord, your father says; but Lopez and all the servants say that thisyoung 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 particularthough, that my Lady Isabella should be missing the very same day, andthat 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 thepurity of my dear Isabella’s fame.”
“Purity, or not purity,” said Bianca, “gone she is—a stranger is foundthat 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 aboutothers; and is anybody unhappy about another, unless they are in lovewith them? and at the very next word, he asks innocently, pour soul! ifmy Lady Isabella is missing.”
“To be sure,” said Matilda, “thy observations are not totally withoutfoundation—Isabella’s flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger isvery 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, letme open the window, and ask him a few questions.”
“No,” replied Matilda, “I will ask him myself, if he knows aught ofIsabella; he is not worthy I should converse farther with him.” She wasgoing to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at thepostern-gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower,where Matilda lay. This prevented the Princess from renewing theconversation with the stranger.
After continuing silent for some time, “I am persuaded,” said she toBianca, “that whatever be the cause of Isabella’s flight it had nounworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must besatisfied with his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca?that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It wasno 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 indisguise.”
“Yet,” said Matilda, “if he was privy to her escape, how will you accountfor his not accompanying her in her flight? why expose himselfunnecessarily and rashly to my father’s resentment?”
“As for that, Madam,” replied she, “if he could get from under thehelmet, he will find ways of eluding your father’s anger. I do not doubtbut he has some talisman or other about him.”
“You resolve everything into magic,” said Matilda; “but a man who has anyintercourse with infernal spirits, does not dare to make use of thosetremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe withwhat 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 toelope!” said Bianca. “No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is of anotherguess mould than you take her for. She used indeed to sigh and lift upher eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but whenyour back was turned—”
“You wrong her,” said Matilda; “Isabella is no hypocrite; she has a duesense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On thecontrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and thoughI own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me; thoughit seems inconsistent with the friendship between us; I cannot forget thedisinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil.She wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss toher and my brother’s children. For her sake I will believe well of thisyoung 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 toldthe 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 hisHighness.”
“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’sapartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he wasquestioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him.Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the Friar’s arrival, and knowinghe was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to beadmitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his searchafter 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 usretire to my chamber, Father, and inform me how she came thither.”
“No, my Lord,” replied the good man, with an air of firmness andauthority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not helprevering the saint-like virtues of Jerome; “my commission is to both, andwith your Highness’s good-liking, in the presence of both I shall deliverit; but first, my Lord, I must interrogate the Princess, whether she isacquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella’s retirement from yourcastle.”
“No, on my soul,” said Hippolita; “does Isabella charge me with beingprivy to it?”
“Father,” interrupted Manfred, “I pay due reverence to your holyprofession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest tointerfere in the affairs of my domestic. If you have aught to say attendme to my chamber; I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with thesecret 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 offamilies. My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preachrepentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. Iforgive your Highness’s uncharitable apostrophe; I know my duty, and amthe minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to him whospeaks through my organs.”
Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita’s countenance declaredher astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Hersilence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.
“The Lady Isabella,” resumed Jerome, “commends herself to both yourHighnesses; she thanks both for the kindness with which she has beentreated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her ownmisfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes,whom she shall always respect as Parents; she prays for uninterruptedunion and felicity between you” [Manfred’s colour changed]: “but as it isno longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consentto remain in sanctuary, till she can learn news of her father, or, by thecertainty of his death, be at liberty, with the approbation of herguardians, to dispose of herself in suitable marriage.”
“I shall give no such consent,” said the Prince, “but insist on herreturn to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to herguardians, 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 leavesroom for strange suspicions—and that young villain, who was at least theaccomplice 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 ownpalace by an insolent Monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours.”
“I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,” saidJerome, “if your Highness were not satisfied in your conscience howunjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven to pardon thatuncharitableness: and I implore your Highness to leave the Princess atpeace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by suchvain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man.”
“Cant not to me,” said Manfred, “but return and bring the Princess to herduty.”
“It is my duty to prevent her return hither,” said Jerome. “She is whereorphans 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 thatforbad that connection has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and Iannounce to your Highness—”
“Stop! audacious man,” said Manfred, “and dread my displeasure.”
“Holy Father,” said Hippolita, “it is your office to be no respecter ofpersons: you must speak as your duty prescribes: but it is my duty tohear nothing that it pleases not my Lord I should hear. Attend thePrince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to theblessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore theheart 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, whereshutting the door, “I perceive, Father,” said he, “that Isabella hasacquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasonsof state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demandthat I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir fromHippolita. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back; andyou must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita: herconscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman: hersoul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: youcan withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to thedissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery—she shallendow one if she will; and she shall have the means of being as liberalto your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert thecalamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of sayingthe principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, andthough the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecomingexpressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for therepose of my life and the preservation of my family.”
“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am but its worthlessinstrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, Prince, of thyunwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita havemounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thyadulterous intention of repudiating her: by me thou art warned not topursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Heaven thatdelivered her from thy fury, when the judgments so recently fallen on thyhouse ought to have inspired thee with other thoug
hts, will continue towatch over her. Even I, a poor and despised Friar, am able to protecther from thy violence—I, sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by yourHighness as an accomplice of I know not what amours, scorn theallurements with which it has pleased thee to tempt mine honesty. I lovemy order; I honour devout souls; I respect the piety of thy Princess—butI will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even thecause of religion by foul and sinful compliances—but forsooth! thewelfare of the state depends on your Highness having a son! Heaven mocksthe short-sighted views of man. But yester-morn, whose house was sogreat, so flourishing as Manfred’s?—where is young Conrad now?—My Lord, Irespect 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, thana marriage, which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. Thesceptre, which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine, cannot bepreserved by a match which the church will never allow. If it is thewill 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 passaway. 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 toalarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love,she heard, she rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. I know shelongs to fold you in her arms, and assure you of her unalterableaffection.”
“Father,” said the Prince, “you mistake my compunction: true, I honourHippolita’s virtues; I think her a Saint; and wish it were for my soul’shealth to tie faster the knot that has united us—but alas! Father, youknow not the bitterest of my pangs! it is some time that I have hadscruples on the legality of our union: Hippolita is related to me in thefourth degree—it is true, we had a dispensation: but I have been informedthat she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavyat my heart: to this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitationthat has fallen on me in the death of Conrad!—ease my conscience of thisburden: dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness—whichyour divine exhortations have commenced in my soul.”
How cutting was the anguish which the good man felt, when he perceivedthis turn in the wily Prince! He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin hesaw was determined; and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recoveringIsabella, that his impatience for a son would direct him to some otherobject, who might not be equally proof against the temptation ofManfred’s rank. For some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought.At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisestconduct would be to prevent the Prince from despairing of recoveringIsabella. Her the Friar knew he could dispose, from her affection toHippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred’saddresses, to second his views, till the censures of the church could befulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with thePrince’s scruples, he at length said:
“My Lord, I have been pondering on what your Highness has said; and if intruth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of yourrepugnance to your virtuous Lady, far be it from me to endeavour toharden your heart. The church is an indulgent mother: unfold your griefsto her: she alone can administer comfort to your soul, either bysatisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples, bysetting you at liberty, and indulging you in the lawful means ofcontinuing your lineage. In the latter case, if the Lady Isabella can bebrought to consent—”
Manfred, who concluded that he had either over-reached the good man, orthat his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, wasoverjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificentpromises, if he should succeed by the Friar’s mediation. Thewell-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, fully determined totraverse 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 foundin the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella’s flight: tell metruly, is he her lover? or is he an agent for another’s passion? I haveoften suspected Isabella’s indifference to my son: a thousandcircumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herselfwas so conscious of it, that while I discoursed her in the gallery, sheoutran my suspicious, and endeavoured to justify herself from coolness toConrad.”
The Friar, who knew nothing of the youth, but what he had learntoccasionally from the Princess, ignorant what was become of him, and notsufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred’s temper, conceivedthat it might not be amiss to sow the seeds of jealousy in his mind: theymight be turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the Princeagainst Isabella, if he persisted in that union or by diverting hisattention to a wrong scent, and employing his thoughts on a visionaryintrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappypolicy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in the belief of someconnection between Isabella and the youth. The Prince, whose passionswanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell into a rage at theidea of what the Friar suggested.
“I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue,” cried he; and quittingJerome abruptly, with a command to remain there till his return, hehastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to bebrought before him.
“Thou hardened young impostor!” said the Prince, as soon as he saw theyouth; “what becomes of thy boasted veracity now? it was Providence, wasit, and the light of the moon, that discovered the lock of the trap-doorto thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hastbeen acquainted with the Princess—and take care to answer with lessequivocation than thou didst last night, or tortures shall wring thetruth from thee.”
The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the Princesswas discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could nolonger be of any service or detriment to her, replied—
“I am no impostor, my Lord, nor have I deserved opprobrious language. Ianswered to every question your Highness put to me last night with thesame veracity that I shall speak now: and that will not be from fear ofyour tortures, but because my soul abhors a falsehood. Please to repeatyour questions, my Lord; I am ready to give you all the satisfaction inmy power.”
“You know my questions,” replied the Prince, “and only want time toprepare an evasion. Speak directly; who art thou? and how long hast thoubeen known to the Princess?”
“I am a labourer at the next village,” said the peasant; “my name isTheodore. The Princess found me in the vault last night: before thathour 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 ofdestruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was indanger 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 distressputs 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 gallerywith 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 ofhis last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly,interested her in his flavour. His person was noble, handsome, andcommanding, even in that situation: but his countenance soon engrossedher whole care.
“Heavens! Bianca,” said the Princess softly, “do I dream? or is not thatyouth the exact resemblance of Alf
onso’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 shaltexperience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him,”continued Manfred, “and bind him—the first news the Princess hears of herchampion 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 Princessfrom thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!”
“This is a lover!” cried Manfred in a rage: “a peasant within sight ofdeath 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 thetruth I have told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expectfor 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 headthis 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 Manfredordered 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 helearned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, and orderingMatilda to be carried to her apartment, he rushed into the court, andcalling for one of his guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare toreceive the fatal blow.
The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation thattouched every heart but Manfred’s. He wished earnestly to know themeaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearingto exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon hedeigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, andmake his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor’s meansto come at the youth’s history, readily granted his request; and beingconvinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him tobe called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseenthe catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to thePrince, and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocentblood. He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion,endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method untried to softenthe tyrant’s rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome’sintercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposedupon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he wouldnot 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 expectedat my years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This isa bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.”
“Oh wretched youth!” said Jerome; “how canst thou bear the sight of mewith patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hourupon thee!”
“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hope heaven willpardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing.”
“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome. “Thoucanst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive thatimpious 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 pleadfor him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thyhead!”
“It will! it will!” said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. “Thou andI must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!”
“Despatch!” said Manfred; “I am no more to be moved by the whining ofpriests than by the shrieks of women.”
“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate could haveoccasioned 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 thesorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well asinto the Friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, andunbuttoning, his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, hisshirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of abloody arrow.
“Gracious heaven!” cried the holy man, starting; “what do I see? It ismy child! my Theodore!”
The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. Thetears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped byjoy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought tofeel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in thecountenance of the youth. He received with modest submission theeffusion of the old man’s tears and embraces. Yet afraid of giving aloose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility ofManfred’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 hisastonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He evendoubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to savethe youth.
“What may this mean?” said he. “How can he be thy son? Is it consistentwith thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’s offspring forthe fruit of thy irregular amours!”
“Oh, God!” said the holy man, “dost thou question his being mine? CouldI feel the anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! goodPrince! 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 topardon. A Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”
“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty. If I amthis venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the bloodthat flows in my veins—”
“Yes,” said the Friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble; nor is hethat abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, andSicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. Butalas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles,miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish usfrom the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return.”
“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are no longer FriarJerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you willhave time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain thegrace of that sturdy criminal there.”
“Mother of God!” said the Friar, “is it possible my Lord can refuse afather 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, iffate so pleased, must perish—but the Count of Falconara—”
“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; but aggravatenot an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of suchvanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of thedear 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 carenow!—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 thyson.”
“Oh! my Lord,” said Jerome, “is my honesty the price I must pay for thisdear youth’s safety?”
“For me!” cried Theodore. “Let me die a thousand deaths, rather thanstain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is thePrincess 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 Manfredcould reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet,which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At thesame instant the sable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which stillremained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously agitated, andnodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer.