Chapter 1

Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter: the latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly, and of no promising disposition; yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter, Isabella; and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad’s infirm state of health would permit.

Manfred, Prince of Otranto, had one son and one daughter. His daughter, Matilda, was a very beautiful young woman of eighteen. His son, Conrad, was three years younger. He was a plain, sickly young man who showed little promise. Yet Conrad was his father’s favorite, and Manfred never showed Matilda any affection. Manfred had arranged for Conrad to marry Isabella, the Marquis of Vicenza’s daughter. Her guardians had already placed her in Manfred’s care so that he could hold the wedding as soon as Conrad’s poor health allowed.

Manfred’s impatience for this ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbours. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their Prince’s disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his wife, an amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great youth, and greater infirmities; but she never received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in their discourses. They attributed this hasty wedding to the Prince’s dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship of Otranto “should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.” It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy; and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries, or contradictions, did not make the populace adhere the less to their opinion.

Manfred’s family and neighbours noticed his impatience for the wedding ceremony. His family knew how harsh the Prince could be, so they did not dare voice their suspicions about his haste. His wife, Hippolita, was a kind woman. She sometimes dared to point out the danger of marrying their only son so early. He was very young, and his health was even more fragile. But Manfred’s only answer was to reproach her for her inability to bear more children. She had given him only one heir. His tenants and subjects were less cautious in what they said. They believed the Prince was rushing the wedding because he feared an ancient prophecy might come true. The prophecy was said to declare that the castle and lordship of Otranto “would pass from the present family whenever the real owner grew too large to live in it.” The prophecy was difficult to make sense of. It was even harder to see what the prophecy had to do with the marriage. Yet these mysteries and contradictions did not make the people any less certain of their opinion.

Young Conrad’s birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was assembled in the chapel of the Castle, and everything ready for beginning the divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, despatched one of his attendants to summon the young Prince. The servant, who had not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad’s apartment, came running back breathless, in a frantic manner, his eyes staring, and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing, but pointed to the court.

Young Conrad’s wedding was set for his birthday. The guests had gathered in the Castle chapel, and everything was ready for the religious service to begin. But Conrad himself was missing. Manfred could not bear even the slightest delay, and he had not seen his son leave. He sent an attendant to summon the young Prince. The servant had not been gone long enough to cross the courtyard to Conrad’s room. Yet he came running back, breathless and frantic, with staring eyes and foam at his mouth. He said nothing, but pointed to the courtyard.

The company were struck with terror and amazement. The Princess Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the matter? The fellow made no answer, but continued pointing towards the courtyard; and at last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, “Oh! the helmet! the helmet!”

The guests were terrified and astonished. Princess Hippolita did not know what was happening, but she was anxious for her son and fainted. Manfred was less afraid than angry about the delay to the wedding and his servant’s foolishness. He demanded to know what was wrong. The servant did not answer, but kept pointing toward the courtyard. At last, after being questioned repeatedly, he cried out, “Oh! the helmet! the helmet!”

In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom, for whom, in truth, she had conceived little affection.

Meanwhile, some of the company had run into the courtyard. From there came a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred was growing alarmed because he could not see his son. He went himself to find out what had caused the strange commotion. Matilda stayed behind, trying to help her mother. Isabella stayed for the same reason, and to avoid appearing impatient for the bridegroom. In truth, she felt little affection for him.

The first thing that struck Manfred’s eyes was a group of his servants endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable plumes. He gazed without believing his sight.

The first thing Manfred saw was a group of his servants trying to lift something that looked like a mountain of black feathers. He stared, unable to believe his eyes.

“What are ye doing?” cried Manfred, wrathfully; “where is my son?”

“What are you doing?” Manfred cried angrily. “Where is my son?”

A volley of voices replied, “Oh! my Lord! the Prince! the Prince! the helmet! the helmet!”

Many voices answered at once, “Oh! My lord! The Prince! The Prince! The helmet! The helmet!”

Shocked with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what, he advanced hastily,—but what a sight for a father’s eyes!—he beheld his child dashed to pieces, and almost buried under an enormous helmet, an hundred times more large than any casque ever made for human being, and shaded with a proportionable quantity of black feathers.

Shocked by these dreadful sounds and fearing he knew not what, he hurried forward. But what a sight for a father’s eyes! He saw his child smashed to pieces and almost buried beneath an enormous helmet. It was a hundred times larger than any helmet ever made for a human being, and it was covered with a proportionate number of black feathers.

The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had happened, and above all, the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away the Prince’s speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision; and seemed less attentive to his loss, than buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal casque; nor could even the bleeding mangled remains of the young Prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the portent before him.

The horror of the scene left the Prince speechless. No one around him knew how the tragedy had happened. Above all, the terrifying phenomenon before him left him speechless. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could explain. He stared at what he wished in vain to believe was a vision. He seemed less concerned with his loss than absorbed in thought about the enormous object that had caused it. He touched and examined the deadly helmet. Even the bleeding, mangled remains of the young Prince could not draw Manfred’s eyes away from the ominous object before him.

All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad, were as much surprised at their Prince’s insensibility, as thunderstruck themselves at the miracle of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred. As little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel. On the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Manfred’s lips were, “Take care of the Lady Isabella.”

Everyone who knew how especially fond Manfred was of young Conrad was surprised by the Prince’s lack of feeling. They were as surprised by this as they were thunderstruck by the miracle of the helmet. They carried the disfigured body into the hall without any direction from Manfred. He paid just as little attention to the ladies who remained in the chapel. Instead, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, Manfred’s first words were, “Take care of the Lady Isabella.”

The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to her situation, and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber more dead than alive, and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son.

The servants did not notice how strange the instruction was. Because they cared for their mistress, they took it as meant especially for her situation and rushed to help her. They carried her to her room, more dead than alive. She was indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard about, except her son's death.

Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter, and who returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarce less assiduous about the Princess; at the same time endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathy of friendship. Yet her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts. She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad, except commiseration; and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigour to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda.

Matilda adored her mother, so she suppressed her own grief and astonishment. She thought only of helping and comforting her distressed mother. Hippolita had treated Isabella like a daughter, and Isabella had returned her tenderness with equal devotion and affection. Isabella was almost as attentive to the Princess as Matilda was. She also tried to share and ease the sorrow she saw Matilda struggling to suppress. Isabella had come to feel the warmest friendship and sympathy for her. Yet Isabella could not help thinking about her own situation. She felt only pity at the death of young Conrad. She was not sorry to be freed from a marriage that had promised her little happiness. She had expected little happiness from either her intended husband or Manfred’s harsh temper. Although Manfred had been especially indulgent toward her, he had filled her with fear. He had treated such lovable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda harshly for no reason.

While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous casque, and regardless of the crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around him. The few words he articulated, tended solely to inquiries, whether any man knew from whence it could have come? Nobody could give him the least information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable, as the catastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumour had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes, in the church of St. Nicholas.

While the ladies helped the wretched mother to bed, Manfred remained in the courtyard, staring at the ominous helmet. He paid no attention to the crowd that the strange event had now drawn around him. He said little, asking only whether anyone knew where the helmet could have come from. Nobody could give him the slightest information. But the helmet seemed to be the only thing that interested him, and it soon became the crowd’s sole interest too. Their guesses were as absurd and improbable as the disaster itself was unprecedented. Amid their senseless guesses, a young peasant spoke up. Rumors had drawn him there from a neighboring village. He observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like the one on Alfonso the Good’s black marble statue. Alfonso had been one of their former princes, and his statue stood in the church of St. Nicholas.

“Villain! What sayest thou?” cried Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of rage, and seizing the young man by the collar; “how darest thou utter such treason? Thy life shall pay for it.”

“Villain! What are you saying?” cried Manfred, snapping out of his trance in a storm of rage. He seized the young man by the collar. “How dare you speak such treason? You will pay for it with your life.”

The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the Prince’s fury as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circumstance. The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not conceiving how he had offended the Prince. Yet recollecting himself, with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred’s grip, and then with an obeisance, which discovered more jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked, with respect, of what he was guilty? Manfred, more enraged at the vigour, however decently exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold, than appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and, if he had not been withheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have poignarded the peasant in their arms.

The spectators understood the cause of the Prince’s fury no better than anything else they had seen. They were at a loss to explain this new development. The young peasant was even more astonished, unable to imagine how he had offended the Prince. Yet he regained his composure and, with a mixture of grace and humility, freed himself from Manfred’s grip. Then he bowed, showing more concern for defending his innocence than fear. He respectfully asked what he had done wrong. Manfred was more enraged by the force with which the young man had shaken off his grip than appeased by his submission, though the young man had acted respectfully. He ordered his attendants to seize him. Had his friends, whom he had invited to the wedding, not held him back, he would have stabbed the peasant as they held him.

During this altercation, some of the vulgar spectators had run to the great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring that the helmet was missing from Alfonso’s statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic; and, as if he sought a subject on which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young peasant, crying—

During the argument, some of the ordinary spectators ran to the great church near the castle. They returned, shouting that the helmet was missing from Alfonso’s statue. At this news, Manfred became frantic. As if looking for someone on whom to unleash the storm raging inside him, he rushed at the young peasant again, crying:

“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! ’tis thou hast done this! ’tis thou hast slain my son!”

“Villain! Monster! Sorcerer! You did this! You killed my son!”

The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on whom they might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed—

The crowd wanted someone simple enough for them to direct their confused reasoning at. They seized on their lord's words and echoed them:

“Ay, ay; ’tis he, ’tis he: he has stolen the helmet from good Alfonso’s tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young Prince with it,” never reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the marble helmet that had been in the church, and that of steel before their eyes; nor how impossible it was for a youth seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of armour of so prodigious a weight.

“Yes, yes, it’s him, it’s him! He stole the helmet from good Alfonso’s tomb and smashed our young Prince’s brains out with it.” They never considered the enormous difference between the marble helmet in the church and the steel helmet before their eyes. Nor did they consider how impossible it was for a young man who seemed under twenty to wield such an enormously heavy piece of armor.

The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself: yet whether provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that in the church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition, he gravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necromancer, and that till the Church could take cognisance of the affair, he would have the Magician, whom they had thus detected, kept prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attendants to raise, and place the young man under it; declaring he should be kept there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him.

The foolishness of these cries brought Manfred to his senses. Perhaps he was angry that the peasant had noticed the resemblance between the two helmets. This had led to the further discovery that the helmet in the church was missing. Or perhaps Manfred wanted to bury any such rumor beneath a more absurd claim. Whatever his reason, he gravely declared that the young man was certainly a necromancer. Until the Church could investigate the matter, he would have the Magician they had uncovered held prisoner under the helmet itself. He ordered his attendants to lift the helmet and place the young man beneath it. He declared that the young man would be kept there without food, since his own infernal art could provide it.

It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous sentence: in vain did Manfred’s friends endeavour to divert him from this savage and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed with their lord’s decision, which, to their apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice, as the Magician was to be punished by the very instrument with which he had offended: nor were they struck with the least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed that, by his diabolic skill, he could easily supply himself with nutriment.

The youth protested against this absurd sentence, but in vain. Manfred’s friends also tried in vain to turn him from his savage and unjustified decision. Most people were delighted with their lord’s decision. To them, it seemed very just, because the Magician was to be punished with the very instrument he had used to commit his offense. Nor did they feel the slightest pity at the likelihood that the youth would starve, because they firmly believed he could easily provide himself with food through his diabolical skill.

Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed; and appointing a guard with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the prisoner, he dismissed his friends and attendants, and retired to his own chamber, after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics to remain.

Manfred saw that his orders were obeyed, even cheerfully. He stationed a guard with strict orders to prevent any food from reaching the prisoner. Then he dismissed his friends and attendants and locked the castle gates, allowing only his servants to remain inside. After that, he retired to his own chamber.

In the meantime, the care and zeal of the young Ladies had brought the Princess Hippolita to herself, who amidst the transports of her own sorrow frequently demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her, and visit and comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella; and inquiring of the domestics for her father, was informed that he was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him. Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother, and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction; yet solicitude for him, backed by the commands of her mother, encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given; a fault she had never been guilty of before.

Meanwhile, the young ladies' care and devotion had brought Princess Hippolita back to consciousness. In the midst of her own overwhelming grief, she often asked for news of her husband. She wanted to send her attendants to look after him. At last, she ordered Matilda to leave her and visit and comfort her father. Matilda loved Manfred and was devoted to him, though she trembled at his severity. She obeyed Hippolita's orders, tenderly entrusting her to Isabella's care. Then she asked the servants about her father. They told her that he had gone to his chamber and ordered that no one be admitted. Matilda concluded that he was overcome with sorrow at her brother's death. She feared that the sight of his only remaining child would make him weep again. So she hesitated to interrupt his grief. Yet her concern for him, together with her mother's orders, encouraged her to risk disobeying his command. She had never done so before.

The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his chamber backwards, and forwards with disordered steps; a mood which increased her apprehensions. She was, however, just going to beg admittance, when Manfred suddenly opened the door; and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of his mind, he did not distinguish the person, but asked angrily, who it was? Matilda replied, trembling—

Her gentle, timid nature made her pause at his door for several minutes. She heard him pacing back and forth in his room with agitated steps, which increased her fears. She was just about to ask to come in, however, when Manfred suddenly opened the door. In the twilight, and in his disturbed state of mind, he did not recognize her. He angrily asked who it was. Matilda replied, trembling:

“My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.”

“My dearest father, it's me, your daughter.”

Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, “Begone! I do not want a daughter;” and flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the terrified Matilda.

Manfred stepped back quickly and cried, “Go away! I do not want a daughter.” He turned abruptly and slammed the door on the terrified Matilda.

She was too well acquainted with her father’s impetuosity to venture a second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter a reception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda assured her he was well, and supported his misfortune with manly fortitude.

She knew her father’s temper too well to risk interrupting him again. Once she had recovered a little from his harsh reception, she wiped away her tears. She did not want to cause Hippolita further pain by letting her know what had happened. Hippolita anxiously asked her about Manfred’s health and how he was bearing his loss. Matilda assured her that he was well and was bearing his misfortune with manly courage.

“But will he not let me see him?” said Hippolita mournfully; “will he not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother’s sorrows in the bosom of her Lord? Or do you deceive me, Matilda? I know how Manfred doted on his son: is not the stroke too heavy for him? has he not sunk under it? You do not answer me—alas! I dread the worst!—Raise me, my maidens; I will, I will see my Lord. Bear me to him instantly: he is dearer to me even than my children.”

“But won’t he let me see him?” Hippolita said sadly. “Won’t he let me weep with him and share a mother’s sorrow with her husband? Or are you deceiving me, Matilda? I know how much Manfred loved his son. Is the loss too much for him? Has he collapsed under it? You don’t answer me. Oh, I fear the worst! Help me up, my maids. I will, I will see my husband. Take me to him at once. He is dearer to me even than my children.”

Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita’s rising; and both those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the Princess, when a servant, on the part of Manfred, arrived and told Isabella that his Lord demanded to speak with her.

Matilda signaled to Isabella to keep Hippolita from getting up. Both lovely young women gently tried to restrain and calm the Princess. As they did so, a servant arrived on Manfred’s behalf and told Isabella that his lord demanded to speak with her.

“With me!” cried Isabella.

“With me!” exclaimed Isabella.

“Go,” said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her Lord: “Manfred cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Console him, dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add to his.”

“Go,” said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her husband. “Manfred cannot bear to see his own family. He thinks you are less distressed than we are, and he fears the shock of seeing my grief. Comfort him, dear Isabella, and tell him I will suppress my own anguish rather than add to his.”

As it was now evening the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery, he started, and said hastily—

It was now evening, so the servant leading Isabella carried a torch before her. They came to Manfred, who was pacing impatiently in the gallery. He started and said hurriedly:

“Take away that light, and begone.”

“Take that light away and get out.”

Then shutting the door impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling.

He then slammed the door shut and flung himself onto a bench against the wall. He told Isabella to sit beside him. Trembling, she obeyed.

“I sent for you, Lady,” said he—and then stopped under great appearance of confusion.

“I sent for you, Lady,” he said, then stopped, looking very confused.

“My Lord!”

“My lord!”

“Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment,” resumed he. “Dry your tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom. Yes, cruel fate! and I have lost the hopes of my race! But Conrad was not worthy of your beauty.”

“Yes, I sent for you about a very important matter,” he continued. “Dry your tears, young lady. You have lost your bridegroom. Yes, cruel fate! And I have lost the hopes of my family line! But Conrad was not worthy of your beauty.”

“How, my Lord!” said Isabella; “sure you do not suspect me of not feeling the concern I ought: my duty and affection would have always—”

“What, my Lord!” said Isabella. “Surely you don’t think I’m not as concerned as I should be. My duty and affection would always have...”

“Think no more of him,” interrupted Manfred; “he was a sickly, puny child, and Heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence—but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.”

“Think no more of him,” Manfred interrupted. “He was a sickly, weak child. Perhaps Heaven has taken him away so that I would not entrust my family’s honors to such a frail foundation. Manfred’s line needs many heirs to support it. My foolish love for that boy blinded me to what prudence demanded, but things are better this way. I hope that, in a few years, I will have reason to rejoice at Conrad’s death.”

Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred’s understanding. Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare her: she feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son: and in consequence of that idea she replied—

Words cannot describe Isabella’s astonishment. At first, she thought grief had driven Manfred mad. Then she thought his strange words were meant to trap her. She feared that Manfred had noticed her lack of affection for his son. With this in mind, she replied:

“Good my Lord, do not doubt my tenderness: my heart would have accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care; and wherever fate shall dispose of me, I shall always cherish his memory, and regard your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.”

“My lord, please do not doubt my affection. I would have given Conrad my heart as well as my hand. He would have had all my care. Wherever fate takes me, I will always cherish his memory. I will always regard Your Highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents.”

“Curse on Hippolita!” cried Manfred. “Forget her from this moment, as I do. In short, Lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your charms: they shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his age, who will know how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring.”

“Curse Hippolita!” cried Manfred. “Forget her from this moment, as I do. In short, Lady, you have lost a husband who did not deserve your charms. Your charms will now be put to better use. Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his life. He will know how to appreciate your beauty and may expect many children.”

“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella, “my mind is too sadly engrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever my father returns, and it shall be his pleasure, I shall obey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son: but until his return, permit me to remain under your hospitable roof, and employ the melancholy hours in assuaging yours, Hippolita’s, and the fair Matilda’s affliction.”

“Alas, my Lord!” said Isabella. “I am too consumed by grief over your family’s recent tragedy to think of another marriage. If my father ever returns and wishes me to marry, I will obey him, as I did when I agreed to marry your son. But until he returns, please let me remain in your welcoming home. Let me spend these sad hours easing the grief of you, Hippolita, and the lovely Matilda.”

“I desired you once before,” said Manfred angrily, “not to name that woman: from this hour she must be a stranger to you, as she must be to me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you myself.”

“I told you before,” Manfred said angrily, “not to mention that woman. From this moment, she must be a stranger to you, just as she must be to me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you myself.”

“Heavens!” cried Isabella, waking from her delusion, “what do I hear? You! my Lord! You! My father-in-law! the father of Conrad! the husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!”

“Heavens!” cried Isabella, coming out of her delusion. “What am I hearing? You! My lord! You! My father-in-law! Conrad’s father! The husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita!”

“I tell you,” said Manfred imperiously, “Hippolita is no longer my wife; I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she cursed me by her unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust will give a new date to my hopes.”

“I tell you,” Manfred said commandingly, “Hippolita is no longer my wife. I divorce her from this hour. For too long, she has cursed me by failing to bear children. My fate depends on having sons, and I trust that tonight will give me new hope.”

At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half dead with fright and horror. She shrieked, and started from him, Manfred rose to pursue her, when the moon, which was now up, and gleamed in at the opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the height of the windows, waving backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner, and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation, and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred’s pursuit of his declaration, cried—

At those words, he seized Isabella’s cold hand. She was half dead with fear and horror. She shrieked and pulled away from him. Manfred rose to pursue her, but the moon had risen and was shining through the opposite window. In its light, he saw the plumes of the fatal helmet. They reached as high as the windows and waved wildly back and forth, with a hollow, rustling sound. Isabella drew courage from her situation. She feared nothing more than Manfred acting on his declaration, and she cried:

“Look, my Lord! see, Heaven itself declares against your impious intentions!”

“Look, my Lord! Even Heaven itself is against your unholy intentions!”

“Heaven nor Hell shall impede my designs,” said Manfred, advancing again to seize the Princess.

“Neither Heaven nor Hell will stop my plans,” said Manfred, moving forward again to seize the Princess.

At that instant the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh, and heaved its breast.

At that moment, his grandfather's portrait gave a deep sigh, and its chest rose. It hung over the bench where they had been sitting.

Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion, nor knew whence the sound came, but started, and said—

Isabella had her back to the picture, so she did not see it move or know where the sound came from. But she started and said:

“Hark, my Lord! What sound was that?” and at the same time made towards the door.

“Listen, my lord! What was that sound?” and at the same time moved toward the door.

Manfred, distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached the stairs, and yet unable to keep his eyes from the picture, which began to move, had, however, advanced some steps after her, still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel, and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air.

Manfred was torn between pursuing Isabella, who had reached the stairs, and watching the picture, which had begun to move. Still looking back at the portrait, he took a few steps after her. Then he saw the figure leave its panel and step onto the floor with a grave, melancholy air.

“Do I dream?” cried Manfred, returning; “or are the devils themselves in league against me? Speak, infernal spectre! Or, if thou art my grandsire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendant, who too dearly pays for—” Ere he could finish the sentence, the vision sighed again, and made a sign to Manfred to follow him.

“Am I dreaming?” cried Manfred as he returned. “Or are the devils themselves working together against me? Speak, hellish ghost! Or, if you are my grandfather, why are you also plotting against your miserable descendant, who pays too dearly for...” Before he could finish, the vision sighed again and motioned for Manfred to follow him.

“Lead on!” cried Manfred; “I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition.”

“Lead the way!” cried Manfred. “I will follow you to the depths of hell.”

The spectre marched sedately, but dejected, to the end of the gallery, and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an invisible hand. The Prince, collecting courage from this delay, would have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it resisted his utmost efforts.

The spectre walked calmly but dejectedly to the end of the gallery and turned into a room on the right. Manfred followed him at a short distance, full of anxiety and horror, but determined to go on. As Manfred was about to enter the room, an invisible hand slammed the door shut. The delay gave the Prince courage, and he tried to kick the door open. But the door resisted his strongest efforts.

“Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,” said Manfred, “I will use the human means in my power for preserving my race; Isabella shall not escape me.”

“Since Hell will not satisfy my curiosity,” said Manfred, “I will use the means available to me to preserve my family line. Isabella will not escape me.”

The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase. There she stopped, not knowing whither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the Prince. The gates of the castle, she knew, were locked, and guards placed in the court. Should she, as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her there, and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he meditated, without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measures he had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favour, if she could—for that night, at least—avoid his odious purpose. Yet where conceal herself? How avoid the pursuit he would infallibly make throughout the castle?

The lady’s courage had given way to terror as soon as she left Manfred. She continued to flee until she reached the bottom of the main staircase. There she stopped, unsure where to go or how to escape the Prince’s fury. She knew the castle gates were locked and guards had been stationed in the courtyard. Her heart urged her to prepare Hippolita for the cruel fate awaiting her. But she had no doubt that Manfred would look for her there. His violence would drive him to make the harm he planned even worse. He would leave them no chance to escape his furious passions. If she could avoid his hateful purpose for one night, delay might give him time to reconsider his dreadful plans. Or some circumstance might arise in her favor. But where could she hide? How could she escape the search he would surely make throughout the castle?

As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred’s violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place; and she determined, if no other means of deliverance offered, to shut herself up for ever among the holy virgins whose convent was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution, she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase, and hurried towards the secret passage.

As these thoughts raced through her mind, she remembered an underground passage from the castle vaults to the church of St. Nicholas. If she could reach the altar before she was caught, she knew that even Manfred would not dare violate the sacred place. If no other escape was possible, she resolved to shut herself away forever among the nuns whose convent stood next to the cathedral. With this resolve, she seized a lamp burning at the foot of the staircase and hurried toward the secret passage.

The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters; and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into the cavern. An awful silence reigned throughout those subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with new terror; yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her.

The lower part of the castle was hollowed out into several winding passages. In her anxiety, she found it difficult to locate the door that opened into the cavern. A dreadful silence filled the underground passages. Now and then, gusts of wind shook the doors she had passed. Their rusty hinges grated, and the sound echoed through the long, dark maze. Every faint sound filled her with fresh terror. Yet she was even more afraid of hearing Manfred’s angry voice urging his servants to pursue her.

She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered, and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled; she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror could inspire rushed into her mind. She condemned her rash flight, which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yet the sound seemed not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come. Cheered with this reflection, and hoping to find a friend in whoever was not the Prince, she was going to advance, when a door that stood ajar, at some distance to the left, was opened gently: but ere her lamp, which she held up, could discover who opened it, the person retreated precipitately on seeing the light.

She walked as quietly as her impatience allowed, but often stopped to listen for anyone following her. During one of those pauses, she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered and stepped back a few paces. A moment later, she thought she heard someone’s footsteps. Her blood ran cold. She decided it was Manfred. Every terrifying possibility rushed into her mind. She regretted her rash flight, which had exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were unlikely to bring help. Yet the sound did not seem to come from behind her. If Manfred knew where she was, he must have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the footsteps were too clear to have come from the way she had entered. This thought cheered her. She hoped that anyone other than the Prince might be a friend. She was about to go forward when a door some distance to her left opened gently. It had been standing slightly open. She held up her lamp, but before its light revealed who had opened the door, the person saw the light and quickly retreated.

Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence made her hope that, unless sent by the Prince’s order to seek her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these reflections, and believing by what she could observe that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had been opened; but a sudden gust of wind that met her at the door extinguished her lamp, and left her in total darkness.

Every incident was enough to frighten Isabella, and she hesitated to go on. But her fear of Manfred soon overcame every other terror. The fact that the person was avoiding her gave her some courage. She thought the person could only be a servant from the castle. Her gentleness had never made her an enemy, and she knew she was innocent. So she hoped the servants would help her escape rather than stop her, unless the Prince had sent them to find her. These thoughts gave her courage. From what she could see, she believed she was near the entrance to the underground cavern. She approached the door that had been opened, but a sudden gust of wind met her there. It put out her lamp and left her in total darkness.

Words cannot paint the horror of the Princess’s situation. Alone in so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil on knowing she was within reach of somebody, she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed thereabouts; all these thoughts crowded on her distracted mind, and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in heaven, and inwardly implored their assistance. For a considerable time she remained in an agony of despair.

Words cannot describe the horror of the Princess’s situation. She was alone in a grim place, with all the terrible events of the day fixed in her mind. She had no hope of escaping and expected Manfred to arrive at any moment. She was also deeply uneasy knowing that someone was nearby, apparently hiding there for some reason. She did not know who it was. All these thoughts crowded her troubled mind, and she was ready to collapse with fear. She prayed silently to every saint in heaven, begging for help. For a long time, she remained in an agony of despair.

At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having found it, entered trembling into the vault from whence she had heard the sigh and steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or building, she could not distinguish which, that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards this chasm, when she discerned a human form standing close against the wall.

At last, she felt for the door as quietly as she could. When she found it, she entered the vault trembling. It was where she had heard the sigh and footsteps. A faint ray of clouded moonlight shone through the roof of the vault, and the sight gave her a moment of joy. The roof seemed to have fallen in. A fragment of earth or masonry hung from it, but she could not tell which it was. It appeared to have been crushed inward. She hurried eagerly toward the opening, but then she saw a human figure standing close against the wall.

She shrieked, believing it the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice—

She shrieked, believing it was the ghost of Conrad, the man she was engaged to marry. The figure came closer and said in a submissive voice:

“Be not alarmed, Lady; I will not injure you.”

“Don't be afraid, lady. I won't hurt you.”

Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply—

The stranger’s words and tone encouraged Isabella a little. Remembering that he must be the person who had opened the door, she felt brave enough to reply:

“Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched Princess, standing on the brink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in a few moments I may be made miserable for ever.”

“Sir, whoever you are, have pity on a miserable princess who is on the brink of ruin. Help me escape from this deadly castle, or I may be miserable forever in just a few moments.”

“Alas!” said the stranger, “what can I do to assist you? I will die in your defence; but I am unacquainted with the castle, and want—”

“Oh no!” said the stranger. “What can I do to help you? I will die defending you. But I don't know the castle, and I need...”

“Oh!” said Isabella, hastily interrupting him; “help me but to find a trap-door that must be hereabout, and it is the greatest service you can do me, for I have not a minute to lose.”

“Oh!” said Isabella, quickly interrupting him. “Just help me find a trapdoor that must be somewhere around here. That would be the greatest help you could give me, because I don’t have a minute to lose.”

Saying these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the stranger to search likewise, for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in one of the stones.

As she spoke, she felt along the floor and told the stranger to search too. They were looking for a smooth piece of brass set into one of the stones.

“That,” said she, “is the lock, which opens with a spring, of which I know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape—if not, alas! courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes: Manfred will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his resentment.”

“That,” she said, “is the lock. It opens with a spring, and I know its secret. If we can find it, I may escape. If not, alas, kind stranger, I fear I will have drawn you into my troubles. Manfred will suspect you of helping me escape, and you will suffer for his anger.”

“I value not my life,” said the stranger, “and it will be some comfort to lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny.”

“I don’t value my life,” said the stranger, “and it would be some comfort to die trying to free you from his tyranny.”

“Generous youth,” said Isabella, “how shall I ever requite—”

“Kind young man,” Isabella said, “how can I ever repay you...”

As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine, streaming through a cranny of the ruin above, shone directly on the lock they sought.

As she spoke, a ray of moonlight streamed through a crack in the ruins above and shone directly on the lock they were looking for.

“Oh! transport!” said Isabella; “here is the trap-door!” and, taking out the key, she touched the spring, which, starting aside, discovered an iron ring. “Lift up the door,” said the Princess.

“Oh, what joy!” said Isabella. “Here is the trapdoor!” She took out the key and pressed the spring. The spring snapped aside, revealing an iron ring. “Lift up the door,” said the Princess.

The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending into a vault totally dark.

The stranger obeyed, revealing some stone steps beneath that led down into a completely dark vault.

“We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me; dark and dismal as it is, we cannot miss our way; it leads directly to the church of St. Nicholas. But, perhaps,” added the Princess modestly, “you have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service; in a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage—only let me know to whom I am so much obliged.”

“We must go down here,” said Isabella. “Follow me. Though it is dark and gloomy, we cannot lose our way. This passage leads directly to the church of St. Nicholas. But perhaps,” the Princess added modestly, “you have no reason to leave the castle. And I need no more help from you. In a few minutes, I shall be safe from Manfred’s rage. Just tell me who you are, so I know whom to thank.”

“I will never quit you,” said the stranger eagerly, “until I have placed you in safety—nor think me, Princess, more generous than I am; though you are my principal care—”

“I will never leave you,” said the stranger eagerly, “until I have brought you to safety. But Princess, do not think me more generous than I am, though you are my main concern...”

The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed approaching, and they soon distinguished these words—

The stranger was interrupted by the sudden sound of voices that seemed to be coming closer. Soon they could make out these words:

“Talk not to me of necromancers; I tell you she must be in the castle; I will find her in spite of enchantment.”

“Don’t talk to me about necromancers. I tell you, she must be in the castle. I will find her despite the enchantment.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Isabella; “it is the voice of Manfred! Make haste, or we are ruined! and shut the trap-door after you.”

“Oh, heavens!” cried Isabella. “That’s Manfred’s voice! Hurry, or we’re ruined! And shut the trapdoor after you.”

Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately; and as the stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands: it fell, and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having observed Isabella’s method of touching the spring; nor had he many moments to make an essay. The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who, directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants with torches.

With these words, she hurried down the steps. As the stranger rushed to follow her, the door slipped from his hands. It fell, and the spring snapped shut over it. He tried in vain to open the door, since he had not seen how Isabella had pressed the spring. He did not have much time to try. Manfred had heard the door fall and hurried toward the sound, followed by his servants carrying torches.

“It must be Isabella,” cried Manfred, before he entered the vault. “She is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far.”

“It must be Isabella,” cried Manfred before entering the vault. “She is escaping through the underground passage, but she cannot have gotten far.”

What was the astonishment of the Prince when, instead of Isabella, the light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought confined under the fatal helmet!

The Prince was astonished when the torchlight revealed not Isabella, but the young peasant he thought was trapped under the deadly helmet!

“Traitor!” said Manfred; “how camest thou here? I thought thee in durance above in the court.”

“Traitor!” said Manfred. “How did you get here? I thought you were locked up above in the court.”

“I am no traitor,” replied the young man boldly, “nor am I answerable for your thoughts.”

“I’m not a traitor,” the young man replied boldly, “and I’m not responsible for what you think.”

“Presumptuous villain!” cried Manfred; “dost thou provoke my wrath? Tell me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy guards, and their lives shall answer it.”

“How dare you, villain!” cried Manfred. “Are you trying to make me angry? Tell me, how did you escape from upstairs? You bribed your guards, and they will pay with their lives.”

“My poverty,” said the peasant calmly, “will disculpate them: though the ministers of a tyrant’s wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which you unjustly imposed upon them.”

“My poverty,” said the peasant calmly, “will clear them of blame. Though they carry out a tyrant’s wrath, they are loyal to you. They are only too willing to carry out the orders you unjustly gave them.”

“Art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance?” said the Prince; “but tortures shall force the truth from thee. Tell me; I will know thy accomplices.”

“Are you bold enough to defy my vengeance?” said the Prince. “But torture will force the truth from you. Tell me. I will know who your accomplices are.”

“There was my accomplice!” said the youth, smiling, and pointing to the roof.

“There was my accomplice!” the young man said, smiling and pointing to the roof.

Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeks of the enchanted casque had forced its way through the pavement of the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and had broken through into the vault, leaving a gap, through which the peasant had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by Isabella.

Manfred ordered the torches held up and saw that a cheekpiece of the enchanted helmet had pierced the courtyard paving. His servants had dropped the helmet over the peasant, and the cheekpiece had broken through into the vault. This left a gap through which the peasant had squeezed a few minutes before Isabella found him.

“Was that the way by which thou didst descend?” said Manfred.

“Is that the way you came down?” said Manfred.

“It was,” said the youth.

“It was,” said the young man.

“But what noise was that,” said Manfred, “which I heard as I entered the cloister?”

“But what was that noise I heard as I entered the cloister?” Manfred said.

“A door clapped,” said the peasant; “I heard it as well as you.”

“A door slammed,” said the peasant. “I heard it too.”

“What door?” said Manfred hastily.

“What door?” Manfred asked quickly.

“I am not acquainted with your castle,” said the peasant; “this is the first time I ever entered it, and this vault the only part of it within which I ever was.”

“I don’t know your castle,” said the peasant. “This is the first time I’ve entered it, and this vault is the only part I’ve ever been in.”

“But I tell thee,” said Manfred (wishing to find out if the youth had discovered the trap-door), “it was this way I heard the noise. My servants heard it too.”

“But I tell you,” said Manfred. He wanted to find out if the young man had discovered the trapdoor. “I heard the noise coming from this direction. My servants heard it too.”

“My Lord,” interrupted one of them officiously, “to be sure it was the trap-door, and he was going to make his escape.”

“My Lord,” one of them interrupted eagerly, “it was certainly the trapdoor, and he was going to escape.”

“Peace, blockhead!” said the Prince angrily; “if he was going to escape, how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what noise it was I heard. Tell me truly; thy life depends on thy veracity.”

“Quiet, idiot!” said the Prince angrily. “If he was trying to escape, why would he come this way? I will hear from him what the noise was. Tell me the truth. Your life depends on it.”

“My veracity is dearer to me than my life,” said the peasant; “nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting the other.”

“My honesty means more to me than my life,” said the peasant. “I would not save my life by giving up my honesty.”

“Indeed, young philosopher!” said Manfred contemptuously; “tell me, then, what was the noise I heard?”

“Oh, really, young philosopher?” Manfred said scornfully. “Then tell me, what was that noise I heard?”

“Ask me what I can answer,” said he, “and put me to death instantly if I tell you a lie.”

“Ask me what I can answer,” he said, “and kill me at once if I lie to you.”

Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the youth, cried—

Manfred grew impatient with the young man's steady courage and indifference, and cried:

“Well, then, thou man of truth, answer! Was it the fall of the trap-door that I heard?”

“Well, then, you truthful man, answer me! Was it the trapdoor falling that I heard?”

“It was,” said the youth.

“It was,” the young man said.

“It was!” said the Prince; “and how didst thou come to know there was a trap-door here?”

“It was!” said the Prince. “And how did you know there was a trapdoor here?”

“I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,” replied he.

“I saw the brass plate in a gleam of moonlight,” he replied.

“But what told thee it was a lock?” said Manfred. “How didst thou discover the secret of opening it?”

“But how did you know it was a lock?” said Manfred. “How did you discover the secret of opening it?”

“Providence, that delivered me from the helmet, was able to direct me to the spring of a lock,” said he.

“Providence saved me from the helmet and could guide me to the spring of a lock,” he said.

“Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed thee out of the reach of my resentment,” said Manfred. “When Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool, who did not know how to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before thou hadst descended the steps?”

“Providence should have gone a little further and put you beyond the reach of my anger,” said Manfred. “After teaching you to open the lock, Providence abandoned you as a fool who did not know how to use its favors. Why didn’t you follow the path Providence showed you to escape? Why did you shut the trapdoor before you had gone down the steps?”

“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I, totally unacquainted with your castle, was to know that those steps led to any outlet? but I scorn to evade your questions. Wherever those steps lead to, perhaps I should have explored the way—I could not be in a worse situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall: your immediate arrival followed. I had given the alarm—what imported it to me whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later?”

“I might ask you, my Lord,” said the peasant, “how I could have known those steps led to an exit. I knew nothing at all about your castle. But I will not evade your questions. Wherever the steps led, perhaps I would have explored them. I could not have been in a worse situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trapdoor fall, and you arrived immediately afterward. I had raised the alarm. What did it matter to me whether I was seized a minute sooner or later?”

“Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,” said Manfred; “yet on reflection I suspect thou dost but trifle with me. Thou hast not yet told me how thou didst open the lock.”

“You are a determined villain for your age,” said Manfred. “Yet, on reflection, I suspect you are only playing with me. You still haven't told me how you opened the lock.”

“That I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant; and, taking up a fragment of stone that had fallen from above, he laid himself on the trap-door, and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it, meaning to gain time for the escape of the Princess. This presence of mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even felt a disposition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton in cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane; and his virtues were always ready to operate, when his passions did not obscure his reason.

“I will show you, my Lord,” said the peasant. He picked up a piece of stone that had fallen from above and lay down on the trapdoor. Then he began to strike the brass covering it, hoping to give the Princess time to escape. The young man’s quick thinking and frankness unsettled Manfred. He even felt inclined to pardon the youth, who had committed no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who take pleasure in cruelty without provocation. His circumstances had made him harsh, though he was naturally humane. His virtues were always ready to show themselves when his passions did not cloud his reason.

While the Prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed through the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished the clamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of Isabella, calling out—

While the Prince waited anxiously, a jumble of voices echoed through the distant vaults. As the voices drew closer, he recognized the shouts of some of his servants. He had sent them throughout the castle to search for Isabella, and they were calling out:

“Where is my Lord? where is the Prince?”

“Where is my lord? Where is the prince?”

“Here I am,” said Manfred, as they came nearer; “have you found the Princess?”

“Here I am,” said Manfred as they came closer. “Have you found the Princess?”

The first that arrived, replied, “Oh, my Lord! I am glad we have found you.”

The first to arrive replied, “Oh, my lord! I’m glad we found you.”

“Found me!” said Manfred; “have you found the Princess?”

“Found me!” said Manfred. “Have you found the Princess?”

“We thought we had, my Lord,” said the fellow, looking terrified, “but—”

“We thought we had, my lord,” the man said, looking terrified, “but...”

“But, what?” cried the Prince; “has she escaped?”

“But what?” the Prince cried. “Has she escaped?”

“Jaquez and I, my Lord—”

“Jaquez and I, my lord...”

“Yes, I and Diego,” interrupted the second, who came up in still greater consternation.

“Yes, Diego and I,” interrupted the second, who came up even more alarmed.

“Speak one of you at a time,” said Manfred; “I ask you, where is the Princess?”

“One at a time,” said Manfred. “I’m asking you, where is the Princess?”

“We do not know,” said they both together; “but we are frightened out of our wits.”

“We don’t know,” they both said at once, “but we’re terrified.”

“So I think, blockheads,” said Manfred; “what is it has scared you thus?”

“So I think, you idiots,” said Manfred. “What has scared you so much?”

“Oh! my Lord,” said Jaquez, “Diego has seen such a sight! your Highness would not believe our eyes.”

“Oh, my Lord,” said Jaquez, “Diego has seen something amazing! Your Highness would not believe what we saw.”

“What new absurdity is this?” cried Manfred; “give me a direct answer, or, by Heaven—”

“What new nonsense is this?” Manfred cried. “Give me a straight answer, or, by Heaven...”

“Why, my Lord, if it please your Highness to hear me,” said the poor fellow, “Diego and I—”

“Well, my Lord, if Your Highness will hear me,” said the poor fellow, “Diego and I...”

“Yes, I and Jaquez—” cried his comrade.

“Yes, Jaquez and I...” his companion cried.

“Did not I forbid you to speak both at a time?” said the Prince: “you, Jaquez, answer; for the other fool seems more distracted than thou art; what is the matter?”

“Didn't I tell you not to speak at the same time?” said the Prince. “You answer, Jaquez, because the other fool seems more confused than you are. What is the matter?”

“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if it please your Highness to hear me; Diego and I, according to your Highness’s orders, went to search for the young Lady; but being comprehensive that we might meet the ghost of my young Lord, your Highness’s son, God rest his soul, as he has not received Christian burial—”

“My gracious Lord,” said Jaquez, “if Your Highness will hear me, Diego and I went to search for the young lady, as you ordered. But we were afraid we might meet the ghost of your son, my young lord. God rest his soul, for he has not received a Christian burial...”

“Sot!” cried Manfred in a rage; “is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast seen?”

“Fool!” Manfred cried in a rage. “So you only saw a ghost?”

“Oh! worse! worse! my Lord,” cried Diego: “I had rather have seen ten whole ghosts.”

“Oh! Worse! Worse, my lord,” cried Diego. “I would rather have seen ten whole ghosts.”

“Grant me patience!” said Manfred; “these blockheads distract me. Out of my sight, Diego! and thou, Jaquez, tell me in one word, art thou sober? art thou raving? thou wast wont to have some sense: has the other sot frightened himself and thee too? Speak; what is it he fancies he has seen?”

“Give me patience!” said Manfred. “These idiots are driving me mad. Get out of my sight, Diego! And you, Jaquez, tell me in one word. Are you sober? Are you raving? You used to have some sense. Has the other fool frightened himself and you too? Speak. What does he think he has seen?”

“Why, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going to tell your Highness, that since the calamitous misfortune of my young Lord, God rest his precious soul! not one of us your Highness’s faithful servants—indeed we are, my Lord, though poor men—I say, not one of us has dared to set a foot about the castle, but two together: so Diego and I, thinking that my young Lady might be in the great gallery, went up there to look for her, and tell her your Highness wanted something to impart to her.”

“ Well, my Lord,” replied Jaquez, trembling, “I was going to tell your Highness about our young Lord’s tragic death. God rest his precious soul! Since then, none of us, your Highness’s faithful servants, has dared go anywhere in the castle alone. Indeed, we are faithful, my Lord, though we are poor men. We have always gone in pairs. So Diego and I thought our young Lady might be in the great gallery. We went up there to look for her and tell her that your Highness had something to say to her.”

“O blundering fools!” cried Manfred; “and in the meantime, she has made her escape, because you were afraid of goblins!—Why, thou knave! she left me in the gallery; I came from thence myself.”

“You blundering fools!” cried Manfred. “Meanwhile, she has escaped because you were afraid of goblins! You idiot! She left me in the gallery. I came from there myself.”

“For all that, she may be there still for aught I know,” said Jaquez; “but the devil shall have me before I seek her there again—poor Diego! I do not believe he will ever recover it.”

“Even so, she may still be there, for all I know,” said Jaquez. “But the devil can have me before I look for her there again. Poor Diego! I don’t believe he’ll ever recover from it.”

“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it is has terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will see if she is in the gallery.”

“Recover what?” said Manfred. “Am I never going to find out what frightened these rascals? But I’m wasting time. Follow me, slave. I’ll see if she’s in the gallery.”

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear, good Lord,” cried Jaquez, “do not go to the gallery. Satan himself I believe is in the chamber next to the gallery.”

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear lord,” cried Jaquez, “please do not go to the gallery. I believe Satan himself is in the room next to it.”

Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end of the gallery. His voice faltered, and he asked with disorder—

Until now, Manfred had dismissed his servants’ terror as pointless panic, but this new event unsettled him. He remembered the portrait’s apparition and the door suddenly closing at the end of the gallery. His voice faltered, and he asked in confusion:

“What is in the great chamber?”

“What is in the great room?”

“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we came into the gallery we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; and still we found nobody.”

“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went first because he said he was braver than I was. So when we came into the gallery, we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool, and we still found nobody.”

“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred.

“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred.

“Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think of looking behind them.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jaquez replied, “but we didn't think to look behind them.”

“Well, well!” said Manfred; “proceed.”

“Well, well!” said Manfred. “Go on.”

“When we came to the door of the great chamber,” continued Jaquez, “we found it shut.”

“When we came to the door of the great room,” Jaquez continued, “we found it closed.”

“And could not you open it?” said Manfred.

“And couldn’t you open it?” said Manfred.

“Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!” replied he—“nay, it was not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on, though I advised him not—if ever I open a door that is shut again—”

“Oh! Yes, my Lord. I wish to Heaven we hadn’t!” he replied. “No, it wasn’t me, either. It was Diego. He had become reckless and insisted on going on, though I advised him not to. If I ever open a closed door again...”

“Trifle not,” said Manfred, shuddering, “but tell me what you saw in the great chamber on opening the door.”

“Don't waste time,” said Manfred, shuddering. “Tell me what you saw in the great chamber when you opened the door.”

“I, my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heard the noise.”

“Me, my lord?” said Jaquez. “I was behind Diego, but I heard the noise.”

“Jaquez,” said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; “tell me, I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what was it thou heardest?”

“Jaquez,” said Manfred solemnly, “I beg you by the souls of my ancestors, tell me. What did you see? What did you hear?”

“It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,” replied Jaquez; “I only heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out, and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is it the ghost?’ ‘The ghost! no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stood on end—‘it is a giant, I believe; he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the helmet below in the court.’ As he said these words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he believes the giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length on the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not dare turn back to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on it, we must have heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’s sake, good my Lord, send for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for, for certain, it is enchanted.”

“It was Diego who saw it, my Lord, not me,” Jaquez replied. “I only heard the noise. As soon as Diego opened the door, he cried out and ran back. I ran back too and said, ‘Is it the ghost?’ ‘The ghost! No, no,’ Diego said, and his hair stood on end. ‘I think it is a giant. He is dressed entirely in armor. I saw his foot and part of his leg, and they are as large as the helmet in the courtyard below.’ As he said this, my Lord, we heard violent movement and the rattling of armor, as if the giant were rising. Diego has since told me that he believes the giant was lying down. The foot and leg were stretched out on the floor. Before we reached the end of the gallery, we heard the door of the great chamber slam behind us. But we did not dare turn back to see if the giant was following us. Yet, now that I think of it, we would have heard him if he had chased us. But for Heaven’s sake, my good Lord, send for the chaplain and have the castle exorcised. It is certainly enchanted.”

“Ay, pray do, my Lord,” cried all the servants at once, “or we must leave your Highness’s service.”

“Yes, please do, my Lord,” all the servants cried at once, “or we must leave your Highness’s service.”

“Peace, dotards!” said Manfred, “and follow me; I will know what all this means.”

“Quiet, you fools!” said Manfred. “Follow me. I will find out what all this means.”

“We! my Lord!” cried they with one voice; “we would not go up to the gallery for your Highness’s revenue.” The young peasant, who had stood silent, now spoke.

“We, my lord!” they cried together. “We would not go up to the gallery for all your Highness’s income.” The young peasant, who had been silent, now spoke.

“Will your Highness,” said he, “permit me to try this adventure? My life is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no good one.”

“Your Highness,” he said, “will you let me try this adventure? My life matters to no one. I fear no evil angel, and I have offended no good one.”

“Your behaviour is above your seeming,” said Manfred, viewing him with surprise and admiration—“hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now,” continued he with a sigh, “I am so circumstanced, that I dare trust no eyes but my own. However, I give you leave to accompany me.”

“Your behavior is better than your appearance suggests,” said Manfred, looking at him with surprise and admiration. “I will reward your bravery later. But for now,” he continued with a sigh, “my situation is such that I dare trust no eyes but my own. However, I will allow you to come with me.”

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious fondness to meet her Lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their son. She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, and said—

When Manfred first followed Isabella from the gallery, he went straight to his wife’s rooms, assuming the Princess had gone there. Hippolita recognized his footsteps and rose to greet her husband with anxious affection. She had not seen him since their son’s death. She would have rushed into his arms, overcome with joy and grief, but he pushed her away roughly and said:

“Where is Isabella?”

“Where is Isabella?”

“Isabella! my Lord!” said the astonished Hippolita.

“Isabella! My lord!” said Hippolita in astonishment.

“Yes, Isabella,” cried Manfred imperiously; “I want Isabella.”

“Yes, Isabella,” Manfred said forcefully. “I want Isabella.”

“My Lord,” replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had shocked her mother, “she has not been with us since your Highness summoned her to your apartment.”

“My Lord,” Matilda replied. She could see how much his behavior had shocked her mother. “She has not been with us since Your Highness called her to your room.”

“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince; “I do not want to know where she has been.”

“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince. “I don’t want to know where she’s been.”

“My good Lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter tells you the truth: Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since;—but, my good Lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest: this dismal day has disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.”

“My lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter is telling you the truth. Isabella left us on your orders and has not returned since. But, my lord, please calm yourself and go to bed. This dreadful day has upset you. Isabella will await your orders in the morning.”

“What, then, you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell me directly, for I will not lose an instant—and you, woman,” speaking to his wife, “order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.”

“Then you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell me at once, because I won't waste a moment.” He turned to his wife. “And you, woman, tell your chaplain to come to me immediately.”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita calmly, “is retired, I suppose, to her chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my Lord,” continued she, “let me know what has disturbed you. Has Isabella offended you?”

“Isabella has gone to her room, I suppose,” said Hippolita calmly. “She is not used to staying awake this late. Please, my Lord,” she continued, “tell me what has upset you. Has Isabella offended you?”

“Trouble me not with questions,” said Manfred, “but tell me where she is.”

“Don't bother me with questions,” said Manfred. “Just tell me where she is.”

“Matilda shall call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, my Lord, and resume your wonted fortitude.”

“Matilda will call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, my Lord, and regain your usual courage.”

“What, art thou jealous of Isabella?” replied he, “that you wish to be present at our interview!”

“What, are you jealous of Isabella?” he replied. “Is that why you want to be present when we meet!”

“Good heavens! my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what is it your Highness means?”

“Good heavens, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what do you mean?”

“Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,” said the cruel Prince. “Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.”

“You will know in a few minutes,” said the cruel Prince. “Send your chaplain to me, and wait here until I call for you.”

At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment, and lost in vain conjectures on what he was meditating.

At these words, he rushed out of the room to look for Isabella. The ladies were stunned by his words and frantic behavior. They tried in vain to guess what he was planning.

Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended the staircase without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess’s apartment with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent Lady, who no more than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, to save her Lord from any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visited the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul than she had felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no doubt an impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had examined the chamber, and found everything in the usual order.

Manfred was returning from the vault, accompanied by the peasant and a few servants he had forced to go with him. He climbed the stairs without stopping until he reached the gallery. At its door, he met Hippolita and her chaplain. After Manfred dismissed Diego, the servant had gone straight to the Princess’s apartment, alarmed by what he had seen. The good lady had no more doubt than Manfred that the vision was real. Yet she pretended to think it was a delusion of the servant’s. She wanted to spare her lord any further shock. A series of sorrows had also prepared her not to tremble at another. So she resolved to be the first sacrifice, if fate had chosen this hour for their destruction. Hippolita sent Matilda to rest, though Matilda was reluctant to go and begged in vain to accompany her mother. With only her chaplain, Hippolita visited the gallery and the great chamber. She now met her lord, feeling calmer than she had for many hours. She assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable. No doubt, she said, fear and the dark, dismal hour of the night had conjured it in his servants’ minds. She and the chaplain had examined the chamber and found everything in its usual order.

Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him. Ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a Princess who returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty, he felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes; but not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage, he curbed the yearnings of his heart, and did not dare to lean even towards pity. The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy.

Like his wife, Manfred was convinced that the vision had not been imaginary. Yet he began to recover from the turmoil into which so many strange events had thrown him. He was also ashamed of his cruel treatment of the Princess. She had responded to every injury with fresh signs of tenderness and devotion. He felt his returning love well up in his eyes. But he was equally ashamed of feeling remorse toward her, because he was secretly planning an even crueler outrage against her. So he suppressed his tender feelings and did not dare give way even to pity. His thoughts turned next to a piece of exquisite villainy.

Presuming on the unshaken submission of Hippolita, he flattered himself that she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him her hand—but ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded, and charged his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer nobody to pass out. The young peasant, to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to remain in a small chamber on the stairs, in which there was a pallet-bed, and the key of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him in the morning. Then dismissing his attendants, and bestowing a sullen kind of half-nod on Hippolita, he retired to his own chamber.

Relying on Hippolita’s unwavering submission, he assured himself that she would patiently accept a divorce. He believed she would even obey him, if he wished, by trying to persuade Isabella to marry him. But before he could indulge this horrible hope, he remembered that Isabella was nowhere to be found. Coming to his senses, he ordered every approach to the castle to be closely guarded. He warned his servants that they would pay with their lives if they let anyone leave. He spoke kindly to the young peasant and ordered him to stay in a small room on the stairs. The room had a simple bed, and he took its key himself, telling the youth he would speak with him in the morning. Then he dismissed his attendants, gave Hippolita a sullen half-nod, and went to his own room.