Chapter 4

The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle, than they were met by Hippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics before to advertise of their approach. The ladies causing Frederic to be conveyed into the nearest chamber, retired, while the surgeons examined his wounds. Matilda blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together; but endeavoured to conceal it by embracing the latter, and condoling with her on her father’s mischance. The surgeons soon came to acquaint Hippolita that none of the Marquis’s wounds were dangerous; and that he was desirous of seeing his daughter and the Princesses.

As soon as the sorrowful group reached the castle, Hippolita and Matilda met them. Isabella had sent a servant ahead to tell them the group was coming. The ladies had Frederic carried into the nearest room, then withdrew while the surgeons examined his wounds. Matilda blushed when she saw Theodore and Isabella together. But she tried to hide her blush by embracing Isabella and expressing sympathy for her father’s misfortune. The surgeons soon came to tell Hippolita that none of the Marquis’s wounds were dangerous. They also said he wished to see his daughter and the Princesses.

Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from his apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist the impulse of following Matilda. Her eyes were so often cast down on meeting his, that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he gazed on Matilda, soon divined who the object was that he had told her in the cave engaged his affections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita demanded of Frederic the cause of his having taken that mysterious course for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various apologies to excuse her Lord for the match contracted between their children.

Theodore pretended to be expressing his joy that he no longer feared the combat would prove fatal to Frederic. But he could not resist the urge to follow Matilda. Matilda so often lowered her eyes when they met Theodore’s that Isabella soon guessed whom he loved. Isabella had been watching Theodore as closely as he gazed at Matilda. In the cave, he had told Isabella that someone held his affections. While this silent scene unfolded, Hippolita asked Frederic why he had taken such a mysterious approach to reclaiming his daughter. She also offered several apologies for her husband’s part in arranging the match between their children.

Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the courtesy and benevolence of Hippolita: but he was still more struck with the lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bedside, he informed Hippolita of his story. He told her that, while prisoner to the infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he had learned no news since his captivity, was detained in a castle, where she was in danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and that if he obtained his liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by it, his chains became more grievous than ever. But while his thoughts were occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he received the agreeable news that the confederate Princes who were warring in Palestine had paid his ransom. He instantly set out for the wood that had been marked in his dream.

Although Frederic was furious with Manfred, he appreciated Hippolita’s kindness and courtesy. But he was even more struck by Matilda’s beauty. Hoping to keep them at his bedside, he told Hippolita his story. While he was a prisoner of the infidels, he had dreamed about his daughter. He had heard no news of her since his capture. In the dream, she was being held in a castle, where she was in danger of terrible misfortunes. He also dreamed that if he gained his freedom and went to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more. The dream alarmed him, and his captivity felt more unbearable than ever because he could not follow its instructions. But while he was thinking about how to gain his freedom, he received welcome news. The allied Princes fighting in Palestine had paid his ransom. He immediately set out for the wood identified in his dream.

For three days he and his attendants had wandered in the forest without seeing a human form: but on the evening of the third they came to a cell, in which they found a venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying rich cordials, they brought the fainting man to his speech.

For three days, he and his attendants wandered through the forest without seeing another person. But on the third evening, they came to a small dwelling. Inside, they found an elderly hermit in the throes of death. They gave him potent medicines that revived him enough to speak.

“My sons,” said he, “I am bounden to your charity—but it is in vain—I am going to my eternal rest—yet I die with the satisfaction of performing the will of heaven. When first I repaired to this solitude, after seeing my country become a prey to unbelievers—it is alas! above fifty years since I was witness to that dreadful scene! St. Nicholas appeared to me, and revealed a secret, which he bade me never disclose to mortal man, but on my death-bed. This is that tremendous hour, and ye are no doubt the chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon as ye have done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh tree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will—Oh! good heaven receive my soul!” With those words the devout man breathed his last.

“My sons,” he said, “I am grateful for your kindness, but it is in vain. I am going to my eternal rest. Yet I die satisfied that I have carried out heaven’s will. I came to this lonely place after seeing my country fall prey to unbelievers. Alas, it has been more than fifty years since I witnessed that dreadful scene! When I first came here, St. Nicholas appeared to me and revealed a secret. He told me never to reveal it to any mortal except on my deathbed. This is that dreadful hour, and you are surely the chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal the secret. As soon as you have performed the last rites for this wretched body, dig beneath the seventh tree to the left of this poor cave. Your efforts will... Oh, good heaven, receive my soul!” With those words, the devout man breathed his last.

“By break of day,” continued Frederic, “when we had committed the holy relics to earth, we dug according to direction. But what was our astonishment when about the depth of six feet we discovered an enormous sabre—the very weapon yonder in the court. On the blade, which was then partly out of the scabbard, though since closed by our efforts in removing it, were written the following lines—no; excuse me, Madam,” added the Marquis, turning to Hippolita; “if I forbear to repeat them: I respect your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your ear with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you.”

“At daybreak,” Frederic continued, “after we had buried the holy relics, we dug as instructed. But how astonished we were to discover an enormous sabre about six feet down! It was the very weapon over there in the courtyard. The blade was partly out of its sheath then, though we pushed it back in while moving it. On the blade were written the following lines. No, forgive me, Madam,” the Marquis added, turning to Hippolita, “if I do not repeat them. I respect you as a woman and a person of rank. I would not offend your ears with words that insult anything dear to you.”

He paused. Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but Frederic was destined by heaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to threaten her house. Looking with anxious fondness at Matilda, a silent tear stole down her cheek: but recollecting herself, she said—

He paused. Hippolita trembled. She had no doubt that heaven had destined Frederic to bring about the fate that seemed to threaten her family. She looked at Matilda with anxious affection, and a silent tear ran down her cheek. But she composed herself and said:

“Proceed, my Lord; heaven does nothing in vain; mortals must receive its divine behests with lowliness and submission. It is our part to deprecate its wrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my Lord; we listen resigned.”

“Go on, my Lord. Heaven does nothing without a purpose. We mortals must accept its divine commands with humility and submission. We must pray to avert heaven’s wrath or bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my Lord. We are ready to hear it with resignation.”

Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect, and the tender silent affection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded each other, melted him almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that his forbearance to obey would be more alarming, he repeated in a faltering and low voice the following lines:

Frederic regretted that he had gone so far. Hippolita's dignity and patient firmness filled him with respect. The tender, silent affection between the Princess and her daughter moved him almost to tears. Yet he feared that refusing to obey would be more alarming. So he repeated the following lines in a low, faltering voice:

“What is there in these lines,” said Theodore impatiently, “that affects these Princesses? Why were they to be shocked by a mysterious delicacy, that has so little foundation?”

“What is there in these lines,” Theodore said impatiently, “that affects these Princesses? Why should they be shocked by some mysterious sense of propriety with so little basis?”

“Your words are rude, young man,” said the Marquis; “and though fortune has favoured you once—”

“Your words are rude, young man,” said the Marquis. “And though luck has favored you once...”

“My honoured Lord,” said Isabella, who resented Theodore’s warmth, which she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for Matilda, “discompose not yourself for the glosing of a peasant’s son: he forgets the reverence he owes you; but he is not accustomed—”

“My honoured Lord,” said Isabella. She resented Theodore’s passion, which she could see came from his feelings for Matilda. “Do not trouble yourself over the smooth talk of a peasant’s son. He forgets the respect he owes you, but he is not accustomed to...”

Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord? As the Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise without, and rising to inquire the cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an imperfect rumour of what had happened, entered the chamber. Manfred advanced hastily towards Frederic’s bed to condole with him on his misfortune, and to learn the circumstances of the combat, when starting in an agony of terror and amazement, he cried—

Hippolita was concerned by the anger that had arisen. She reproached Theodore for his boldness, but showed that she appreciated his devotion. Changing the subject, she asked Frederic where he had left her lord. As the Marquis was about to answer, they heard a noise outside and rose to find out what had caused it. Manfred, Jerome, and some of the troop entered the chamber. They had heard an incomplete account of what had happened. Manfred hurried toward Frederic’s bed to express his sympathy for Frederic’s misfortune and learn the circumstances of the fight. Then, starting in a fit of terror and amazement, Manfred cried:

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

“Ah! What are you, you dreadful ghost? Has my time come?”

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

“My dearest lord,” cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms, “what do you see? Why are you staring like that?”

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

“What!” cried Manfred, breathless. “Don’t you see anything, Hippolita? Was this terrifying ghost sent to me alone? To me, who did not...”

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

“For mercy’s sake, my lord,” said Hippolita, “pull yourself together and think clearly. There is no one here but us, your friends.”

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

“What, isn’t that Alfonso?” cried Manfred. “Don’t you see him? Could I be imagining it?”

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

“This, my lord,” said Hippolita, “is Theodore, the young man who has suffered so much.”

“Theodore!” said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead; “Theodore or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred. But how comes he here? and how comes he in armour?”

“Theodore!” Manfred said mournfully, striking his forehead. “Theodore or a ghost, he has shaken Manfred to the core. But how did he get here? And why is he wearing armor?”

“I believe he went in search of Isabella,” said Hippolita.

“I believe he went to look for Isabella,” said Hippolita.

“Of Isabella!” said Manfred, relapsing into rage; “yes, yes, that is not doubtful—. But how did he escape from durance in which I left him? Was it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that procured his enlargement?”

“Isabella!” said Manfred, growing angry again. “Yes, yes, there’s no doubt about that. But how did he escape from where I had imprisoned him? Was it Isabella or this hypocritical old Friar who got him released?”

“And would a parent be criminal, my Lord,” said Theodore, “if he meditated the deliverance of his child?”

“And would a parent be guilty, my Lord,” said Theodore, “for planning to free his child?”

Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and without foundation, knew not what to think. He could not comprehend how Theodore had escaped, how he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederic. Still he would not venture to ask any questions that might tend to inflame Manfred’s wrath against his son. Jerome’s silence convinced Manfred that he had contrived Theodore’s release.

Jerome was astonished that his son seemed to accuse him without cause. He did not know what to think. He could not understand how Theodore had escaped, obtained a weapon, and come to face Frederic. Still, he did not dare ask questions that might make Manfred angrier with his son. Jerome’s silence convinced Manfred that he had arranged Theodore’s release.

“And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man,” said the Prince, addressing himself to the Friar, “that thou repayest mine and Hippolita’s bounties? And not content with traversing my heart’s nearest wishes, thou armest thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle to insult me!”

“And is this how you repay the kindness Hippolita and I have shown you, you ungrateful old man?” the Prince said to the Friar. “It isn’t enough for you to stand in the way of my deepest wishes. You arm your bastard son and bring him into my own castle to insult me!”

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “you wrong my father: neither he nor I are capable of harbouring a thought against your peace. Is it insolence thus to surrender myself to your Highness’s pleasure?” added he, laying his sword respectfully at Manfred’s feet. “Behold my bosom; strike, my Lord, if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there. There is not a sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you and yours.”

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “you wrong my father. Neither he nor I could ever think of disturbing your peace. Is it insolent to place myself at your Highness’s mercy?” he added, respectfully laying his sword at Manfred’s feet. “Here is my chest. Strike, my Lord, if you suspect that I have a disloyal thought in my heart. Every feeling in my heart honors you and your family.”

The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested every person present in his favour. Even Manfred was touched—yet still possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed with secret horror.

The grace and passion with which Theodore spoke won everyone present over to his side. Even Manfred was moved. But he could not stop thinking about Theodore's resemblance to Alfonso, and secret horror mixed with his admiration.

“Rise,” said he; “thy life is not my present purpose. But tell me thy history, and how thou camest connected with this old traitor here.”

“Get up,” he said. “I do not intend to kill you now. But tell me your story and how you became connected to this old traitor here.”

“My Lord,” said Jerome eagerly.

“My lord,” said Jerome eagerly.

“Peace! impostor!” said Manfred; “I will not have him prompted.”

“Quiet, impostor!” said Manfred. “I will not let you prompt him.”

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “I want no assistance; my story is very brief. I was carried at five years of age to Algiers with my mother, who had been taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily. She died of grief in less than a twelvemonth;” the tears gushed from Jerome’s eyes, on whose countenance a thousand anxious passions stood expressed. “Before she died,” continued Theodore, “she bound a writing about my arm under my garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara.”

“My Lord,” said Theodore, “I need no help. My story is very short. When I was five, I was taken to Algiers with my mother. Pirates had captured her on the coast of Sicily. She died of grief in less than a year.” Tears streamed from Jerome’s eyes, and his face showed countless anxious emotions. “Before she died,” Theodore continued, “she tied a written note around my arm under my clothes. It said I was the son of the Count Falconara.”

“It is most true,” said Jerome; “I am that wretched father.”

“It is absolutely true,” said Jerome. “I am that miserable father.”

“Again I enjoin thee silence,” said Manfred: “proceed.”

“Again, I order you to be silent,” said Manfred: “go on.”

“I remained in slavery,” said Theodore, “until within these two years, when attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by a Christian vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to the captain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily; but alas! instead of finding a father, I learned that his estate, which was situated on the coast, had, during his absence, been laid waste by the Rover who had carried my mother and me into captivity: that his castle had been burnt to the ground, and that my father on his return had sold what remained, and was retired into religion in the kingdom of Naples, but where no man could inform me. Destitute and friendless, hopeless almost of attaining the transport of a parent’s embrace, I took the first opportunity of setting sail for Naples, from whence, within these six days, I wandered into this province, still supporting myself by the labour of my hands; nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven had reserved any lot for me but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord, is Theodore’s story. I am blessed beyond my hope in finding a father; I am unfortunate beyond my desert in having incurred your Highness’s displeasure.”

“I remained enslaved,” said Theodore, “until about two years ago. I was accompanying my master on his voyages when a Christian ship overpowered the pirate and freed me. I told the captain who I was, and he generously put me ashore in Sicily. But alas! Instead of finding my father, I learned what had happened to his estate on the coast. During his absence, the pirate who had captured my mother and me had laid it waste. His castle had been burned to the ground. When my father returned, he sold what remained and entered religious life in the kingdom of Naples. But no one could tell me where. “Destitute and friendless, I had almost given up hope of the joy of a father’s embrace. I took the first opportunity to sail for Naples. Within the past six days, I wandered from there into this province, still supporting myself by working with my hands. Until yesterday morning, I believed that heaven had nothing in store for me but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord, is Theodore’s story. I am blessed beyond my hopes to have found a father. Yet I am more unfortunate than I deserve, having incurred your Highness’s displeasure.”

He ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience.

He stopped speaking. A soft murmur of approval rose from the audience.

“This is not all,” said Frederic; “I am bound in honour to add what he suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be generous; he is one of the bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and from the short knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity: if what he reports of himself were not true, he would not utter it—and for me, youth, I honour a frankness which becomes thy birth; but now, and thou didst offend me: yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins, may well be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its source. Come, my Lord,” (turning to Manfred), “if I can pardon him, surely you may; it is not the youth’s fault, if you took him for a spectre.”

“That is not all,” said Frederic. “Honor requires me to add what he has left unsaid. Though he is modest, I must give him his due. He is one of the bravest young men in Christendom. He is hot-tempered too. And though I have known him only briefly, I will vouch for his honesty. If what he says about himself were not true, he would not say it. For my part, young man, I admire the frankness that suits your birth. But you did offend me just now. Still, the noble blood in your veins may well be allowed to boil over, since you have only recently discovered its source. Come, my Lord,” he said, turning to Manfred, “if I can forgive him, surely you can. It is not the young man’s fault that you took him for a ghost.”

This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred.

This bitter taunt wounded Manfred deeply.

“If beings from another world,” replied he haughtily, “have power to impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor could a stripling’s arm.”

“If beings from another world can fill me with awe,” he replied arrogantly, “no living man can. Nor could a young man’s strength.”

“My Lord,” interrupted Hippolita, “your guest has occasion for repose: shall we not leave him to his rest?” Saying this, and taking Manfred by the hand, she took leave of Frederic, and led the company forth.

“My Lord,” Hippolita interrupted, “your guest needs rest. Shall we leave him to rest?” She took Manfred by the hand, said goodbye to Frederic, and led the company out.

The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind the discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the young man gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent. Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections, and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse that night. They separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of ceremony and fewer of affection than had passed between them since their childhood.

The Prince was not sorry to leave a conversation that reminded him he had revealed his most secret feelings. He allowed Theodore to return to the convent with his father, on condition that he return to the castle the next day. Theodore gladly accepted the condition. The Prince then let himself be led to his own room. Matilda and Isabella were too absorbed in their own thoughts, and too displeased with each other, to want any further conversation that night. Each went to her room. They parted with more formal courtesy and less affection than they had shown each other since childhood.

If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater impatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions which she wished she had put to the other overnight. Matilda reflected that Isabella had been twice delivered by Theodore in very critical situations, which she could not believe accidental. His eyes, it was true, had been fixed on her in Frederic’s chamber; but that might have been to disguise his passion for Isabella from the fathers of both. It were better to clear this up. She wished to know the truth, lest she should wrong her friend by entertaining a passion for Isabella’s lover. Thus jealousy prompted, and at the same time borrowed an excuse from friendship to justify its curiosity.

If they had parted with little warmth, they were all the more impatient to meet again as soon as the sun rose. Their minds were too troubled for sleep. Each remembered a thousand questions she wished she had asked the other the night before. Matilda reflected that Theodore had twice saved Isabella in desperate situations. She could not believe this was accidental. His eyes had indeed been fixed on Matilda in Frederic’s chamber. But he might have done that to hide his passion for Isabella from both their fathers. It would be better to clear up the matter. Matilda wished to know the truth so that she would not wrong her friend by falling in love with Isabella’s lover. Jealousy thus prompted her curiosity, while using friendship as an excuse to justify it.

Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her suspicions. Both Theodore’s tongue and eyes had told her his heart was engaged; it was true—yet, perhaps, Matilda might not correspond to his passion; she had ever appeared insensible to love: all her thoughts were set on heaven.

Isabella was just as restless, but she had better reason for her suspicions. Both Theodore’s words and his eyes had told her that his heart belonged to someone else. It was true, but perhaps Matilda did not return his love. She had always seemed untouched by love. All her thoughts were focused on heaven.

“Why did I dissuade her?” said Isabella to herself; “I am punished for my generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be; I have deceived myself; perhaps last night was the first time they ever beheld each other; it must be some other object that has prepossessed his affections—if it is, I am not so unhappy as I thought; if it is not my friend Matilda—how! Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man, who rudely and unnecessarily acquainted me with his indifference? and that at the very moment in which common courtesy demanded at least expressions of civility. I will go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this becoming pride. Man is false—I will advise with her on taking the veil: she will rejoice to find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her that I no longer oppose her inclination for the cloister.”

“Why did I discourage her?” Isabella asked herself. “I am being punished for my generosity. But when did they meet? Where? It cannot be. I have deceived myself. Perhaps last night was the first time they ever saw each other. There must be someone else who has already won his affection. If so, I am not as unhappy as I thought, if it is not my friend Matilda. What am I thinking? Can I stoop to wish for the affection of a man who rudely and needlessly told me he did not care for me? He told me at the very moment when common courtesy demanded that he at least be civil. I will go to my dear Matilda, who will encourage me to keep this proper pride. Men are false. I will consult her about taking the veil. She will be glad to find me thinking this way. And I will tell her that I no longer oppose her wish to enter a convent.”

In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart entirely to Matilda, she went to that Princess’s chamber, whom she found already dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm. This attitude, so correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella’s suspicions, and destroyed the confidence she had purposed to place in her friend. They blushed at meeting, and were too much novices to disguise their sensations with address. After some unmeaning questions and replies, Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of her flight? The latter, who had almost forgotten Manfred’s passion, so entirely was she occupied by her own, concluding that Matilda referred to her last escape from the convent, which had occasioned the events of the preceding evening, replied—

In this state of mind, Isabella went to Princess Matilda’s room, determined to open her heart completely to her. She found Matilda already dressed, leaning pensively on her arm. Matilda’s pose reflected Isabella’s own feelings. It revived Isabella’s suspicions and destroyed the confidence she had intended to place in her friend. They blushed when they met. Both were too inexperienced to hide their feelings skillfully. After some meaningless questions and answers, Matilda asked Isabella why she had fled. Isabella was so absorbed in her own passion that she had almost forgotten Manfred’s. She assumed Matilda meant her recent escape from the convent, which had caused the events of the previous evening. So she replied:

“Martelli brought word to the convent that your mother was dead.”

“Martelli brought news to the convent that your mother had died.”

“Oh!” said Matilda, interrupting her, “Bianca has explained that mistake to me: on seeing me faint, she cried out, ‘The Princess is dead!’ and Martelli, who had come for the usual dole to the castle—”

“Oh!” Matilda said, interrupting her. “Bianca has explained the mistake to me. When she saw me faint, she cried out, ‘The Princess is dead!’ And Martelli, who had come to the castle for the usual handout...”

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

“And what made you faint?” Isabella asked, uninterested in the rest. Matilda blushed and stammered.

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

“My father... he was judging a criminal...”

“What criminal?” said Isabella eagerly.

“What criminal?” Isabella asked eagerly.

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

“A young man,” said Matilda. “I believe, I think it was that young man who...”

“What, Theodore?” said Isabella.

“What, Theodore?” said Isabella.

“Yes,” answered she; “I never saw him before; I do not know how he had offended my father, but as he has been of service to you, I am glad my Lord has pardoned him.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I have never seen him before. I do not know how he offended my father. But because he has helped you, I am glad my Lord has pardoned him.”

“Served me!” replied Isabella; “do you term it serving me, to wound my father, and almost occasion his death? Though it is but since yesterday that I am blessed with knowing a parent, I hope Matilda does not think I am such a stranger to filial tenderness as not to resent the boldness of that audacious youth, and that it is impossible for me ever to feel any affection for one who dared to lift his arm against the author of my being. No, Matilda, my heart abhors him; and if you still retain the friendship for me that you have vowed from your infancy, you will detest a man who has been on the point of making me miserable for ever.”

“Served me!” Isabella replied. “Do you call it serving me to wound my father and nearly cause his death? I have only been blessed with knowing a parent since yesterday. Even so, I hope Matilda does not think I lack the love a child owes a parent. I resent the boldness of that reckless young man. I can never feel affection for someone who dared to raise his arm against my father. No, Matilda, my heart hates him. If you still feel the friendship for me that you have sworn since childhood, you will detest him too. He came close to making me miserable forever.”

Matilda held down her head and replied: “I hope my dearest Isabella does not doubt her Matilda’s friendship: I never beheld that youth until yesterday; he is almost a stranger to me: but as the surgeons have pronounced your father out of danger, you ought not to harbour uncharitable resentment against one, who I am persuaded did not know the Marquis was related to you.”

Matilda lowered her head and replied: “I hope my dearest Isabella does not doubt my friendship. I never saw that young man before yesterday. He is almost a stranger to me. But the surgeons have said your father is out of danger. So you should not bear a cruel resentment toward the young man. I am convinced he did not know the Marquis was related to you.”

“You plead his cause very pathetically,” said Isabella, “considering he is so much a stranger to you! I am mistaken, or he returns your charity.”

“You speak very movingly in his defense,” said Isabella, “considering he is such a stranger to you! Unless I am mistaken, he returns your kindness.”

“What mean you?” said Matilda.

“What do you mean?” said Matilda.

“Nothing,” said Isabella, repenting that she had given Matilda a hint of Theodore’s inclination for her. Then changing the discourse, she asked Matilda what occasioned Manfred to take Theodore for a spectre?

“Nothing,” said Isabella. She regretted having hinted to Matilda that Theodore was attracted to her. Then she changed the subject and asked Matilda why Manfred had mistaken Theodore for a ghost.

“Bless me,” said Matilda, “did not you observe his extreme resemblance to the portrait of Alfonso in the gallery? I took notice of it to Bianca even before I saw him in armour; but with the helmet on, he is the very image of that picture.”

“Goodness,” said Matilda, “didn’t you notice how much he looks like Alfonso’s portrait in the gallery? I pointed out the resemblance to Bianca even before I saw him in armor. But with the helmet on, he looks exactly like the portrait.”

“I do not much observe pictures,” said Isabella: “much less have I examined this young man so attentively as you seem to have done. Ah? Matilda, your heart is in danger, but let me warn you as a friend, he has owned to me that he is in love; it cannot be with you, for yesterday was the first time you ever met—was it not?”

“I don’t pay much attention to pictures,” said Isabella. “And I certainly haven’t studied this young man as closely as you seem to have. Ah, Matilda, your heart is in danger. But let me warn you as a friend: he has admitted to me that he is in love. He cannot be in love with you, because yesterday was the first time you ever met, wasn’t it?”

“Certainly,” replied Matilda; “but why does my dearest Isabella conclude from anything I have said, that”—she paused—then continuing: “he saw you first, and I am far from having the vanity to think that my little portion of charms could engage a heart devoted to you; may you be happy, Isabella, whatever is the fate of Matilda!”

“Of course,” Matilda replied. “But why does my dearest Isabella think, from anything I have said, that…” She paused, then continued: “He saw you first. I am not vain enough to think that my few charms could win a heart devoted to you. May you be happy, Isabella, whatever happens to Matilda!”

“My lovely friend,” said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist a kind expression, “it is you that Theodore admires; I saw it; I am persuaded of it; nor shall a thought of my own happiness suffer me to interfere with yours.”

“My dear friend,” said Isabella, whose heart was too honest to resist a kind expression, “Theodore admires you. I saw it, and I am sure of it. I will not let thoughts of my own happiness interfere with yours.”

This frankness drew tears from the gentle Matilda; and jealousy that for a moment had raised a coolness between these amiable maidens soon gave way to the natural sincerity and candour of their souls. Each confessed to the other the impression that Theodore had made on her; and this confidence was followed by a struggle of generosity, each insisting on yielding her claim to her friend. At length the dignity of Isabella’s virtue reminding her of the preference which Theodore had almost declared for her rival, made her determine to conquer her passion, and cede the beloved object to her friend.

This honesty brought tears to gentle Matilda’s eyes. Jealousy had briefly caused coolness between the two kind young women, but their natural honesty and openness soon overcame it. Each confessed the impression Theodore had made on her. After sharing their feelings, they competed to be generous, each insisting on giving up her claim to her friend. At last, Isabella’s noble virtue reminded her that Theodore had almost declared he preferred Matilda. Isabella resolved to overcome her passion and give up the man she loved to her friend.

During this contest of amity, Hippolita entered her daughter’s chamber.

During this friendly contest, Hippolita entered her daughter’s room.

“Madam,” said she to Isabella, “you have so much tenderness for Matilda, and interest yourself so kindly in whatever affects our wretched house, that I can have no secrets with my child which are not proper for you to hear.”

“Madam,” she said to Isabella, “you care so deeply for Matilda and show such kindness in all that affects our unhappy family. So I can have no secrets with my daughter that you should not hear.”

The princesses were all attention and anxiety.

The princesses listened intently and anxiously.

“Know then, Madam,” continued Hippolita, “and you my dearest Matilda, that being convinced by all the events of these two last ominous days, that heaven purposes the sceptre of Otranto should pass from Manfred’s hands into those of the Marquis Frederic, I have been perhaps inspired with the thought of averting our total destruction by the union of our rival houses. With this view I have been proposing to Manfred, my lord, to tender this dear, dear child to Frederic, your father.”

“Then you should know, Madam,” Hippolita continued, “and you too, my dearest Matilda. All the events of these last two ominous days have convinced me that heaven intends Otranto to pass from Manfred’s rule to that of Marquis Frederic. Perhaps heaven has inspired me with a way to prevent our total destruction by uniting our rival houses. With this in mind, I have been proposing to my lord Manfred that he offer this dear, dear child to your father, Frederic, in marriage.”

“Me to Lord Frederic!” cried Matilda; “good heavens! my gracious mother—and have you named it to my father?”

“Me to Lord Frederic!” cried Matilda. “Good heavens! Mother, have you told my father?”

“I have,” said Hippolita; “he listened benignly to my proposal, and is gone to break it to the Marquis.”

“I have,” said Hippolita. “He listened kindly to my proposal and has gone to tell the Marquis about it.”

“Ah! wretched princess!” cried Isabella; “what hast thou done! what ruin has thy inadvertent goodness been preparing for thyself, for me, and for Matilda!”

“Ah, unhappy princess!” cried Isabella. “What have you done? What ruin has your unintentional kindness been preparing for you, for me, and for Matilda!”

“Ruin from me to you and to my child!” said Hippolita “what can this mean?”

“Ruin from me to you and my child!” said Hippolita. “What can this mean?”

“Alas!” said Isabella, “the purity of your own heart prevents your seeing the depravity of others. Manfred, your lord, that impious man—”

“Alas!” said Isabella, “your own pure heart keeps you from seeing how wicked others are. Manfred, your lord, that godless man...”

“Hold,” said Hippolita; “you must not in my presence, young lady, mention Manfred with disrespect: he is my lord and husband, and—”

“Stop,” said Hippolita. “Young lady, you must not speak disrespectfully of Manfred in my presence. He is my lord and husband, and...”

“Will not long be so,” said Isabella, “if his wicked purposes can be carried into execution.”

“Will not be so for long,” said Isabella, “if he can carry out his wicked plans.”

“This language amazes me,” said Hippolita. “Your feeling, Isabella, is warm; but until this hour I never knew it betray you into intemperance. What deed of Manfred authorises you to treat him as a murderer, an assassin?”

“Your words amaze me,” said Hippolita. “You feel things deeply, Isabella, but until now I never knew your feelings to make you lose control. What has Manfred done to justify treating him as a murderer, an assassin?”

“Thou virtuous, and too credulous Princess!” replied Isabella; “it is not thy life he aims at—it is to separate himself from thee! to divorce thee! to—”

“You are virtuous and too trusting, Princess!” replied Isabella. “He is not trying to take your life. He wants to leave you! To divorce you! To...”

“To divorce me!” “To divorce my mother!” cried Hippolita and Matilda at once.

“Divorce me!” “Divorce my mother!” Hippolita and Matilda cried out at the same time.

“Yes,” said Isabella; “and to complete his crime, he meditates—I cannot speak it!”

“Yes,” said Isabella. “And to complete his crime, he plans to... I cannot say it!”

“What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?” said Matilda.

“What could be worse than what you’ve already said?” said Matilda.

Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech; and the recollection of Manfred’s late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard.

Hippolita was silent. Grief left her unable to speak. Manfred’s recent, ambiguous remarks came back to her, confirming what she heard.

“Excellent, dear lady! madam! mother!” cried Isabella, flinging herself at Hippolita’s feet in a transport of passion; “trust me, believe me, I will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield to so odious—oh!—”

“Wonderful, dear lady! Madam! Mother!” cried Isabella, throwing herself at Hippolita’s feet in a burst of emotion. “Trust me, believe me, I would die a thousand deaths rather than agree to hurt you, rather than give in to such a hateful... oh!”

“This is too much!” cried Hippolita: “What crimes does one crime suggest! Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue. Oh! Matilda, this stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, I charge thee. Remember, he is thy father still!”

“This is too much!” cried Hippolita. “What crimes can one crime lead to! Get up, dear Isabella. I do not doubt your virtue. Oh, Matilda, this blow is too much for you! Do not weep, my child, and I insist that you do not complain. Remember, he is still your father!”

“But you are my mother too,” said Matilda fervently; “and you are virtuous, you are guiltless!—Oh! must not I, must not I complain?”

“But you are my mother too,” Matilda said passionately. “And you are good, you are innocent! Oh, how can I not complain? How can I not?”

“You must not,” said Hippolita—“come, all will yet be well. Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps Isabella misunderstood him; his heart is good—and, my child, thou knowest not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is stretched out; oh! could I but save thee from the wreck! Yes,” continued she in a firmer tone, “perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all; I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince!”

“You must not,” said Hippolita. “Come, all will yet be well. Manfred was in agony over the loss of your brother and did not know what he was saying. Perhaps Isabella misunderstood him. His heart is good. And, my child, you do not know all! A fate hangs over us. The hand of Providence is reaching out. Oh, if only I could save you from the wreck! Yes,” she continued in a firmer tone, “perhaps sacrificing myself may atone for all. I will go and offer to agree to this divorce. It does not matter what becomes of me. I will withdraw to the nearby monastery and spend the rest of my life in prayers and tears for my child and the Prince!”

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

“You are as much too good for this world,” said Isabella, “as Manfred is vile. But do not think, lady, that your weakness will decide my course. I swear, hear me, all you angels...”

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

“Stop, I beg you,” cried Hippolita. “Remember, you are not your own master. You have a father.”

“My father is too pious, too noble,” interrupted Isabella, “to command an impious deed. But should he command it; can a father enjoin a cursed act? I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father? No, madam, no; force should not drag me to Manfred’s hated bed. I loathe him, I abhor him: divine and human laws forbid—and my friend, my dearest Matilda! would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own mother—I never have known another”—

“My father is too devout and too honorable,” Isabella interrupted, “to order a sinful act. But even if he did, can a father order such a cursed act? I was promised in marriage to the son. Can I marry the father? No, madam, no. Even force could not drag me to Manfred’s hateful bed. I loathe him. I hate him. Both divine and human laws forbid it. And my friend, my dearest Matilda! Could I hurt her tender heart by wronging her beloved mother? She is my own mother. I have never known another.”

“Oh! she is the mother of both!” cried Matilda: “can we, can we, Isabella, adore her too much?”

“Oh! She is the mother of both!” cried Matilda. “Can we, can we, Isabella, love her too much?”

“My lovely children,” said the touched Hippolita, “your tenderness overpowers me—but I must not give way to it. It is not ours to make election for ourselves: heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide for us. Have patience until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have determined. If the Marquis accepts Matilda’s hand, I know she will readily obey. Heaven may interpose and prevent the rest. What means my child?” continued she, seeing Matilda fall at her feet with a flood of speechless tears—“But no; answer me not, my daughter: I must not hear a word against the pleasure of thy father.”

“My lovely children,” said Hippolita, deeply moved, “your tenderness overwhelms me, but I must not give in to it. We cannot choose for ourselves. Heaven, our fathers, and our husbands must decide for us. Be patient until you hear what Manfred and Frederic have decided. If the Marquis accepts Matilda’s hand in marriage, I know she will obey willingly. Heaven may intervene and prevent the rest. What is it, my child?” she continued, seeing Matilda fall at her feet, weeping too hard to speak. “But no, do not answer me, my daughter. I must not hear a word against your father’s wishes.”

“Oh! doubt not my obedience, my dreadful obedience to him and to you!” said Matilda. “But can I, most respected of women, can I experience all this tenderness, this world of goodness, and conceal a thought from the best of mothers?”

“Oh, do not doubt that I will obey him and you, however dreadful that obedience is!” said Matilda. “But how can I receive all this tenderness and goodness, my most respected mother, and hide a thought from the best of mothers?”

“What art thou going to utter?” said Isabella trembling. “Recollect thyself, Matilda.”

“What are you going to say?” Isabella said, trembling. “Collect yourself, Matilda.”

“No, Isabella,” said the Princess, “I should not deserve this incomparable parent, if the inmost recesses of my soul harboured a thought without her permission—nay, I have offended her; I have suffered a passion to enter my heart without her avowal—but here I disclaim it; here I vow to heaven and her—”

“No, Isabella,” said the Princess, “I would not deserve such a wonderful mother if I kept even one thought from her. No, I have offended her. I have allowed a passion into my heart without her approval. But I renounce that passion here. Here I vow to heaven and to her...”

“My child! my child;” said Hippolita, “what words are these! what new calamities has fate in store for us! Thou, a passion? Thou, in this hour of destruction—”

“My child! My child!” said Hippolita. “What are you saying? What new disasters does fate have in store for us? You, in love? You, at this moment of destruction...”

“Oh! I see all my guilt!” said Matilda. “I abhor myself, if I cost my mother a pang. She is the dearest thing I have on earth—Oh! I will never, never behold him more!”

“Oh! I see all my guilt!” said Matilda. “I hate myself if I cause my mother any pain. She is the person I love most in the world. Oh! I will never, never see him again!”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita, “thou art conscious to this unhappy secret, whatever it is. Speak!”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita, “you know this unhappy secret, whatever it is. Speak!”

“What!” cried Matilda, “have I so forfeited my mother’s love, that she will not permit me even to speak my own guilt? oh! wretched, wretched Matilda!”

“What!” cried Matilda. “Have I lost so much of my mother’s love that she won’t even let me confess my own guilt? Oh, miserable, miserable Matilda!”

“Thou art too cruel,” said Isabella to Hippolita: “canst thou behold this anguish of a virtuous mind, and not commiserate it?”

“You are too cruel,” Isabella said to Hippolita. “Can you see the anguish of a virtuous person and feel no compassion?”

“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms—“Oh! I know she is good, she is all virtue, all tenderness, and duty. I do forgive thee, my excellent, my only hope!”

“Not pity my child!” said Hippolita, catching Matilda in her arms. “Oh! I know she is good. She is all virtue, tenderness, and duty. I do forgive you, my excellent child, my only hope!”

The princesses then revealed to Hippolita their mutual inclination for Theodore, and the purpose of Isabella to resign him to Matilda. Hippolita blamed their imprudence, and showed them the improbability that either father would consent to bestow his heiress on so poor a man, though nobly born. Some comfort it gave her to find their passion of so recent a date, and that Theodore had had but little cause to suspect it in either. She strictly enjoined them to avoid all correspondence with him. This Matilda fervently promised: but Isabella, who flattered herself that she meant no more than to promote his union with her friend, could not determine to avoid him; and made no reply.

The princesses then told Hippolita that they both loved Theodore, and that Isabella intended to give him up to Matilda. Hippolita criticized them for their lack of judgment. She explained that neither father was likely to let his heiress marry such a poor man, though Theodore was nobly born. She took some comfort in learning that they had only recently fallen in love with him. Theodore had also had little reason to suspect that either of them loved him. She strictly ordered them to have no communication with him. Matilda promised fervently to obey. But Isabella convinced herself that she only meant to help Theodore and her friend marry. She could not bring herself to avoid him, and she made no reply.

“I will go to the convent,” said Hippolita, “and order new masses to be said for a deliverance from these calamities.”

“I will go to the convent,” said Hippolita, “and ask for more masses to be said for deliverance from these disasters.”

“Oh! my mother,” said Matilda, “you mean to quit us: you mean to take sanctuary, and to give my father an opportunity of pursuing his fatal intention. Alas! on my knees I supplicate you to forbear; will you leave me a prey to Frederic? I will follow you to the convent.”

“Oh, Mother,” said Matilda, “you mean to leave us. You mean to take sanctuary and give my father a chance to carry out his fatal plan. Please, I beg you on my knees, do not do it. Will you leave me at Frederic’s mercy? I will follow you to the convent.”

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

“Be calm, my child,” said Hippolita. “I will return at once. I will never abandon you until I know that heaven wills it and that it is for your benefit.”

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

“Do not deceive me,” said Matilda. “I will not marry Frederic until you command me to. Oh, what will become of me?”

“Why that exclamation?” said Hippolita. “I have promised thee to return—”

“Why did you cry out?” said Hippolita. “I promised you I would return...”

“Ah! my mother,” replied Matilda, “stay and save me from myself. A frown from thee can do more than all my father’s severity. I have given away my heart, and you alone can make me recall it.”

“Oh, Mother,” replied Matilda, “stay and save me from myself. A frown from you can do more than all my father’s harshness. I have given away my heart, and only you can make me take it back.”

“No more,” said Hippolita; “thou must not relapse, Matilda.”

“No more,” said Hippolita. “You must not relapse, Matilda.”

“I can quit Theodore,” said she, “but must I wed another? let me attend thee to the altar, and shut myself from the world for ever.”

“I can give up Theodore,” she said, “but must I marry someone else? Let me go with you to the altar and shut myself away from the world forever.”

“Thy fate depends on thy father,” said Hippolita; “I have ill-bestowed my tenderness, if it has taught thee to revere aught beyond him. Adieu! my child: I go to pray for thee.”

“Your fate depends on your father,” said Hippolita. “I have wasted my love if it has taught you to honor anyone above him. Goodbye, my child. I am going to pray for you.”

Hippolita’s real purpose was to demand of Jerome, whether in conscience she might not consent to the divorce. She had oft urged Manfred to resign the principality, which the delicacy of her conscience rendered an hourly burthen to her. These scruples concurred to make the separation from her husband appear less dreadful to her than it would have seemed in any other situation.

Hippolita’s real purpose was to ask Jerome whether she could, in good conscience, agree to the divorce. She had often urged Manfred to give up the principality. Her sensitive conscience made it a constant burden to her. These doubts also made separation from her husband seem less dreadful than it would have seemed under any other circumstances.

Jerome, at quitting the castle overnight, had questioned Theodore severely why he had accused him to Manfred of being privy to his escape. Theodore owned it had been with design to prevent Manfred’s suspicion from alighting on Matilda; and added, the holiness of Jerome’s life and character secured him from the tyrant’s wrath. Jerome was heartily grieved to discover his son’s inclination for that princess; and leaving him to his rest, promised in the morning to acquaint him with important reasons for conquering his passion.

When Jerome left the castle the night before, he had sternly questioned Theodore. He asked why Theodore had told Manfred that Jerome knew about his escape. Theodore admitted that he had done it to keep Manfred from suspecting Matilda. He added that Jerome’s holy life and character would protect him from the tyrant’s anger. Jerome was deeply saddened to learn that his son loved the princess. He left Theodore to rest, promising to explain in the morning his important reasons for overcoming that love.

Theodore, like Isabella, was too recently acquainted with parental authority to submit to its decisions against the impulse of his heart. He had little curiosity to learn the Friar’s reasons, and less disposition to obey them. The lovely Matilda had made stronger impressions on him than filial affection. All night he pleased himself with visions of love; and it was not till late after the morning-office, that he recollected the Friar’s commands to attend him at Alfonso’s tomb.

Theodore, like Isabella, had only recently come under a parent’s authority. He was not ready to obey when that authority went against his heart. He had little curiosity about the Friar’s reasons and even less inclination to obey him. The lovely Matilda had made a stronger impression on him than his affection for his father. All night he delighted in dreams of love. Not until long after morning prayers did he remember the Friar’s command to meet him at Alfonso’s tomb.

“Young man,” said Jerome, when he saw him, “this tardiness does not please me. Have a father’s commands already so little weight?”

“Young man,” said Jerome when he saw him, “I am not pleased that you are late. Do a father’s commands already mean so little to you?”

Theodore made awkward excuses, and attributed his delay to having overslept himself.

Theodore made awkward excuses and blamed his delay on oversleeping.

“And on whom were thy dreams employed?” said the Friar sternly. His son blushed. “Come, come,” resumed the Friar, “inconsiderate youth, this must not be; eradicate this guilty passion from thy breast—”

“And who were you dreaming about?” the Friar asked sternly. His son blushed. “Come, come,” the Friar continued, “thoughtless boy, this cannot go on. Root this guilty passion out of your heart.”

“Guilty passion!” cried Theodore: “Can guilt dwell with innocent beauty and virtuous modesty?”

“Guilty passion!” cried Theodore. “Can guilt exist alongside innocent beauty and virtuous modesty?”

“It is sinful,” replied the Friar, “to cherish those whom heaven has doomed to destruction. A tyrant’s race must be swept from the earth to the third and fourth generation.”

“It is a sin,” replied the Friar, “to love those whom heaven has doomed to destruction. A tyrant’s descendants must be wiped from the earth, down to the third and fourth generations.”

“Will heaven visit the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?” said Theodore. “The fair Matilda has virtues enough—”

“Will heaven punish the innocent for the crimes of the guilty?” said Theodore. “The beautiful Matilda has enough virtue...”

“To undo thee:” interrupted Jerome. “Hast thou so soon forgotten that twice the savage Manfred has pronounced thy sentence?”

“To destroy you,” Jerome interrupted. “Have you already forgotten that the savage Manfred has sentenced you twice?”

“Nor have I forgotten, sir,” said Theodore, “that the charity of his daughter delivered me from his power. I can forget injuries, but never benefits.”

“Nor have I forgotten, sir,” said Theodore, “that his daughter’s kindness freed me from his power. I can forget injuries, but never kindnesses.”

“The injuries thou hast received from Manfred’s race,” said the Friar, “are beyond what thou canst conceive. Reply not, but view this holy image! Beneath this marble monument rest the ashes of the good Alfonso; a prince adorned with every virtue: the father of his people! the delight of mankind! Kneel, headstrong boy, and list, while a father unfolds a tale of horror that will expel every sentiment from thy soul, but sensations of sacred vengeance—Alfonso! much injured prince! let thy unsatisfied shade sit awful on the troubled air, while these trembling lips—Ha! who comes there?—”

“The wrongs you have suffered at the hands of Manfred’s family,” said the Friar, “are beyond anything you can imagine. Do not answer, but look at this holy image! Beneath this marble monument lie the ashes of the good Alfonso. He was a prince blessed with every virtue, the father of his people, and the delight of mankind! Kneel, stubborn boy, and listen while a father tells a tale of horror. It will drive every feeling from your soul except a desire for sacred vengeance. Alfonso! Deeply wronged prince! Let your restless spirit fill the troubled air with awe while these trembling lips speak. Ha! Who comes there?”

“The most wretched of women!” said Hippolita, entering the choir. “Good Father, art thou at leisure?—but why this kneeling youth? what means the horror imprinted on each countenance? why at this venerable tomb—alas! hast thou seen aught?”

“The most miserable of women!” said Hippolita, entering the choir. “Good Father, do you have a moment? But why is this young man kneeling? Why is everyone’s face filled with horror? Why are you at this revered tomb? Alas! Have you seen something?”

“We were pouring forth our orisons to heaven,” replied the Friar, with some confusion, “to put an end to the woes of this deplorable province. Join with us, Lady! thy spotless soul may obtain an exemption from the judgments which the portents of these days but too speakingly denounce against thy house.”

“We were praying to heaven to end the suffering of this miserable province,” replied the Friar, somewhat flustered. “Join us, Lady! Your spotless soul may spare your house the punishments that the signs of these days all too clearly foretell.”

“I pray fervently to heaven to divert them,” said the pious Princess. “Thou knowest it has been the occupation of my life to wrest a blessing for my Lord and my harmless children.—One alas! is taken from me! would heaven but hear me for my poor Matilda! Father! intercede for her!”

“I pray fervently to heaven to turn them aside,” said the devout Princess. “You know I have spent my life pleading for a blessing for my Lord and my innocent children. One, alas, has been taken from me! If only heaven would hear my prayers for poor Matilda! Father, plead for her!”

“Every heart will bless her,” cried Theodore with rapture.

“Everyone will bless her,” Theodore cried with joy.

“Be dumb, rash youth!” said Jerome. “And thou, fond Princess, contend not with the Powers above! the Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away: bless His holy name, and submit to his decrees.”

“Be quiet, reckless young man!” said Jerome. “And you, loving Princess, do not defy the Powers above! The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away. Bless his holy name and submit to his decrees.”

“I do most devoutly,” said Hippolita; “but will He not spare my only comfort? must Matilda perish too?—ah! Father, I came—but dismiss thy son. No ear but thine must hear what I have to utter.”

“I do, most devoutly,” said Hippolita. “But will he not spare my only comfort? Must Matilda die too? Oh, Father, I came... but send your son away. Only you must hear what I have to say.”

“May heaven grant thy every wish, most excellent Princess!” said Theodore retiring. Jerome frowned.

“May heaven grant your every wish, most excellent Princess!” said Theodore as he withdrew. Jerome frowned.

Hippolita then acquainted the Friar with the proposal she had suggested to Manfred, his approbation of it, and the tender of Matilda that he was gone to make to Frederic. Jerome could not conceal his dislike of the notion, which he covered under pretence of the improbability that Frederic, the nearest of blood to Alfonso, and who was come to claim his succession, would yield to an alliance with the usurper of his right. But nothing could equal the perplexity of the Friar, when Hippolita confessed her readiness not to oppose the separation, and demanded his opinion on the legality of her acquiescence. The Friar caught eagerly at her request of his advice, and without explaining his aversion to the proposed marriage of Manfred and Isabella, he painted to Hippolita in the most alarming colours the sinfulness of her consent, denounced judgments against her if she complied, and enjoined her in the severest terms to treat any such proposition with every mark of indignation and refusal.

Hippolita then told the Friar about the proposal she had made to Manfred and his approval of it. She also told him that Manfred had gone to offer Matilda to Frederic in marriage. Jerome could not hide his dislike of the idea. He tried to cover it by saying that Frederic was unlikely to agree to an alliance with the man who had seized his rightful inheritance. Frederic was Alfonso’s nearest blood relative and had come to claim that inheritance. But the Friar was more troubled still when Hippolita admitted she was willing not to oppose the separation. She asked for his opinion on whether she could lawfully consent to it. The Friar eagerly seized the chance to advise her. Without explaining why he opposed Manfred’s proposed marriage to Isabella, he described the sinfulness of her consent in the most alarming terms. He warned that she would face divine punishment if she agreed. In the sternest terms, he ordered her to treat any such proposal with every sign of indignation and refusal.

Manfred, in the meantime, had broken his purpose to Frederic, and proposed the double marriage. That weak Prince, who had been struck with the charms of Matilda, listened but too eagerly to the offer. He forgot his enmity to Manfred, whom he saw but little hope of dispossessing by force; and flattering himself that no issue might succeed from the union of his daughter with the tyrant, he looked upon his own succession to the principality as facilitated by wedding Matilda. He made faint opposition to the proposal; affecting, for form only, not to acquiesce unless Hippolita should consent to the divorce. Manfred took that upon himself.

Meanwhile, Manfred had told Frederic of his plans and proposed the double marriage. The weak Prince, struck by Matilda’s beauty, listened all too eagerly to the offer. He forgot his hatred of Manfred, whom he saw little hope of driving out by force. He also reassured himself that his daughter might have no children with the tyrant. He believed that marrying Matilda would make it easier for him to inherit the principality. He offered only faint resistance to the proposal. For the sake of appearances, he pretended he would agree only if Hippolita consented to the divorce. Manfred took responsibility for securing her consent.

Transported with his success, and impatient to see himself in a situation to expect sons, he hastened to his wife’s apartment, determined to extort her compliance. He learned with indignation that she was absent at the convent. His guilt suggested to him that she had probably been informed by Isabella of his purpose. He doubted whether her retirement to the convent did not import an intention of remaining there, until she could raise obstacles to their divorce; and the suspicions he had already entertained of Jerome, made him apprehend that the Friar would not only traverse his views, but might have inspired Hippolita with the resolution of taking sanctuary. Impatient to unravel this clue, and to defeat its success, Manfred hastened to the convent, and arrived there as the Friar was earnestly exhorting the Princess never to yield to the divorce.

Elated by his success and eager to be in a position to have sons, he hurried to his wife’s room. He was determined to force her consent. He was indignant to learn that she was at the convent. His guilty conscience made him think Isabella had probably told her of his plan. He wondered whether she intended to stay at the convent until she could put obstacles in the way of their divorce. He already suspected Jerome, and feared that the Friar would not only thwart his plans. He feared that Jerome might also have persuaded Hippolita to take sanctuary. Eager to investigate his suspicions and foil any such plan, Manfred hurried to the convent. He arrived as the Friar was earnestly urging the Princess never to agree to the divorce.

“Madam,” said Manfred, “what business drew you hither? why did you not await my return from the Marquis?”

“Madam,” said Manfred, “what brought you here? Why didn’t you wait for me to return from the Marquis?”

“I came to implore a blessing on your councils,” replied Hippolita.

“I came to ask for a blessing on your deliberations,” replied Hippolita.

“My councils do not need a Friar’s intervention,” said Manfred; “and of all men living is that hoary traitor the only one whom you delight to confer with?”

“My plans need no friar’s help,” said Manfred. “And of all the men alive, is that gray-haired traitor the only one you enjoy talking to?”

“Profane Prince!” said Jerome; “is it at the altar that thou choosest to insult the servants of the altar?—but, Manfred, thy impious schemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them—nay, frown not, Prince. The Church despises thy menaces. Her thunders will be heard above thy wrath. Dare to proceed in thy cursed purpose of a divorce, until her sentence be known, and here I lance her anathema at thy head.”

“Sacrilegious Prince!” said Jerome. “Do you choose to insult the servants of the altar here at the altar? But, Manfred, your godless schemes are known. Heaven and this virtuous lady know them. No, do not frown, Prince. The Church despises your threats. Its thunder will be heard above your anger. Dare to pursue your cursed plan for a divorce before the Church has given its judgment, and I will condemn you in its name.”

“Audacious rebel!” said Manfred, endeavouring to conceal the awe with which the Friar’s words inspired him. “Dost thou presume to threaten thy lawful Prince?”

“Bold rebel!” said Manfred, trying to hide the awe he felt at the Friar’s words. “How dare you threaten your rightful Prince?”

“Thou art no lawful Prince,” said Jerome; “thou art no Prince—go, discuss thy claim with Frederic; and when that is done—”

“You are no lawful prince,” said Jerome. “You are no prince. Go and discuss your claim with Frederic. And when that is done...”

“It is done,” replied Manfred; “Frederic accepts Matilda’s hand, and is content to waive his claim, unless I have no male issue”—as he spoke those words three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso’s statue. Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank on her knees.

“It is settled,” Manfred replied. “Frederic agrees to marry Matilda and give up his claim, unless I have no son.” As he spoke, three drops of blood fell from the nose of Alfonso’s statue. Manfred turned pale, and the Princess sank to her knees.

“Behold!” said the Friar; “mark this miraculous indication that the blood of Alfonso will never mix with that of Manfred!”

“Look!” said the Friar. “Notice this miraculous sign that Alfonso’s blood will never mix with Manfred’s!”

“My gracious Lord,” said Hippolita, “let us submit ourselves to heaven. Think not thy ever obedient wife rebels against thy authority. I have no will but that of my Lord and the Church. To that revered tribunal let us appeal. It does not depend on us to burst the bonds that unite us. If the Church shall approve the dissolution of our marriage, be it so—I have but few years, and those of sorrow, to pass. Where can they be worn away so well as at the foot of this altar, in prayers for thine and Matilda’s safety?”

“My gracious Lord,” said Hippolita, “let us submit to heaven. Do not think that your ever obedient wife is rebelling against your authority. I have no will but that of my Lord and the Church. Let us appeal to that revered authority. It is not for us to break the bonds that unite us. If the Church approves the dissolution of our marriage, so be it. I have only a few years left, and those will be sorrowful. Where better to spend them than at the foot of this altar, praying for your safety and Matilda’s?”

“But thou shalt not remain here until then,” said Manfred. “Repair with me to the castle, and there I will advise on the proper measures for a divorce;—but this meddling Friar comes not thither; my hospitable roof shall never more harbour a traitor—and for thy Reverence’s offspring,” continued he, “I banish him from my dominions. He, I ween, is no sacred personage, nor under the protection of the Church. Whoever weds Isabella, it shall not be Father Falconara’s started-up son.”

“But you will not stay here until then,” said Manfred. “Come with me to the castle. There I will consider the proper steps for a divorce. But this meddling Friar will not come there. My hospitable roof will never again shelter a traitor. And as for your Reverence’s son,” he continued, “I banish him from my dominions. I believe he is no holy man, nor is he under the Church’s protection. Whoever marries Isabella, it will not be Father Falconara’s newly appeared son.”

“They start up,” said the Friar, “who are suddenly beheld in the seat of lawful Princes; but they wither away like the grass, and their place knows them no more.”

“Those who suddenly appear on the thrones of rightful princes rise quickly,” said the Friar. “But they wither like grass, and their place knows them no more.”

Manfred, casting a look of scorn at the Friar, led Hippolita forth; but at the door of the church whispered one of his attendants to remain concealed about the convent, and bring him instant notice, if any one from the castle should repair thither.

Manfred looked scornfully at the Friar and led Hippolita out. But at the church door, he whispered instructions to one of his attendants. The attendant was to stay hidden near the convent and tell Manfred at once if anyone from the castle came there.