Chapter 5

Every reflection which Manfred made on the Friar’s behaviour, conspired to persuade him that Jerome was privy to an amour between Isabella and Theodore. But Jerome’s new presumption, so dissonant from his former meekness, suggested still deeper apprehensions. The Prince even suspected that the Friar depended on some secret support from Frederic, whose arrival, coinciding with the novel appearance of Theodore, seemed to bespeak a correspondence. Still more was he troubled with the resemblance of Theodore to Alfonso’s portrait. The latter he knew had unquestionably died without issue. Frederic had consented to bestow Isabella on him. These contradictions agitated his mind with numberless pangs.

Everything Manfred remembered about the Friar’s behavior convinced him that Jerome knew of a love affair between Isabella and Theodore. But Jerome’s newfound boldness was so unlike his former meekness that it raised even deeper fears. The Prince even suspected that the Friar had secret support from Frederic. Frederic’s arrival, coinciding with Theodore’s sudden appearance, seemed to suggest a connection between them. Theodore’s resemblance to Alfonso’s portrait troubled Manfred even more. He knew that Alfonso had unquestionably died without children. Frederic had agreed to give Isabella to Manfred in marriage. These contradictions tormented him with countless fears.

He saw but two methods of extricating himself from his difficulties. The one was to resign his dominions to the Marquis—pride, ambition, and his reliance on ancient prophecies, which had pointed out a possibility of his preserving them to his posterity, combated that thought. The other was to press his marriage with Isabella. After long ruminating on these anxious thoughts, as he marched silently with Hippolita to the castle, he at last discoursed with that Princess on the subject of his disquiet, and used every insinuating and plausible argument to extract her consent to, even her promise of promoting the divorce. Hippolita needed little persuasions to bend her to his pleasure. She endeavoured to win him over to the measure of resigning his dominions; but finding her exhortations fruitless, she assured him, that as far as her conscience would allow, she would raise no opposition to a separation, though without better founded scruples than what he yet alleged, she would not engage to be active in demanding it.

He saw only two ways out of his difficulties. One was to surrender his dominions to the Marquis. But his pride and ambition resisted the thought. So did his faith in ancient prophecies, which suggested he might preserve his dominions for his descendants. The other way was to press ahead with his marriage to Isabella. He pondered these troubling thoughts for a long time as he walked silently with Hippolita to the castle. At last, he spoke to the Princess about what troubled him. He used every persuasive and plausible argument to win her consent to the divorce. He even sought her promise to help bring it about. Hippolita needed little persuasion to yield to his wishes. She tried to persuade him to surrender his dominions, but her appeals had no effect. She then assured him that, as far as her conscience allowed, she would not oppose a separation. But she would not actively seek one without better reasons for doubt than those he had given her.

This compliance, though inadequate, was sufficient to raise Manfred’s hopes. He trusted that his power and wealth would easily advance his suit at the court of Rome, whither he resolved to engage Frederic to take a journey on purpose. That Prince had discovered so much passion for Matilda, that Manfred hoped to obtain all he wished by holding out or withdrawing his daughter’s charms, according as the Marquis should appear more or less disposed to co-operate in his views. Even the absence of Frederic would be a material point gained, until he could take further measures for his security.

Though this agreement was not enough, it was enough to raise Manfred’s hopes. He believed his power and wealth would easily advance his cause at the court of Rome. He resolved to persuade Frederic to travel there for that purpose. Frederic had shown such passion for Matilda that Manfred hoped to get everything he wanted. He would offer or withhold his daughter’s charms, depending on how willing the Marquis seemed to support his plans. Even Frederic’s absence would be a significant gain until Manfred could take further steps to secure his position.

Dismissing Hippolita to her apartment, he repaired to that of the Marquis; but crossing the great hall through which he was to pass he met Bianca. The damsel he knew was in the confidence of both the young ladies. It immediately occurred to him to sift her on the subject of Isabella and Theodore. Calling her aside into the recess of the oriel window of the hall, and soothing her with many fair words and promises, he demanded of her whether she knew aught of the state of Isabella’s affections.

After sending Hippolita to her room, he went to the Marquis’s room. But as he crossed the great hall on his way there, he met Bianca. He knew that both young ladies confided in her. It immediately occurred to him to question her about Isabella and Theodore. He called her aside into the recess of the hall’s bay window. After reassuring her with many kind words and promises, he asked whether she knew anything about Isabella’s feelings.

“I! my Lord! no my Lord—yes my Lord—poor Lady! she is wonderfully alarmed about her father’s wounds; but I tell her he will do well; don’t your Highness think so?”

“I! My Lord! No, my Lord. Yes, my Lord. Poor lady! She is terribly worried about her father’s wounds. But I tell her he’ll recover. Don’t you think so, Your Highness?”

“I do not ask you,” replied Manfred, “what she thinks about her father; but you are in her secrets. Come, be a good girl and tell me; is there any young man—ha!—you understand me.”

“I’m not asking you what she thinks about her father,” replied Manfred. “But you know her secrets. Come on, be a good girl and tell me. Is there a young man? Ha! You know what I mean.”

“Lord bless me! understand your Highness? no, not I. I told her a few vulnerary herbs and repose—”

“Lord bless me! Understand you, Your Highness? No, not me. I told her a few healing herbs and rest...”

“I am not talking,” replied the Prince, impatiently, “about her father; I know he will do well.”

“I’m not talking about her father,” the Prince replied impatiently. “I know he’ll do well.”

“Bless me, I rejoice to hear your Highness say so; for though I thought it not right to let my young Lady despond, methought his greatness had a wan look, and a something—I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded by the Venetian—”

“Goodness, I’m glad to hear Your Highness say so. Though I didn’t think it right to let my young lady lose hope, I thought his greatness looked pale, and there was something. I remember when young Ferdinand was wounded by the Venetian...”

“Thou answerest from the point,” interrupted Manfred; “but here, take this jewel, perhaps that may fix thy attention—nay, no reverences; my favour shall not stop here—come, tell me truly; how stands Isabella’s heart?”

“You’re avoiding the point,” Manfred interrupted. “But here, take this jewel. Perhaps it will get your attention. No need to bow. I’ll give you more than this. Come, tell me the truth. How does Isabella feel?”

“Well! your Highness has such a way!” said Bianca, “to be sure—but can your Highness keep a secret? if it should ever come out of your lips—”

“Well! Your Highness certainly has a way about you!” said Bianca. “But can Your Highness keep a secret? If it ever came out of your lips...”

“It shall not, it shall not,” cried Manfred.

“It won't, it won't,” cried Manfred.

“Nay, but swear, your Highness.”

“No, but swear it, your Highness.”

“By my halidame, if it should ever be known that I said it—”

“On my honor, if anyone ever finds out I said it...”

“Why, truth is truth, I do not think my Lady Isabella ever much affectioned my young Lord your son; yet he was a sweet youth as one should see; I am sure, if I had been a Princess—but bless me! I must attend my Lady Matilda; she will marvel what is become of me.”

“Why, truth is truth. I do not think Lady Isabella ever cared much for your son, my young Lord. Yet he was as sweet a young man as you could wish to see. I am sure, if I had been a Princess... But bless me! I must attend Lady Matilda. She will wonder what has become of me.”

“Stay,” cried Manfred; “thou hast not satisfied my question. Hast thou ever carried any message, any letter?”

“Wait,” cried Manfred. “You haven’t answered my question. Have you ever carried a message or a letter?”

“I! good gracious!” cried Bianca; “I carry a letter? I would not to be a Queen. I hope your Highness thinks, though I am poor, I am honest. Did your Highness never hear what Count Marsigli offered me, when he came a wooing to my Lady Matilda?”

“Me? Good gracious!” cried Bianca. “Carry a letter? I wouldn’t do it even to become a queen. I hope Your Highness knows that though I’m poor, I’m honest. Has Your Highness never heard what Count Marsigli offered me when he came to court Lady Matilda?”

“I have not leisure,” said Manfred, “to listen to thy tale. I do not question thy honesty. But it is thy duty to conceal nothing from me. How long has Isabella been acquainted with Theodore?”

“I don’t have time,” said Manfred, “to listen to your story. I don’t doubt your honesty. But you must not hide anything from me. How long has Isabella known Theodore?”

“Nay, there is nothing can escape your Highness!” said Bianca; “not that I know any thing of the matter. Theodore, to be sure, is a proper young man, and, as my Lady Matilda says, the very image of good Alfonso. Has not your Highness remarked it?”

“Why, nothing escapes your Highness!” said Bianca. “Not that I know anything about the matter. Theodore is certainly a handsome young man. And, as my Lady Matilda says, he looks just like good Alfonso. Hasn’t your Highness noticed the resemblance?”

“Yes, yes,—No—thou torturest me,” said Manfred. “Where did they meet? when?”

“Yes, yes, no. You’re torturing me,” said Manfred. “Where did they meet? When?”

“Who! my Lady Matilda?” said Bianca.

“Who! My Lady Matilda?” said Bianca.

“No, no, not Matilda: Isabella; when did Isabella first become acquainted with this Theodore!”

“No, no, not Matilda. Isabella! When did Isabella first meet this Theodore!”

“Virgin Mary!” said Bianca, “how should I know?”

“Virgin Mary!” said Bianca. “How would I know?”

“Thou dost know,” said Manfred; “and I must know; I will—”

“You do know,” said Manfred. “And I must know. I will...”

“Lord! your Highness is not jealous of young Theodore!” said Bianca.

“Goodness! Your Highness, surely you aren't jealous of young Theodore!” said Bianca.

“Jealous! no, no. Why should I be jealous? perhaps I mean to unite them—If I were sure Isabella would have no repugnance.”

“Jealous! No, no. Why should I be jealous? Perhaps I mean to bring them together, if I were sure Isabella would not object.”

“Repugnance! no, I’ll warrant her,” said Bianca; “he is as comely a youth as ever trod on Christian ground. We are all in love with him; there is not a soul in the castle but would be rejoiced to have him for our Prince—I mean, when it shall please heaven to call your Highness to itself.”

“Reluctant! No, I can assure you she isn’t,” said Bianca. “He is as handsome a young man as ever walked on Christian ground. We are all in love with him. Everyone in the castle would be delighted to have him as our Prince. I mean, when heaven sees fit to call your Highness to itself.”

“Indeed!” said Manfred, “has it gone so far! oh! this cursed Friar!—but I must not lose time—go, Bianca, attend Isabella; but I charge thee, not a word of what has passed. Find out how she is affected towards Theodore; bring me good news, and that ring has a companion. Wait at the foot of the winding staircase: I am going to visit the Marquis, and will talk further with thee at my return.”

“Really!” said Manfred. “Has it gone that far? Oh, that cursed Friar! But I must not waste time. Go, Bianca, attend to Isabella. But I insist that you say nothing about what has happened. Find out how she feels about Theodore. Bring me good news, and you will have another ring to go with that one. Wait at the foot of the winding staircase. I am going to visit the Marquis, and I will speak with you again when I return.”

Manfred, after some general conversation, desired Frederic to dismiss the two Knights, his companions, having to talk with him on urgent affairs.

After some general conversation, Manfred asked Frederic to send away his two companion knights. Manfred had urgent matters to discuss with him.

As soon as they were alone, he began in artful guise to sound the Marquis on the subject of Matilda; and finding him disposed to his wish, he let drop hints on the difficulties that would attend the celebration of their marriage, unless—At that instant Bianca burst into the room with a wildness in her look and gestures that spoke the utmost terror.

As soon as they were alone, he began subtly probing the Marquis about Matilda. He found that the Marquis was inclined to agree with his wishes. So he hinted that there would be difficulties in holding their wedding, unless... At that instant, Bianca burst into the room. Her wild expression and gestures showed her utter terror.

“Oh! my Lord, my Lord!” cried she; “we are all undone! it is come again! it is come again!”

“Oh, my lord, my lord!” she cried. “We are all doomed! It has come again! It has come again!”

“What is come again?” cried Manfred amazed.

“What has come back?” cried Manfred, amazed.

“Oh! the hand! the Giant! the hand!—support me! I am terrified out of my senses,” cried Bianca. “I will not sleep in the castle to-night. Where shall I go? my things may come after me to-morrow—would I had been content to wed Francesco! this comes of ambition!”

“Oh! The hand! The Giant! The hand! Help me! I am terrified out of my senses,” cried Bianca. “I will not sleep in the castle tonight. Where shall I go? My things can be brought to me tomorrow. I wish I had been content to marry Francesco! This is what comes of ambition!”

“What has terrified thee thus, young woman?” said the Marquis. “Thou art safe here; be not alarmed.”

“What has frightened you so much, young woman?” said the Marquis. “You are safe here. Don’t be afraid.”

“Oh! your Greatness is wonderfully good,” said Bianca, “but I dare not—no, pray let me go—I had rather leave everything behind me, than stay another hour under this roof.”

“Oh! Your Greatness is very kind,” said Bianca, “but I dare not. No, please let me go. I would rather leave everything behind than stay another hour in this house.”

“Go to, thou hast lost thy senses,” said Manfred. “Interrupt us not; we were communing on important matters—My Lord, this wench is subject to fits—Come with me, Bianca.”

“Oh, you’ve lost your senses,” said Manfred. “Don’t interrupt us. We were discussing important matters. My Lord, this girl is prone to fits. Come with me, Bianca.”

“Oh! the Saints! No,” said Bianca, “for certain it comes to warn your Highness; why should it appear to me else? I say my prayers morning and evening—oh! if your Highness had believed Diego! ’Tis the same hand that he saw the foot to in the gallery-chamber—Father Jerome has often told us the prophecy would be out one of these days—‘Bianca,’ said he, ‘mark my words—’”

“Oh! The Saints! No,” said Bianca, “it has certainly come to warn your Highness. Why else would it appear to me? I say my prayers morning and evening. Oh! If only your Highness had believed Diego! It’s the hand belonging to the same body as the foot he saw in the gallery-chamber. Father Jerome has often told us that the prophecy would come true one day. ‘Bianca,’ he said, ‘mark my words...’”

“Thou ravest,” said Manfred, in a rage; “be gone, and keep these fooleries to frighten thy companions.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Manfred said angrily. “Go away, and save these silly stories to frighten your companions.”

“What! my Lord,” cried Bianca, “do you think I have seen nothing? go to the foot of the great stairs yourself—as I live I saw it.”

“What, my lord!” cried Bianca. “Do you think I saw nothing? Go to the bottom of the great staircase yourself. I swear I saw it.”

“Saw what? tell us, fair maid, what thou hast seen,” said Frederic.

“Saw what? Tell us what you saw, fair maiden,” said Frederic.

“Can your Highness listen,” said Manfred, “to the delirium of a silly wench, who has heard stories of apparitions until she believes them?”

“Can your Highness listen to the ramblings of a silly girl?” said Manfred. “She has heard so many ghost stories that she believes them.”

“This is more than fancy,” said the Marquis; “her terror is too natural and too strongly impressed to be the work of imagination. Tell us, fair maiden, what it is has moved thee thus?”

“This is more than imagination,” said the Marquis. “Her terror is too natural and too deeply felt to be imagined. Tell us, fair maiden, what has frightened you so?”

“Yes, my Lord, thank your Greatness,” said Bianca; “I believe I look very pale; I shall be better when I have recovered myself—I was going to my Lady Isabella’s chamber, by his Highness’s order—”

“Yes, my Lord, thank you,” said Bianca. “I believe I look very pale. I shall feel better once I have recovered. I was going to Lady Isabella’s room on his Highness’s orders...”

“We do not want the circumstances,” interrupted Manfred. “Since his Highness will have it so, proceed; but be brief.”

“We don't need the details,” Manfred interrupted. “Since his Highness insists, go on, but be brief.”

“Lord! your Highness thwarts one so!” replied Bianca; “I fear my hair—I am sure I never in my life—well! as I was telling your Greatness, I was going by his Highness’s order to my Lady Isabella’s chamber; she lies in the watchet-coloured chamber, on the right hand, one pair of stairs: so when I came to the great stairs—I was looking on his Highness’s present here—”

“Good Lord! Your Highness keeps interrupting me!” replied Bianca. “I’m worried about my hair. I’m sure I’ve never in my life. Well! As I was telling Your Highness, I was going to Lady Isabella’s room on His Highness’s orders. She sleeps in the pale blue room on the right, one flight up. So when I came to the main staircase, I was looking at His Highness’s present here.”

“Grant me patience!” said Manfred, “will this wench never come to the point? what imports it to the Marquis, that I gave thee a bauble for thy faithful attendance on my daughter? we want to know what thou sawest.”

“Give me patience!” said Manfred. “Will this girl never get to the point? Why should the Marquis care that I gave you a trinket for faithfully attending my daughter? We want to know what you saw.”

“I was going to tell your Highness,” said Bianca, “if you would permit me. So as I was rubbing the ring—I am sure I had not gone up three steps, but I heard the rattling of armour; for all the world such a clatter as Diego says he heard when the Giant turned him about in the gallery-chamber.”

“I was going to tell you, Your Highness,” said Bianca, “if you would let me. So, as I was rubbing the ring, I heard the rattling of armor. I’m sure I had not gone up three steps. The clatter was exactly like the one Diego says he heard when the Giant turned around in the gallery chamber.”

“What Giant is this, my Lord?” said the Marquis; “is your castle haunted by giants and goblins?”

“What giant is this, my lord?” asked the Marquis. “Is your castle haunted by giants and goblins?”

“Lord! what, has not your Greatness heard the story of the Giant in the gallery-chamber?” cried Bianca. “I marvel his Highness has not told you; mayhap you do not know there is a prophecy—”

“Good Lord! Hasn’t Your Greatness heard the story of the Giant in the gallery chamber?” cried Bianca. “I’m surprised His Highness hasn’t told you. Perhaps you don’t know there’s a prophecy...”

“This trifling is intolerable,” interrupted Manfred. “Let us dismiss this silly wench, my Lord! we have more important affairs to discuss.”

“This nonsense is unbearable,” Manfred interrupted. “Let us send this silly girl away, my Lord! We have more important matters to discuss.”

“By your favour,” said Frederic, “these are no trifles. The enormous sabre I was directed to in the wood, yon casque, its fellow—are these visions of this poor maiden’s brain?”

“With respect,” said Frederic, “these are no small things. I was directed to the enormous sword in the woods, and that helmet matches it. Are these visions from this poor young woman’s mind?”

“So Jaquez thinks, may it please your Greatness,” said Bianca. “He says this moon will not be out without our seeing some strange revolution. For my part, I should not be surprised if it was to happen to-morrow; for, as I was saying, when I heard the clattering of armour, I was all in a cold sweat. I looked up, and, if your Greatness will believe me, I saw upon the uppermost banister of the great stairs a hand in armour as big as big. I thought I should have swooned. I never stopped until I came hither—would I were well out of this castle. My Lady Matilda told me but yester-morning that her Highness Hippolita knows something.”

“So Jaquez thinks, if it pleases Your Greatness,” said Bianca. “He says we will see some strange upheaval before this moon is over. I would not be surprised if it happened tomorrow. As I was saying, when I heard the clattering of armor, I broke into a cold sweat. I looked up, and, if Your Greatness will believe me, I saw an enormous hand in armor. It was on the topmost railing of the great staircase. I thought I would faint. I did not stop until I got here. I wish I were safely out of this castle. My Lady Matilda told me only yesterday morning that Her Highness Hippolita knows something.”

“Thou art an insolent!” cried Manfred. “Lord Marquis, it much misgives me that this scene is concerted to affront me. Are my own domestics suborned to spread tales injurious to my honour? Pursue your claim by manly daring; or let us bury our feuds, as was proposed, by the intermarriage of our children. But trust me, it ill becomes a Prince of your bearing to practise on mercenary wenches.”

“You are insolent!” cried Manfred. “Lord Marquis, I strongly suspect that this scene was arranged to insult me. Have my own servants been bribed to spread stories that damage my honor? Pursue your claim with a man’s courage. Or let us end our feuds, as proposed, by having our children marry. But believe me, a prince of your standing should not manipulate women who can be bought.”

“I scorn your imputation,” said Frederic. “Until this hour I never set eyes on this damsel: I have given her no jewel. My Lord, my Lord, your conscience, your guilt accuses you, and would throw the suspicion on me; but keep your daughter, and think no more of Isabella. The judgments already fallen on your house forbid me matching into it.”

“I reject your accusation,” said Frederic. “Until this hour, I had never seen this young woman. I have given her no jewel. My lord, my lord, your conscience and your guilt accuse you, and you would shift the suspicion onto me. But keep your daughter, and think no more of Isabella. The judgments already visited on your house forbid me from marrying into it.”

Manfred, alarmed at the resolute tone in which Frederic delivered these words, endeavoured to pacify him. Dismissing Bianca, he made such submissions to the Marquis, and threw in such artful encomiums on Matilda, that Frederic was once more staggered. However, as his passion was of so recent a date, it could not at once surmount the scruples he had conceived. He had gathered enough from Bianca’s discourse to persuade him that heaven declared itself against Manfred. The proposed marriages too removed his claim to a distance; and the principality of Otranto was a stronger temptation than the contingent reversion of it with Matilda. Still he would not absolutely recede from his engagements; but purposing to gain time, he demanded of Manfred if it was true in fact that Hippolita consented to the divorce. The Prince, transported to find no other obstacle, and depending on his influence over his wife, assured the Marquis it was so, and that he might satisfy himself of the truth from her own mouth.

Manfred was alarmed by the firm tone in which Frederic spoke and tried to calm him. He dismissed Bianca, then made such concessions to the Marquis and praised Matilda so skillfully that Frederic hesitated once again. But his passion was so recent that it could not immediately overcome his doubts. He had heard enough from Bianca to believe that heaven had declared itself against Manfred. The proposed marriages would also put his claim further out of reach. The principality of Otranto was a stronger temptation than the chance of eventually inheriting it with Matilda. Still, Frederic would not entirely abandon his commitments. Hoping to gain time, he asked Manfred whether Hippolita had really consented to the divorce. The Prince was delighted to find no other obstacle and was confident of his influence over his wife. He assured the Marquis that Hippolita had consented and that he could hear the truth from her own lips.

As they were thus discoursing, word was brought that the banquet was prepared. Manfred conducted Frederic to the great hall, where they were received by Hippolita and the young Princesses. Manfred placed the Marquis next to Matilda, and seated himself between his wife and Isabella. Hippolita comported herself with an easy gravity; but the young ladies were silent and melancholy. Manfred, who was determined to pursue his point with the Marquis in the remainder of the evening, pushed on the feast until it waxed late; affecting unrestrained gaiety, and plying Frederic with repeated goblets of wine. The latter, more upon his guard than Manfred wished, declined his frequent challenges, on pretence of his late loss of blood; while the Prince, to raise his own disordered spirits, and to counterfeit unconcern, indulged himself in plentiful draughts, though not to the intoxication of his senses.

As they were talking, word came that the banquet was ready. Manfred led Frederic to the great hall, where Hippolita and the young Princesses welcomed them. Manfred placed the Marquis next to Matilda and sat between his wife and Isabella. Hippolita behaved with calm dignity, but the young ladies were silent and sad. Manfred was determined to pursue his aim with the Marquis that evening, so he prolonged the feast until late. He pretended to be carefree and cheerful and kept offering Frederic goblets of wine. But Frederic was more cautious than Manfred wanted. He declined Manfred’s frequent invitations to drink, using his recent loss of blood as an excuse. Meanwhile, the Prince drank freely to lift his troubled spirits and pretend he was unconcerned, though not enough to become drunk.

The evening being far advanced, the banquet concluded. Manfred would have withdrawn with Frederic; but the latter pleading weakness and want of repose, retired to his chamber, gallantly telling the Prince that his daughter should amuse his Highness until himself could attend him. Manfred accepted the party, and to the no small grief of Isabella, accompanied her to her apartment. Matilda waited on her mother to enjoy the freshness of the evening on the ramparts of the castle.

The banquet ended late in the evening. Manfred wished to leave with Frederic, but Frederic pleaded weakness and a need for rest. He retired to his chamber, gallantly telling the Prince that his daughter would entertain him until Frederic could join him. Manfred accepted the offer and, much to Isabella’s distress, accompanied her to her apartment. Matilda accompanied her mother to enjoy the cool evening air on the castle ramparts.

Soon as the company were dispersed their several ways, Frederic, quitting his chamber, inquired if Hippolita was alone, and was told by one of her attendants, who had not noticed her going forth, that at that hour she generally withdrew to her oratory, where he probably would find her. The Marquis, during the repast, had beheld Matilda with increase of passion. He now wished to find Hippolita in the disposition her Lord had promised. The portents that had alarmed him were forgotten in his desires. Stealing softly and unobserved to the apartment of Hippolita, he entered it with a resolution to encourage her acquiescence to the divorce, having perceived that Manfred was resolved to make the possession of Isabella an unalterable condition, before he would grant Matilda to his wishes.

As soon as the company had gone their separate ways, Frederic left his chamber and asked if Hippolita was alone. One of her attendants had not noticed her leave. The attendant told him that Hippolita usually retired to her oratory at that hour, and he would probably find her there. During the meal, the Marquis had watched Matilda with growing passion. He now hoped to find Hippolita as willing as her husband had promised. His desires made him forget the omens that had alarmed him. He slipped quietly into Hippolita’s room, unseen, determined to encourage her to agree to the divorce. He had realized that Manfred would not grant him Matilda unless he could have Isabella. Manfred was resolved that this condition could not be changed.

The Marquis was not surprised at the silence that reigned in the Princess’s apartment. Concluding her, as he had been advertised, in her oratory, he passed on. The door was ajar; the evening gloomy and overcast. Pushing open the door gently, he saw a person kneeling before the altar. As he approached nearer, it seemed not a woman, but one in a long woollen weed, whose back was towards him. The person seemed absorbed in prayer. The Marquis was about to return, when the figure, rising, stood some moments fixed in meditation, without regarding him. The Marquis, expecting the holy person to come forth, and meaning to excuse his uncivil interruption, said,

The Marquis was not surprised to find the Princess’s apartment silent. As he had been told she was in her private chapel, he went on. The chapel door was ajar, and the evening was gloomy and overcast. He gently pushed the door open and saw someone kneeling before the altar. As he drew nearer, the person seemed not to be a woman, but someone in a long woolen robe. The person’s back was turned to him, and they seemed absorbed in prayer. The Marquis was about to leave when the figure rose and stood motionless for a few moments, deep in thought. The figure paid him no attention. The Marquis expected the holy person to come out, and he meant to apologize for his rude interruption. He said,

“Reverend Father, I sought the Lady Hippolita.”

“Father, I was looking for Lady Hippolita.”

“Hippolita!” replied a hollow voice; “camest thou to this castle to seek Hippolita?” and then the figure, turning slowly round, discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a hermit’s cowl.

“Hippolita!” replied a hollow voice. “Did you come to this castle to seek Hippolita?” Then the figure slowly turned around. Frederic saw the fleshless jaws and empty eye sockets of a skeleton, wrapped in a hermit’s hood.

“Angels of grace protect me!” cried Frederic, recoiling.

“Merciful angels, protect me!” cried Frederic, drawing back.

“Deserve their protection!” said the Spectre. Frederic, falling on his knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him.

“Earn their protection!” said the Spectre. Frederic fell to his knees and begged the phantom to take pity on him.

“Dost thou not remember me?” said the apparition. “Remember the wood of Joppa!”

“Don’t you remember me?” said the apparition. “Remember the woods of Joppa!”

“Art thou that holy hermit?” cried Frederic, trembling. “Can I do aught for thy eternal peace?”

“Are you that holy hermit?” cried Frederic, trembling. “Can I do anything for your eternal peace?”

“Wast thou delivered from bondage,” said the spectre, “to pursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven engraven on it?”

“Were you freed from bondage,” said the ghost, “to pursue physical pleasures? Have you forgotten the buried sword and Heaven’s command engraved on it?”

“I have not, I have not,” said Frederic; “but say, blest spirit, what is thy errand to me? What remains to be done?”

“I have not, I have not,” said Frederic. “But tell me, blessed spirit, why have you come to me? What remains to be done?”

“To forget Matilda!” said the apparition; and vanished.

“To forget Matilda!” said the ghost, and vanished.

Frederic’s blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he remained motionless. Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he besought the intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of tears succeeded to this transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing in spite of him on his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. Ere he could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with a taper in her hand entered the oratory alone. Seeing a man without motion on the floor, she gave a shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederic to himself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushed from her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the most plaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strange chance she had found him there in that posture.

Frederic’s blood froze in his veins. For several minutes he remained motionless. Then he fell face down before the altar and begged every saint to intercede for his pardon. After this outburst, he burst into tears. The image of the beautiful Matilda rushed into his thoughts against his will. He lay on the ground, torn between remorse and passion. Before he could recover from his anguish, Princess Hippolita entered the oratory alone, carrying a candle. When she saw a man lying motionless on the floor, she screamed, thinking he was dead. Her fright brought Frederic to his senses. He rose suddenly, his face wet with tears, and tried to rush away from her. But Hippolita stopped him. In a deeply sorrowful voice, she begged him to explain what had upset him. She also asked what strange chance had led her to find him lying there.

“Ah, virtuous Princess!” said the Marquis, penetrated with grief, and stopped.

“Ah, virtuous Princess!” said the Marquis, overcome with grief. He stopped speaking.

“For the love of Heaven, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “disclose the cause of this transport! What mean these doleful sounds, this alarming exclamation on my name? What woes has heaven still in store for the wretched Hippolita? Yet silent! By every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble Prince,” continued she, falling at his feet, “to disclose the purport of what lies at thy heart. I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest the sharp pangs that thou inflictest—speak, for pity! Does aught thou knowest concern my child?”

“For the love of Heaven, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “tell me what has caused this outburst! What do these mournful sounds mean? Why did you cry out my name in alarm? What more suffering does heaven have in store for the unhappy Hippolita? Still silent! By every pitying angel, I beg you, noble Prince,” she continued, falling at his feet, “to tell me what is on your heart. I can see that you feel for me. You feel the sharp pain you are causing me. Please, speak! Does something you know concern my child?”

“I cannot speak,” cried Frederic, bursting from her. “Oh, Matilda!”

“I can’t speak,” cried Frederic, pulling away from her. “Oh, Matilda!”

Quitting the Princess thus abruptly, he hastened to his own apartment. At the door of it he was accosted by Manfred, who flushed by wine and love had come to seek him, and to propose to waste some hours of the night in music and revelling. Frederic, offended at an invitation so dissonant from the mood of his soul, pushed him rudely aside, and entering his chamber, flung the door intemperately against Manfred, and bolted it inwards. The haughty Prince, enraged at this unaccountable behaviour, withdrew in a frame of mind capable of the most fatal excesses. As he crossed the court, he was met by the domestic whom he had planted at the convent as a spy on Jerome and Theodore. This man, almost breathless with the haste he had made, informed his Lord that Theodore, and some lady from the castle were, at that instant, in private conference at the tomb of Alfonso in St. Nicholas’s church. He had dogged Theodore thither, but the gloominess of the night had prevented his discovering who the woman was.

Leaving the Princess so abruptly, he hurried to his own room. At the door, Manfred approached him. Flushed with wine and love, Manfred had come to invite him to spend a few hours of the night enjoying music and revelry. The invitation was so at odds with Frederic’s mood that he took offense. He rudely pushed Manfred aside, entered his room, slammed the door against him, and bolted it from inside. The proud Prince, enraged by Frederic’s inexplicable behavior, went away in a state of mind capable of the most deadly extremes. As he crossed the courtyard, he met the servant he had planted at the convent to spy on Jerome and Theodore. Almost breathless from his hurried journey, the man told his lord that Theodore was speaking privately with a lady from the castle. They were at that very moment at Alfonso’s tomb in St. Nicholas’s church. He had followed Theodore there, but the darkness of the night had kept him from discovering who the woman was.

Manfred, whose spirits were inflamed, and whom Isabella had driven from her on his urging his passion with too little reserve, did not doubt but the inquietude she had expressed had been occasioned by her impatience to meet Theodore. Provoked by this conjecture, and enraged at her father, he hastened secretly to the great church. Gliding softly between the aisles, and guided by an imperfect gleam of moonshine that shone faintly through the illuminated windows, he stole towards the tomb of Alfonso, to which he was directed by indistinct whispers of the persons he sought. The first sounds he could distinguish were—

Manfred was in a fever of passion. Isabella had sent him away because he pressed his desires too openly. He had no doubt that her anxiety came from her eagerness to meet Theodore. Angered by this suspicion and furious with her father, he hurried secretly to the great church. He slipped quietly between the aisles, guided by a faint gleam of moonlight through the illuminated windows. The indistinct whispers of the people he sought led him toward Alfonso's tomb. The first words he could make out were:

“Does it, alas! depend on me? Manfred will never permit our union.”

“Is it up to me? Sadly, Manfred will never allow us to marry.”

“No, this shall prevent it!” cried the tyrant, drawing his dagger, and plunging it over her shoulder into the bosom of the person that spoke.

“No, this will prevent it!” cried the tyrant. He drew his dagger and plunged it over her shoulder into the chest of the person who had spoken.

“Ah, me, I am slain!” cried Matilda, sinking. “Good heaven, receive my soul!”

“Oh, I’m dying!” cried Matilda as she collapsed. “Heaven, receive my soul!”

“Savage, inhuman monster, what hast thou done!” cried Theodore, rushing on him, and wrenching his dagger from him.

“Savage, inhuman monster, what have you done!” cried Theodore, rushing at him and wrenching the dagger from his hand.

“Stop, stop thy impious hand!” cried Matilda; “it is my father!”

“Stop, stop your wicked hand!” cried Matilda. “It is my father!”

Manfred, waking as from a trance, beat his breast, twisted his hands in his locks, and endeavoured to recover his dagger from Theodore to despatch himself. Theodore, scarce less distracted, and only mastering the transports of his grief to assist Matilda, had now by his cries drawn some of the monks to his aid. While part of them endeavoured, in concert with the afflicted Theodore, to stop the blood of the dying Princess, the rest prevented Manfred from laying violent hands on himself.

Manfred woke as if from a trance. He beat his chest, tore at his hair, and tried to take his dagger back from Theodore to kill himself. Theodore was almost as distraught, and controlled his grief only to help Matilda. His cries had now brought some of the monks to his aid. Some of the monks joined the grieving Theodore in trying to stop the dying Princess's bleeding. The rest stopped Manfred from killing himself.

Matilda, resigning herself patiently to her fate, acknowledged with looks of grateful love the zeal of Theodore. Yet oft as her faintness would permit her speech its way, she begged the assistants to comfort her father. Jerome, by this time, had learnt the fatal news, and reached the church. His looks seemed to reproach Theodore, but turning to Manfred, he said,

Matilda patiently accepted her fate and looked at Theodore with grateful love for his devotion. Yet whenever she was strong enough to speak, she begged those attending her to comfort her father. By then, Jerome had heard the fatal news and arrived at the church. He seemed to look reproachfully at Theodore, but then he turned to Manfred and said,

“Now, tyrant! behold the completion of woe fulfilled on thy impious and devoted head! The blood of Alfonso cried to heaven for vengeance; and heaven has permitted its altar to be polluted by assassination, that thou mightest shed thy own blood at the foot of that Prince’s sepulchre!”

“Now, tyrant, see the full extent of the misery that has fallen on your wicked, doomed head! Alfonso’s blood cried out to heaven for vengeance. Heaven has allowed its altar to be defiled by murder so that you might shed your own blood at the foot of that Prince’s tomb!”

“Cruel man!” cried Matilda, “to aggravate the woes of a parent; may heaven bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My Lord, my gracious Sire, dost thou forgive thy child? Indeed, I came not hither to meet Theodore. I found him praying at this tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for thee, for her—dearest father, bless your child, and say you forgive her.”

“Cruel man!” cried Matilda. “You make a parent’s suffering worse. May heaven bless my father and forgive him, as I do! My lord, my gracious father, do you forgive your child? I truly did not come here to meet Theodore. I found him praying at this tomb, where my mother sent me to plead for you, for her. Dearest father, bless your child and say you forgive her.”

“Forgive thee! Murderous monster!” cried Manfred, “can assassins forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but heaven directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child. Oh, Matilda!—I cannot utter it—canst thou forgive the blindness of my rage?”

“Forgive you! Murderous monster!” cried Manfred. “Can murderers forgive? I mistook you for Isabella, but heaven guided my bloody hand to my child’s heart. Oh, Matilda! I cannot say it. Can you forgive me for being blinded by rage?”

“I can, I do; and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda; “but while I have life to ask it—oh! my mother! what will she feel? Will you comfort her, my Lord? Will you not put her away? Indeed she loves you! Oh, I am faint! bear me to the castle. Can I live to have her close my eyes?”

“I can, I do, and may heaven confirm it!” said Matilda. “But while I still have the life to ask it, oh, my mother! What will she feel? Will you comfort her, my lord? Will you not send her away? She truly loves you! Oh, I feel faint! Carry me to the castle. Will I live long enough for her to close my eyes?”

Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be borne into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried to the castle, that placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as she requested. Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in despair.

Theodore and the monks begged her to let them carry her into the convent. But she insisted so strongly on going to the castle that they placed her on a litter and carried her there. Theodore supported her head with his arm and bent over her, in an agony of despairing love. He kept trying to give her hope that she would live. On her other side, Jerome comforted her by speaking of heaven. He held a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, and prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred, overcome with grief, followed the litter in despair.

Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was lost in tenderness for her mother.

Before they reached the castle, Hippolita had heard of the terrible tragedy and rushed to meet her murdered child. But when she saw the grieving procession, her sorrow overwhelmed her, and she fainted and fell to the ground. Isabella and Frederic, who were with her, were almost equally overcome with grief. Only Matilda seemed unaware of her own condition. All her thoughts were of her love for her mother.

Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself, she asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his hand and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella’s care would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda’s wound, she cried,

After ordering the litter to stop, Matilda asked for her father as soon as Hippolita regained consciousness. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda took his hand and her mother’s, held them together in her own, and clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not bear this moving display of filial love. He threw himself on the ground and cursed the day he was born. Isabella feared that Matilda could not bear such violent displays of emotion. So she ordered Manfred to be carried to his room and Matilda to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, barely more alive than her daughter, cared about nothing but Matilda. But when the tenderhearted Isabella tried to remove her too, so the surgeons could examine Matilda’s wound, she cried,

“Remove me! never, never! I lived but in her, and will expire with her.”

“Take me away! Never, never! I lived only for her, and I will die with her.”

Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with a transport equal to frenzy.

Matilda opened her eyes at the sound of her mother’s voice, but closed them again without speaking. Her fading pulse and the cold dampness of her hand soon destroyed all hope of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer room. He heard them pronounce their fatal verdict and was overcome with emotion bordering on frenzy.

“Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shall be mine in death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried he to the Friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons.

“Since she cannot be mine in life,” he cried, “at least she shall be mine in death! Father! Jerome! Won’t you join our hands?” He spoke to the Friar, who had come with the Marquis and the surgeons.

“What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome. “Is this an hour for marriage?”

“What is the meaning of this frantic recklessness?” said Jerome. “Is this a time for marriage?”

“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Alas! there is no other!”

“It is, it is,” cried Theodore. “Oh no! There is no other!”

“Young man, thou art too unadvised,” said Frederic. “Dost thou think we are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? What pretensions hast thou to the Princess?”

“Young man, you are too rash,” said Frederic. “Do you think we should listen to your foolish outbursts at this fateful hour? What claim do you have to the Princess?”

“Those of a Prince,” said Theodore; “of the sovereign of Otranto. This reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.”

“Those of a prince,” said Theodore, “the ruler of Otranto. This respected man, my father, has told me who I am.”

“Thou ravest,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince of Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all pretensions.”

“You’re raving,” said the Marquis. “There is no Prince of Otranto but me. Manfred has now forfeited all his claims through murder, through sacrilegious murder.”

“My Lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tells you true. It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon, but fate presses onward to its work. What his hot-headed passion has revealed, my tongue confirms. Know, Prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land—”

“My Lord,” said Jerome, speaking with authority, “he is telling you the truth. I did not intend for the secret to be revealed so soon, but fate is pressing ahead with its work. I confirm what his hot-headed passion has revealed. Prince, you must know that when Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land...”

“Is this a season for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father, come and unite me to the Princess; she shall be mine! In every other thing I will dutifully obey you. My life! my adored Matilda!” continued Theodore, rushing back into the inner chamber, “will you not be mine? Will you not bless your—”

“Is this the time for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father, come and marry me to the Princess. She shall be mine! In everything else, I will obey you dutifully. My love! My adored Matilda!” Theodore continued, rushing back into the inner chamber. “Won’t you be mine? Won’t you bless your...”

Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was near her end.

Isabella signaled him to be quiet, fearing that the Princess was near death.

“What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible!”

“What, is she dead?” Theodore cried. “Is that possible!”

The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up her eyes, she looked round for her mother.

His loud cries brought Matilda back to her senses. She looked up and searched for her mother.

“Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not I will quit thee!”

“Love of my life, I am here!” cried Hippolita. “Do not think I will leave you!”

“Oh! you are too good,” said Matilda. “But weep not for me, my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells—Isabella, thou hast loved me; wouldst thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman? Indeed I am faint!”

“Oh! You are too kind,” said Matilda. “But do not weep for me, Mother! I am going where sorrow never lives. Isabella, you have loved me. Would you give this dear, dear woman the love I would have given her? I feel so faint!”

“Oh! my child! my child!” said Hippolita in a flood of tears, “can I not withhold thee a moment?”

“Oh, my child! My child!” said Hippolita, bursting into tears. “Can’t I keep you here for a moment?”

“It will not be,” said Matilda; “commend me to heaven—Where is my father? forgive him, dearest mother—forgive him my death; it was an error. Oh! I had forgotten—dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore more—perhaps that has drawn down this calamity—but it was not intentional—can you pardon me?”

“It will not happen,” said Matilda. “Pray for me. Where is my father? Forgive him, dearest mother. Forgive him for my death. It was a mistake. Oh, I had forgotten! Dearest mother, I promised never to see Theodore again. Perhaps that is why this disaster has happened, but I did not mean to break my promise. Can you forgive me?”

“Oh! wound not my agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”

“Oh, don’t hurt my aching soul!” said Hippolita. “You could never offend me. Oh no, she’s fainting! Help! Help!”

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot be—Isabella—Theodore—for my sake—Oh!—” she expired.

“I want to say more,” Matilda said, struggling, “but I cannot. Isabella, Theodore, for my sake. Oh!” She died.

Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every expression that despairing love could dictate.

Isabella and her women pulled Hippolita away from the corpse. But Theodore threatened to destroy anyone who tried to pull him away. He covered her cold hands with a thousand kisses and said everything his despairing love could inspire.

Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to her apartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred, who, distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter, was advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon was now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhappy company the event he dreaded.

Meanwhile, Isabella was accompanying the grief-stricken Hippolita to her room. But in the middle of the courtyard, they met Manfred. Distracted by his own thoughts and eager to see his daughter again, he was heading toward the room where she lay. The moon was now high overhead, and he could see the outcome he feared in the faces of the unhappy group.

“What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunder at that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins.

“What! Is she dead?” he cried in wild confusion. At that instant, a thunderclap shook the castle to its foundations. The earth rocked, and they heard the clank of supernatural armour behind them. Frederic and Jerome thought the end of the world was near. Jerome forced Theodore to go with them and rushed into the courtyard. The moment Theodore appeared, a mighty force threw down the castle walls behind Manfred. In the centre of the ruins, the figure of Alfonso appeared, grown to an immense size.

“Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: And having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

“Look upon Theodore, the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision. As it spoke, thunder crashed, and the vision rose solemnly toward heaven. There the clouds parted, revealing St. Nicholas, who received Alfonso’s spirit. Soon both vanished from mortal sight in a blaze of glory.

The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita.

The onlookers fell face down, acknowledging God’s will. Hippolita was the first to speak.

“My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I know not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.”

“My Lord,” she said to the despairing Manfred, “see how empty human greatness is! Conrad is gone! Matilda is dead! In Theodore we see the true Prince of Otranto. I do not know what miracle has made him the true prince. It is enough for us to know that our fate has been declared! Can we do anything but spend the few wretched hours we have left praying to avert heaven’s further wrath? Heaven drives us out. Where can we go but to those holy cells that still offer us refuge?”

“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh! could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last do justice on myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments: Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”

“You are innocent but unhappy, and my crimes have made you unhappy!” replied Manfred. “At last, my heart is open to your devout warnings. Oh, if only I could, but I cannot. You are amazed. Let me finally bring justice upon myself! All I can offer to offended heaven is to bring shame on my own head. My story has brought down these judgments. Let my confession make amends. But, ah! What can make amends for seizing a throne and murdering a child? A child murdered in a sacred place? Listen, gentlemen, and may this bloody account be a warning to future tyrants!”

“Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would interrupt me; ye would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true—why else this bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my grandfather, was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook him. Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race! I have done—the woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question not the will of heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”

“You all know that Alfonso died in the Holy Land. You would interrupt me and say that he did not die naturally. That is quite true. Why else must Manfred drink this bitter cup to the last drop? Ricardo, my grandfather, was Alfonso’s chamberlain. I would hide my ancestor’s crimes, but it is no use! Alfonso was poisoned. A forged will named Ricardo as his heir. His crimes pursued him, yet he lost no Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price for all of that seizure of power! A storm overtook Ricardo. Haunted by his guilt, he made a vow to St. Nicholas. If he lived to reach Otranto, he would found a church and two convents. The sacrifice was accepted. The saint appeared to him in a dream and made him a promise. Ricardo’s descendants would rule in Otranto until the rightful owner grew too large to live in the castle. They would also rule only as long as Ricardo had a male descendant left to enjoy it. Alas! Alas! Of all his wretched descendants, neither male nor female remains except myself! I have finished. The sorrows of these three days tell the rest. I do not know how this young man can be Alfonso’s heir, yet I do not doubt it. These lands are his. I give them up, though I did not know Alfonso had an heir. I do not question the will of heaven. Poverty and prayer must fill the sorrowful time until Manfred is called to join Ricardo.”

“What remains is my part to declare,” said Jerome. “When Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land he was driven by a storm to the coast of Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordship must have heard, was separated from him.”

“What remains is for me to tell,” said Jerome. “When Alfonso sailed for the Holy Land, a storm drove him to the coast of Sicily. As your Lordship must have heard, the other ship was separated from his. It carried Ricardo and his followers.”

“It is most true,” said Manfred; “and the title you give me is more than an outcast can claim—well! be it so—proceed.”

“That is certainly true,” said Manfred. “And the title you give me is more than an outcast can claim. Well, so be it. Go on.”

Jerome blushed, and continued. “For three months Lord Alfonso was wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials until his return from the Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence she was delivered of a daughter. But scarce had she felt a mother’s pangs ere she heard the fatal rumour of her Lord’s death, and the succession of Ricardo. What could a friendless, helpless woman do? Would her testimony avail?—yet, my lord, I have an authentic writing—”

Jerome blushed and continued. “For three months, unfavorable winds kept Lord Alfonso in Sicily. There he fell in love with a beautiful young woman named Victoria. He was too devout to tempt her into forbidden pleasures. They married. Yet he thought the love affair conflicted with the holy vow to bear arms that bound him. So he decided to keep their marriage secret until he returned from the Crusade. Then he intended to find her and acknowledge her as his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. While he was away, she gave birth to a daughter. But she had barely endured the pains of childbirth when she heard the terrible rumor of her lord’s death and Ricardo’s succession. What could a friendless, helpless woman do? Would anyone believe her word? Yet, my lord, I have an authentic document...”

“It needs not,” said Manfred; “the horrors of these days, the vision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousand parchments. Matilda’s death and my expulsion—”

“There is no need,” said Manfred. “The horrors of these days and the vision we just saw all support your evidence more than a thousand documents could. Matilda’s death and my expulsion...”

“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did not mean to recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded.

“Please stay calm, my Lord,” said Hippolita. “This holy man did not mean to remind you of your sorrows.” Jerome continued.

“I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoria was delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria died; and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative has told the rest.”

“I will not dwell on unnecessary details. When Victoria’s daughter grew up, she was given to me in marriage. Victoria died, and I kept the secret to myself. Theodore has told the rest of the story.”

The Friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of the castle. In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella concurred to promote. But Theodore’s grief was too fresh to admit the thought of another love; and it was not until after frequent discourses with Isabella of his dear Matilda, that he was persuaded he could know no happiness but in the society of one with whom he could for ever indulge the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul.

The Friar fell silent. The grieving company withdrew to the part of the castle that remained. In the morning, Manfred signed away his rule over the principality, with Hippolita’s approval. Each then entered religious life in a nearby convent. Frederic offered his daughter in marriage to the new Prince. Hippolita’s affection for Isabella led her to encourage the match. But Theodore’s grief was too fresh for him to think of another love. Only after he had spoken often with Isabella about his dear Matilda was he persuaded he could find happiness with her. He could always share with Isabella the melancholy that had taken possession of his soul, and he believed he could find happiness with no one else.