Chapter 2

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

Matilda had withdrawn to her room on Hippolita’s orders, but she was in no mood to rest. Her brother’s shocking fate had deeply affected her. She was surprised that Isabella had not come to see her. But her father’s strange words and his vague threat to the Princess, his wife, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. His furious behavior had frightened her too. She waited anxiously for Bianca, a young maid who attended her, to return. Matilda had sent her to find out what had happened to Isabella. Bianca soon appeared and told her mistress what she had learned from the servants: Isabella was nowhere to be found. She told Matilda about the young peasant who had been discovered in the vault. But she added many innocent details drawn from the servants’ confused accounts. She spoke mostly about the gigantic leg and foot that had been seen in the gallery chamber. The sight had terrified Bianca so much that she was glad when Matilda said she would not go to bed. Instead, Matilda would stay awake until the Princess rose.

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

The young Princess exhausted herself wondering why Isabella had fled and why Manfred had threatened her mother. “But what urgent business could he have with the chaplain?” said Matilda. “Does he intend to bury my brother’s body privately in the chapel?”

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

“Oh, Madam!” said Bianca, “now I understand. Since you have become his heiress, he is eager to see you married. He has always gone on about wanting more sons. I’m sure he is now eager for grandsons. As surely as I live, Madam, I shall see you become a bride at last. Please, Madam, you won’t abandon your faithful Bianca. You won’t put Donna Rosara above me now that you are a great Princess.”

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

“My poor Bianca,” said Matilda, “how quickly your thoughts race! Me, a great princess! What has Manfred done since my brother’s death to show that he cares more for me? No, Bianca, his heart has always been closed to me. But he is my father, and I must not complain. If Heaven closes my father’s heart to me, it more than rewards my small worth with my mother’s love. Oh, my dear mother! Yes, Bianca, it is in his treatment of her that I feel Manfred’s harsh temper. I can patiently bear his harshness toward me. But it wounds my soul to see him treat her so cruelly for no reason.”

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

“Oh, Madam,” said Bianca, “all men treat their wives that way when they grow tired of them.”

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

“And yet you just congratulated me,” said Matilda, “when you thought my father intended to marry me off!”

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

“I want you to be a great lady,” replied Bianca, “whatever happens. I do not want to see you shut away in a convent, unhappy. You would be there if you had your way and if my lady, your mother, did not stop you. She knows that a bad husband is better than no husband at all. Good heavens! What is that noise? St. Nicholas forgive me! I was only joking.”

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

“It’s the wind,” said Matilda. “It’s whistling through the battlements in the tower above. You’ve heard it a thousand times.”

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

“No,” said Bianca, “there was no harm in what I said either. It is no sin to talk about marriage. So, Madam, as I was saying, suppose Lord Manfred offered you a handsome young prince as a husband. Would you curtsy to him and say you would rather become a nun?”

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

“Thank Heaven! I’m in no such danger,” said Matilda. “You know how many marriage proposals for me he has rejected...”

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

“And you thank him, like a dutiful daughter, do you, Madam? But come, Madam. Suppose he sends for you tomorrow morning to the great council chamber. There you find a lovely young Prince at his side. He has large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curls as black as jet. In short, Madam, he is a young hero like the good Alfonso in the portrait in the gallery. You sit and gaze at that portrait for hours.”

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

“Do not speak lightly of that picture,” Matilda interrupted, sighing. “I know it is unusual to look at the picture with such adoration, but I am not in love with a painted panel. I think of that virtuous Prince’s character and the reverence my mother has taught me to feel for his memory. She has also told me to pray at his tomb, though I do not know why. All these things have convinced me that somehow my destiny is linked to something connected with him.”

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

“Good Lord, Madam! How could that be?” said Bianca. “I have always heard that your family was not related to his at all. And I cannot understand why my Lady, the Princess, sends you to pray at his tomb on cold mornings or damp evenings. He is not a saint in the calendar. If you must pray, why doesn't she tell you to pray to our great St. Nicholas? He is certainly the saint I pray to for a husband.”

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

“Perhaps I would be less troubled,” said Matilda, “if my mother would explain her reasons to me. But her secrecy fills me with this feeling. I do not know what to call it. Since she never acts on a whim, I am sure there is some terrible secret behind it all. In fact, I know there is. In her grief over my brother’s death, she said a few words that hinted at it.”

“Oh! dear Madam,” cried Bianca, “what were they?”

“Oh, Madam,” Bianca cried, “what were they?”

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

“No,” said Matilda, “if a parent says something and wishes to take it back, a child should not repeat it.”

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

“What! Was she sorry for what she said?” Bianca asked. “I’m sure you can trust me, Madam...”

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

“I may share my own little secrets when I have any,” said Matilda, “but never my mother’s. A child should only listen and look as a parent directs.”

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

“Well, Madam, you were certainly born to be a saint,” said Bianca. “And there’s no resisting your calling. You’ll end up in a convent. But Lady Isabella would not be so reserved with me. She lets me talk to her about young men. And when a handsome knight has come to the castle, she has admitted to me that she wished your brother Conrad looked like him.”

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

“Bianca,” said the Princess, “I will not allow you to speak disrespectfully of my friend. Isabella is cheerful, but her soul is as pure as virtue itself. She knows you like to chatter. Perhaps she has sometimes encouraged your chatter to relieve her sadness and brighten the solitude in which my father keeps us.”

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

“Blessed Mary!” Bianca said, startled. “There it is again! Dear Madam, don't you hear anything? This castle is certainly haunted!”

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

“Quiet!” said Matilda. “Listen! I thought I heard a voice, but it must have been my imagination. I suppose your fears have infected me.”

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

“Really! Really, Madam,” said Bianca, almost crying with anguish, “I’m sure I heard a voice.”

“Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath?” said the Princess.

“Is anyone sleeping in the room below?” said the Princess.

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

“Nobody has dared to sleep there since the great astrologer drowned himself,” answered Bianca. “He was your brother’s tutor. His ghost and the young Prince’s must have met in the room below. For heaven’s sake, Madam, let’s flee to your mother’s apartment!”

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

“Do not move,” said Matilda. “If they are spirits in pain, we may ease their suffering by questioning them. They can mean us no harm, because we have not harmed them. And if they do mean us harm, would we be safer in one room than another? Give me my prayer beads. We will say a prayer and then speak to them.”

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

“Oh! Dear Lady, I would not speak to a ghost for anything in the world!” cried Bianca. As she spoke, they heard a window open in the small room below Matilda’s. They listened carefully. A few minutes later, they thought they heard someone singing, but they could not make out the words.

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

“This can’t be an evil spirit,” the Princess said quietly. “It’s definitely someone in the family. Open the window, and we’ll recognize the voice.”

“I dare not, indeed, Madam,” said Bianca.

“I really don't dare, 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.

“You are a fool,” said Matilda, gently opening the window herself. But the person below heard the noise the Princess made and stopped. They concluded that the person had heard the window open.

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

“Is anyone down there?” said the Princess. “If anyone is, speak.”

“Yes,” said an unknown voice.

“Yes,” said an unknown voice.

“Who is it?” said Matilda.

“Who is it?” said Matilda.

“A stranger,” replied the voice.

“A stranger,” the voice replied.

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

“What stranger?” she said. “And how did you get there at this unusual hour, when all the castle gates are locked?”

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

“I am not here willingly,” the voice answered. “But forgive me, Lady, if I disturbed your rest. I did not know anyone could hear me. I could not sleep, so I left my bed and came to pass the weary hours watching the beautiful dawn approach. I am eager to be released from this castle.”

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

“Your words and your voice sound sad,” said Matilda. “If you are unhappy, I pity you. If you are poor, let me know. I will tell the Princess about you. Her kind heart is always moved by those in distress, and she will help you.”

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

“I am indeed unhappy,” said the stranger, “and I do not know what it is to be wealthy. But I do not complain about the life Heaven has given me. I am young and healthy, and I am not ashamed to support myself. Yet please do not think me proud or believe that I scorn your generous offers. I will remember you in my prayers. I will pray for blessings on you and your noble mistress. If I sigh, lady, it is for others, not for myself.”

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

“Now I understand, Madam,” Bianca whispered to the Princess. “This is certainly the young peasant, and I swear he is in love. Oh, what a charming adventure! Please, Madam, let us question him. He does not know who you are, but thinks you are one of Lady Hippolita’s attendants.”

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

“Aren’t you ashamed, Bianca!” said the Princess. “What right do we have to pry into this young man’s private feelings? He seems honest and good, and he tells us he is unhappy. Does that give us the right to treat him as our property? Why should he confide in us?”

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

“Goodness, Madam! How little you know about love!” replied Bianca. “Lovers enjoy nothing more than talking about the woman they love.”

“And would you have me become a peasant’s confidante?” said the Princess.

“And you want me to be a peasant’s confidante?” said the Princess.

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

“Well, then, let me talk to him,” said Bianca. “Though I have the honor of being your Highness’s maid of honor, I wasn’t always so important. Besides, if love makes people equal, it also raises their status. I respect any young man in love.”

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

“Be quiet, fool!” said the Princess. “Though he said he was unhappy, that does not mean he must be in love. Think of all that has happened today. Are there no misfortunes except those caused by love? Stranger,” the Princess continued, “if your misfortunes are not your own fault, and Princess Hippolita has the power to remedy them, I can promise that she will protect you. When you are released from this castle, go to holy Father Jerome at the convent adjoining the church of St. Nicholas. Tell him as much of your story as you think fit. He will be sure to inform the Princess, who is a mother to all who need her help. Farewell. It is not proper for me to speak any longer with a man at this unusual hour.”

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

“May the saints protect you, gracious lady!” the peasant replied. “But oh, if a poor and worthless stranger might dare ask for another minute of your time. Am I so fortunate? The window is not shut. Might I dare ask...”

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

“Speak quickly,” said Matilda. “Morning is coming fast. If the workers come into the fields and see us... What do you want to ask?”

“I know not how, I know not if I dare,” said the young stranger, faltering; “yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me emboldens—Lady! dare I trust you?”

“I don't know how, or even if I dare,” the young stranger said, faltering. “But the kindness you've shown in speaking to me gives me courage. Lady, can I trust you?”

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

“Heavens!” said Matilda. “What do you mean? What would you entrust to me? Speak freely, if your secret is fit to be shared with a virtuous person.”

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

The peasant collected himself. “I would like to ask if what I heard from the servants is true. Is the Princess missing from the castle?”

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

“What does it matter to you?” Matilda replied. “Your first words showed a wise and fitting seriousness. Have you come here to pry into Manfred’s secrets? Goodbye. I was mistaken about you.” With these words, she quickly shut the window without giving the young man time to reply.

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

“I would have been wiser to let you talk to this peasant,” the Princess said sharply to Bianca. “He seems just as curious as you are.”

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

“It is not my place to argue with you, Your Highness,” replied Bianca. “But perhaps my questions would have been more relevant than the ones you chose to ask him.”

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

“Oh, no doubt,” said Matilda. “You are a very discreet person! May I know what you would have asked him?”

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

“Someone watching often sees more of the game than the players do,” Bianca answered. “Does Your Highness think that question about Lady Isabella was just curiosity, Madam? No, no, Madam. There is more to it than you great people realize. Lopez told me that all the servants believe this young fellow arranged Lady Isabella’s escape. Now, please, Madam, remember that you and I both know Lady Isabella never much cared for the Prince, your brother. Well, he is killed at a crucial moment. I accuse no one. A helmet falls from the moon. That is what your father, my Lord, says. But Lopez and all the servants say this young fellow is a magician who stole the helmet from Alfonso’s tomb.”

“Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence,” said Matilda.

“Enough of this torrent of disrespectful nonsense,” said Matilda.

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

“No, Madam, as you wish,” cried Bianca. “Still, it is very strange that Lady Isabella should be missing that very same day. And it is strange that this young sorcerer should be found at the trapdoor’s opening. I accuse nobody, but if my young Lord died an honest death...”

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

“On your duty, do not dare,” said Matilda, “to cast any doubt on the virtue and reputation of my dear Isabella.”

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

“Pure or not,” said Bianca, “she is gone. A stranger is found, and nobody knows him. You question him yourself. He tells you he is in love, or unhappy, which is the same thing. In fact, he admitted he was unhappy about others. And is anyone unhappy about someone else unless they are in love with them? Then, in his very next words, he innocently asks, poor soul, if my Lady Isabella is missing.”

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

“Of course,” said Matilda, “your observations are not entirely without foundation. Isabella’s flight amazes me. The stranger’s curiosity is very peculiar, yet Isabella never hid a thought from me.”

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

“She told you that,” said Bianca, “to find out your secrets. But who knows, Madam? This stranger may be a prince in disguise. Please, Madam, let me open the window and ask him a few questions.”

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

“No,” replied Matilda, “I will ask him myself if he knows anything about Isabella. He is not worthy of any further conversation with me.” She was about to open the window when they heard a bell ring at the castle’s postern gate. The gate was on the right side of the tower where Matilda lay. The bell prevented the Princess from resuming her conversation with the stranger.

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

After being silent for some time, she said to Bianca, “I am sure that whatever caused Isabella to flee, her motive was honorable. If this stranger helped her, she must be satisfied that he is loyal and worthy. Did you notice, Bianca, how unusually devout his words were? He did not speak like a ruffian. His words were those of a man of noble birth.”

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

“I told you, ma’am,” Bianca said, “I was sure he was a prince in disguise.”

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

“Yet,” said Matilda, “if he knew about her escape, why didn’t he go with her? Why risk my father’s anger so rashly and unnecessarily?”

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

“As for that, Madam,” she replied, “if he could get out from under the helmet, he will find a way to escape your father’s anger. I have no doubt he has some talisman or other with him.”

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

“You explain everything as magic,” said Matilda. “But a man who deals with evil spirits would not dare to say the awe-inspiring, holy words he spoke. Didn’t you notice how fervently he promised to mention me in his prayers to heaven? Yes, Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety.”

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

“What piety, a young man and a young woman planning to elope!” said Bianca. “No, no, Madam, my Lady Isabella is quite different from what you think. She did sigh and look heavenward in your company, because she knows you are a saint. But when your back was turned…”

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

“You judge her unfairly,” said Matilda. “Isabella is no hypocrite. She is properly devoted to her faith, but she has never pretended to have a religious calling. On the contrary, she always opposed my wish to enter a convent. I admit that I am confused by her secrecy about her flight. It seems at odds with our friendship. Even so, I cannot forget how warmly and selflessly she always opposed my becoming a nun. She wanted to see me married, though my dowry would have meant a loss to her and my brother’s children. For her sake, I will think well of this young peasant.”

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

“Then you do think they like each other somewhat,” said Bianca. While she was speaking, a servant rushed into the room. He told the Princess that Lady Isabella had been found.

“Where?” said Matilda.

“Where?” said Matilda.

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

“She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas’s church,” the servant replied. “Father Jerome brought the news himself. He is downstairs with His Highness.”

“Where is my mother?” said Matilda.

“Where is my mother?” Matilda said.

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

“She is in her room, Madam, and has asked for you.”

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

Manfred rose at first light and went to Hippolita’s rooms to ask if she knew anything about Isabella. While he was questioning her, he was told that Jerome wanted to speak with him. Manfred had little suspicion of why the friar had come, and knew that Hippolita employed him in her charitable work. He ordered Jerome to be admitted, intending to leave him with Hippolita while he continued searching for Isabella.

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

“Are you here to see me or the Princess?” said Manfred.

“With both,” replied the holy man. “The Lady Isabella—”

“With both,” the holy man replied. “Lady Isabella...”

“What of her?” interrupted Manfred, eagerly.

“What about her?” Manfred interrupted eagerly.

“Is at St. Nicholas’s altar,” replied Jerome.

“At St. Nicholas’s altar,” replied Jerome.

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

“That is none of Hippolita’s concern,” said Manfred, flustered. “Let us go to my room, Father. Tell me how she came there.”

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

“No, my Lord,” replied the good man, with a firmness and authority that intimidated even the determined Manfred. Manfred could not help respecting Jerome’s saintly virtues. “My message is for both of you, and with your Highness’s permission, I will deliver it in your presence. But first, my Lord, I must ask the Princess whether she knows why Lady Isabella left your castle.”

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

“No, I swear,” said Hippolita. “Does Isabella accuse me of knowing about it?”

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

“Father,” Manfred interrupted, “I respect your holy profession. But I am the ruler here, and I will not let a meddling priest interfere in my family affairs. If you have anything to say, come to my chamber. I do not usually let my wife know about the secret affairs of my state. Such matters are not a woman’s concern.”

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

“My Lord,” said the holy man, “I do not pry into family secrets. My duty is to promote peace, heal divisions, preach repentance, and teach people to control their headstrong passions. I forgive your Highness’s unkind remark. I know my duty, and I serve a mightier prince than Manfred. Listen to him who speaks through me.”

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

Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita’s face showed her astonishment and her impatience to know how this would end. Her silence showed her deference to Manfred even more clearly.

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

“Lady Isabella,” Jerome continued, “sends her respects to both your Highnesses. She thanks you both for the kindness she has received in your castle. She mourns the loss of your son and her own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble Princes. She will always respect you as parents. She prays that you will remain united and happy.” [Manfred’s face changed color.] “But she can no longer become part of your family. She asks for your consent to remain in sanctuary until she receives news of her father. If his death is confirmed, she will be free to make a suitable marriage, with her guardians’ approval.”

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

“I will not give my consent,” said the Prince. “Instead, I insist that she return to the castle immediately. I am responsible for her safety to her guardians, and I will not allow her to be in anyone else’s hands.”

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

“Your Highness should consider whether that is still appropriate,” replied the Friar.

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

“I don't need anyone to warn me,” said Manfred, blushing. “Isabella's behavior gives me reason to suspect strange things. And that young villain at least helped her escape, if he didn't cause it...”

“The cause!” interrupted Jerome; “was a young man the cause?”

“The cause!” Jerome interrupted. “Was a young man the cause?”

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

“I won’t stand for this!” cried Manfred. “Am I to be challenged in my own palace by a rude monk? I suspect you know about their love affairs.”

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

“I would pray to heaven to clear up your unfair suspicions,” said Jerome, “if your Highness did not already know in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven to forgive your unkindness. And I beg your Highness to leave the Princess in peace in that holy place. There, she cannot be disturbed by such empty, worldly fantasies as talk of love from any man.”

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

“Don't preach to me,” said Manfred. “Go back and make the Princess do her duty.”

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

“It is my duty to keep her from returning here,” said Jerome. “She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the traps and tricks of this world. Only a parent’s authority can take her away from there.”

“I am her parent,” cried Manfred, “and demand her.”

“I am her parent,” Manfred cried, “and I demand her.”

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

“She wished you were her parent,” said the Friar. “But Heaven forbade that connection and has forever dissolved all ties between you. And I announce to your Highness...”

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

“Stop, you impudent man,” said Manfred, “and fear my anger.”

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

“Holy Father,” said Hippolita, “your duty is to treat everyone equally. You must speak as your duty requires. But my duty is to hear nothing my lord does not wish me to hear. Go with the Prince to his chamber. I will retire to my prayer room. There I will pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsel. I will also pray that she restores my gracious lord’s heart to its usual peace and gentleness.”

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

“Wonderful woman!” said the Friar. “My Lord, I am at your service.”

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

Manfred went with the Friar to his own room and shut the door. “I see, Father,” he said, “that Isabella has told you what I intend. Now hear my decision, and obey. Urgent reasons of state, my own safety, and the safety of my people require me to have a son. There is no hope of an heir from Hippolita. I have chosen Isabella. You must bring her back, and you must do more. I know how much influence you have over Hippolita. Her conscience is in your hands. I admit that she is a faultless woman. Her soul is set on heaven, and she looks down on the petty grandeur of this world. You can draw her away from the world entirely. Persuade her to agree to end our marriage and enter a monastery. She may endow a monastery if she wishes. She will have the means to give as generously to your order as she or you could wish. In this way, you will avert the disasters hanging over our heads. You will also have the credit of saving the principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man. Though my temper led me to say some improper things, I honour your virtue. I wish to be indebted to you for the peace of my life and the preservation of my family.”

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

“The will of heaven be done!” said the Friar. “I am only its unworthy instrument. Heaven uses my tongue to tell you, Prince, that your plans are unjust. The wrongs suffered by the virtuous Hippolita have reached the throne of pity. Through me, heaven rebukes you for your adulterous intention to cast her aside. Through me, heaven warns you not to pursue your incestuous design on the woman betrothed to your son. Heaven rescued her from your fury. The punishments that recently fell on your house should have led you to think differently. Heaven will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised Friar, can protect her from your violence. I am a sinner, and your Highness has cruelly accused me of helping with I know not what love affairs. Yet I scorn the rewards you have offered to tempt me to betray my principles. I love my religious order. I honor devout souls. I respect the piety of your Princess. But I will not betray the trust she places in me. Nor will I do wrong and sin, even to serve the cause of religion. “But of course, the welfare of the state depends on your Highness having a son! Heaven mocks the short-sighted plans of men. Only yesterday morning, whose house was as great and flourishing as Manfred’s? Where is young Conrad now? My Lord, I respect your tears, and I do not mean to stop them. Let them flow, Prince! They will count for more with heaven for the welfare of your subjects than a marriage could. Such a marriage, founded on lust or political interest, could never prosper. The scepter that passed from Alfonso’s line to yours cannot be preserved by a marriage the church will never allow. If the Most High wills that Manfred’s name must perish, accept heaven’s decree, my Lord. In doing so, you will deserve a crown that can never pass away. “Come, my Lord. I welcome this sorrow. Let us return to the Princess. She does not know of your cruel intentions, and I meant only to alarm you. You saw her gentle patience and her efforts to show love. You saw how she listened, and then refused to listen, to the full extent of your guilt. I know she longs to hold you in her arms and assure you that her love has not changed.”

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

“Father,” said the Prince, “you misunderstand my remorse. It is true that I honor Hippolita’s virtues. I think her a saint, and I wish that strengthening our marriage would be good for my soul. But alas, Father, you do not know my deepest pain! For some time, I have had doubts about whether our marriage is lawful. Hippolita and I are related in the fourth degree. It is true that we received permission to marry despite our kinship. But I have been told that she had also been promised in marriage to another. That is what weighs heavily on my heart. I believe this unlawful marriage brought on the punishment that has fallen on me in Conrad’s death! Ease my conscience of this burden. Dissolve our marriage and complete the godly work your inspired counsel has begun in my soul.”

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

How deeply the good man grieved when he saw this change in the cunning Prince! He feared for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was certain. He also feared that, if Manfred lost hope of getting Isabella back, his impatience for a son would lead him to pursue someone else. That woman might not be as resistant to the temptation of Manfred’s rank. For some time, the holy man remained lost in thought. At last, seeing some hope in delay, he decided it would be wisest to keep the Prince from giving up hope of getting Isabella back. The Friar knew Isabella loved Hippolita and had told him how much she disliked Manfred’s advances. He could therefore persuade her to help him until the church could formally condemn a divorce. With this intention, and as if the Prince’s doubts had impressed him, he finally said:

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

“My Lord, I have been thinking about what Your Highness said. If your conscience truly makes you unwilling to remain with your virtuous wife, I would not try to harden your heart. The Church is a forgiving mother. Tell her your troubles. She alone can comfort your soul. She may either satisfy your conscience or, after examining your doubts, set you free and permit you lawful means of continuing your lineage. In the latter case, if Lady Isabella can be persuaded to consent...”

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

Manfred concluded that he had either outwitted the good man or that the priest’s initial anger had only been for show. He was overjoyed at this sudden change and repeated his most lavish promises if he succeeded through the Friar’s mediation. The well-meaning priest let Manfred deceive himself, though he was determined to thwart his plans rather than support them.

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

“Now that we understand each other,” the Prince continued, “I expect you to answer one question, Father. Who is the young man I found in the vault? He must have known about Isabella’s escape. Tell me the truth. Is he her lover, or is he acting for someone else who loves her? I have often suspected that Isabella did not care for my son. A thousand things come to mind that confirm my suspicion. Isabella herself was so aware of her indifference that, when I spoke to her in the gallery, she anticipated my suspicions. She tried to explain why she had been cold toward Conrad.”

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

The Friar knew nothing of the youth except what he had occasionally learned from the Princess. He did not know what had become of the youth, and he did not give enough thought to Manfred’s impulsive temper. He thought it might be wise to stir jealousy in Manfred’s mind. That jealousy might prove useful later. It might turn the Prince against Isabella if he persisted in seeking to marry her. Or it might put him on the wrong track. By occupying his thoughts with an imagined affair, it might prevent him from pursuing anyone else. Following this unfortunate plan, the Friar answered in a way that confirmed Manfred’s belief that Isabella and the youth were involved. The Prince needed little to set his passions ablaze, and he flew into a rage at the Friar’s suggestion.

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

“I will get to the bottom of this intrigue,” he cried. He abruptly left Jerome, ordering him to stay there until he returned. He hurried to the castle’s great hall and ordered the peasant to be brought before him.

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

“You hardened young impostor!” said the Prince as soon as he saw the youth. “What happened to your claims of honesty? So it was Providence and the moonlight that revealed the trapdoor’s lock to you, was it? Tell me, bold boy, who are you, and how long have you known the Princess? Answer more directly than you did last night, or torture will force the truth out of you.”

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

The young man realized that his part in the Princess's escape had been discovered. He concluded that nothing he said could help or harm her anymore. So he replied:

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

“I am no impostor, my Lord, and I do not deserve insults. I answered every question your Highness asked me last night as truthfully as I will speak now. I will speak truthfully not because I fear your tortures, but because I hate lying. Please repeat your questions, my Lord. I am ready to answer them as fully as I can.”

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

“You know my questions,” replied the Prince, “and you only want time to prepare an evasive answer. Speak plainly. Who are you? How long has the Princess known you?”

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

“I’m a laborer from the next village,” said the peasant. “My name is Theodore. The Princess found me in the vault last night. Before then, I had never met her.”

“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.”

“I can believe as much or as little of this as I please,” said Manfred. “But I will hear your story before I check whether it is true. Tell me, what reason did the Princess give you for escaping? Your life depends on your answer.”

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

“She told me,” Theodore replied, “that she was on the verge of ruin. If she could not escape from the castle, she risked being made miserable forever within moments.”

“And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl’s report,” said Manfred, “thou didst hazard my displeasure?”

“And on such flimsy grounds, a silly girl’s report,” said Manfred, “you risked my displeasure?”

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

“I don’t fear any man’s anger,” said Theodore, “when a woman in distress asks for my protection.”

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

During the questioning, Matilda was on her way to Hippolita’s room. At the upper end of the hall where Manfred sat was a wooden gallery with latticed windows. Matilda and Bianca had to pass through it. Matilda heard her father’s voice and saw the servants gathered around him. She stopped to find out what was happening. The prisoner soon caught her attention. He answered calmly and steadily, and his last reply was gallant. Those were the first words she heard clearly, and they made her look on him favorably. Even in his situation, he looked noble, handsome, and commanding. But soon his face drew all her attention.

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

“Heavens, Bianca,” the Princess said softly, “am I dreaming? Doesn’t that young man look exactly like Alfonso’s portrait in the gallery?”

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

She could say no more because her father’s voice grew louder with every word.

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

“This defiance,” he said, “surpasses all your past insolence. You will feel the wrath you dare to provoke. Seize him,” Manfred continued, “and tie him up. The first news the Princess hears of her champion will be that he has lost his head for her sake.”

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

“Your unfair treatment of me,” said Theodore, “convinces me that I did a good deed by saving the Princess from your tyranny. May she be happy, whatever happens to me!”

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

“Some lover you are!” cried Manfred in a rage. “Even a peasant facing death would not feel that way. Tell me, tell me, reckless boy, who you are, or the rack will force your secret out of you.”

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

“You have already threatened me with death,” said the young man, “for telling you the truth. If that is all the encouragement I can expect for being honest, I have no desire to satisfy your idle curiosity any further.”

“Then thou wilt not speak?” said Manfred.

“Then you won't speak?” said Manfred.

“I will not,” replied he.

“I will not,” he replied.

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

“Take him to the courtyard,” said Manfred. “I want to see his head cut off this instant.”

Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—“Help! help! the Princess is dead!”

Matilda fainted when she heard those words. Bianca shrieked and cried, “Help! Help! The Princess is dead!”

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

Manfred started at the cry and demanded to know what was wrong. The young peasant heard it too and was horrified. He eagerly asked the same question. But Manfred ordered him to be hurried into the courtyard and held there for execution until Manfred learned what had caused Bianca’s shrieks. When he learned the cause, he dismissed it as a woman’s panic. He ordered Matilda to be carried to her room, then rushed into the courtyard. He called for one of his guards and told Theodore to kneel and prepare for the fatal blow.

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

The fearless young man accepted the bitter sentence with a resignation that touched every heart except Manfred’s. He desperately wanted to know what the words he had heard about the Princess meant. But he feared making the tyrant even angrier with her, so he held back. The only favor he chose to ask was permission to see a confessor and make his peace with heaven. Manfred hoped to learn the young man’s history through the confessor, so he readily granted the request. Convinced that Father Jerome now supported him, he ordered Jerome to be summoned to hear the prisoner’s confession. The holy man had scarcely foreseen the disaster his rashness had caused. He fell to his knees before the Prince and solemnly begged him not to shed innocent blood. He bitterly blamed himself for his indiscretion, tried to clear the young man of blame, and left nothing untried to soften the tyrant’s rage. But Jerome’s plea angered Manfred rather than calming him. Jerome had now taken back what he had said, making Manfred suspect that both men had deceived him. Manfred ordered the Friar to do his duty and told him he would give the prisoner only a few minutes for confession.

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

“Nor do I ask for many, my Lord,” said the unhappy young man. “Thank heaven, my sins have not been many. They are no more than you might expect at my age. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us get on with it. This is a bad world, and I have no reason to regret leaving it.”

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

“Oh, you poor young man!” said Jerome. “How can you bear to look at me without anger? I am your murderer! I am the one who brought this terrible hour upon you!”

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

“I forgive you with all my soul,” said the young man, “just as I hope heaven will forgive me. Hear my confession, Father, and give me your blessing.”

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

“How can I prepare you properly for death?” said Jerome. “You cannot be saved unless you forgive your enemies. Can you forgive that godless man over there?”

“I can,” said Theodore; “I do.”

“I can,” Theodore said. “I do.”

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

“Doesn't this move you, cruel Prince?” said the Friar.

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

“I sent for you to hear his confession,” Manfred said sternly, “not to plead for him. You were the one who first turned me against him. His blood is on your head!”

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

“It will! It will!” said the good man, in an agony of grief. “You and I can never hope to go where this blessed young man is going!”

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

“Hurry!” said Manfred. “I am no more moved by the whining of priests than by the shrieks of women.”

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

“What!” said the young man. “Could my fate have caused what I heard? Is the Princess in your power again?”

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

“You only remind me of my anger,” said Manfred. “Prepare yourself, for this is your last moment.”

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

The young man felt his anger rise. But he was moved by the sorrow he saw he had caused among all the spectators and the Friar. He held back his emotions, took off his doublet, unbuttoned his collar, and knelt to pray. As he bent forward, his shirt slipped below his shoulder, revealing the mark of a bloody arrow.

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

“Good heavens!” cried the holy man, startled. “What do I see? It is my child! My Theodore!”

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

The emotions that followed must be imagined. They cannot be described. The onlookers stopped crying more from wonder than from joy. They seemed to look into their lord’s eyes to see what they should feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, and respect passed in turn across the young man’s face. He modestly submitted to the old man’s tears and embraces. Yet he was afraid to let himself hope. What had happened had also made him suspect that Manfred’s temper was unyielding. He glanced at the Prince, as if to say, can you remain unmoved by such a scene?

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

Manfred was capable of being moved. His astonishment made him forget his anger, but his pride kept him from admitting he was moved. He even wondered if the Friar had arranged the discovery to save the young man.

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

“What could this mean?” he said. “How can he be your son? Does your religious calling or supposed holiness allow you to claim a peasant’s child as the product of your illicit affairs!”

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

“Oh, God!” said the holy man. “Do you doubt that he is my son? Could I feel such anguish if I were not his father? Spare him, good Prince! Spare him! Insult me as much as you please.”

“Spare him! spare him!” cried the attendants; “for this good man’s sake!”

“Spare him! Spare him!” the attendants cried. “For this good man’s sake!”

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

“Quiet!” said Manfred sternly. “I must know more before I am willing to pardon. A saint’s illegitimate child may not be a saint himself.”

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

“Cruel lord!” said Theodore. “Do not add insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable man’s son, though I am not a prince as you are, know that the blood in my veins...”

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

“Yes,” the Friar said, interrupting him, “his blood is noble. And he is not the lowly creature you say he is, my Lord. He is my lawful son, and few families in Sicily are older than the house of Falconara. But alas, my Lord, what is blood? What is nobility? We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. Only piety can distinguish us from the dust we came from and must return to.”

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

“Enough of your sermon,” said Manfred. “You forget that you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Tell me your story. You will have time to preach later, if you fail to win mercy from that stubborn criminal over there.”

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

“Mother of God!” said the Friar. “Can you really refuse to spare a father’s only child, whom he lost so long ago? Trample me, my Lord. Scorn me, make me suffer, take my life instead of his, but spare my son!”

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

“So you know what it feels like to lose an only son!” said Manfred. “Just an hour ago, you urged me to accept my fate. If fate so pleased, my house must perish, but the Count of Falconara...”

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

“Oh, my Lord,” said Jerome, “I admit I have done wrong, but do not make an old man suffer more! I do not boast about my family or think about such vanities. It is a father’s love that pleads for this boy, and the memory of the dear woman who bore him. Theodore, is she dead?”

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

“Her soul has been in heaven with the blessed for a long time,” said Theodore.

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

“Oh! How?” cried Jerome. “Tell me. No, she is happy! You are all I care about now! My lord, will you, will you spare my poor boy’s life?”

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

“Return to your convent,” Manfred replied. “Bring the Princess here. Obey me in the other matter you know about, and I promise to spare your son’s life.”

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

“Oh, my Lord,” said Jerome, “must I give up my honesty to keep this dear young man safe?”

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

“For me!” cried Theodore. “Let me die a thousand deaths rather than burden your conscience. What does the tyrant demand of you? Is the Princess still safe from his power? Protect her, honored old man, and let all his anger fall on me.”

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

Jerome tried to calm the young man. Before Manfred could reply, they heard horses trampling. A brass trumpet hanging outside the castle gate suddenly sounded. At the same moment, the black plumes on the enchanted helmet began to thrash wildly. The helmet still stood at the other end of the courtyard. The plumes nodded three times, as if an invisible wearer had bowed the helmet.