THE CASTLE OF OTRANTO
BY HORACE WALPOLE
PART 3
CHAPTER III.
Manfred’s
heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage on the miraculous casque shaken in
concert with the sounding of the brazen trumpet.
“Father!”
said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Count of Falconara, “what
mean these portents? If I have offended—” the plumes were shaken with
greater violence than before.
“Unhappy
Prince that I am,” cried Manfred. “Holy Father! will you not assist me
with your prayers?”
“My Lord,”
replied Jerome, “heaven is no doubt displeased with your mockery of its
servants. Submit yourself to the church; and cease to persecute her
ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to respect the holy
character I wear. Heaven will not be trifled with: you see—” the trumpet
sounded again.
“I acknowledge
I have been too hasty,” said Manfred. “Father, do you go to the wicket,
and demand who is at the gate.”
“Do you
grant me the life of Theodore?” replied the Friar.
“I do,”
said Manfred; “but inquire who is without!”
Jerome,
falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears, that spoke the
fulness of his soul.
“You
promised to go to the gate,” said Manfred.
“I
thought,” replied the Friar, “your Highness would excuse my thanking you first
in this tribute of my heart.”
“Go,
dearest Sir,” said Theodore; “obey the Prince. I do not deserve that you
should delay his satisfaction for me.”
Jerome,
inquiring who was without, was answered, “A Herald.”
“From
whom?” said he.
“From the
Knight of the Gigantic Sabre,” said the Herald; “and I must speak with the
usurper of Otranto.”
Jerome
returned to the Prince, and did not fail to repeat the message in the very
words it had been uttered. The first sounds struck Manfred with terror;
but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and all his
courage revived.
“Usurper!—insolent
villain!” cried he; “who dares to question my title? Retire, Father; this
is no business for Monks: I will meet this presumptuous man myself. Go to
your convent and prepare the Princess’s return. Your son shall be a
hostage for your fidelity: his life depends on your obedience.”
“Good
heaven! my Lord,” cried Jerome, “your Highness did but this instant freely
pardon my child—have you so soon forgot the interposition of heaven?”
“Heaven,”
replied Manfred, “does not send Heralds to question the title of a lawful
Prince. I doubt whether it even notifies its will through Friars—but that
is your affair, not mine. At present you know my pleasure; and it is not
a saucy Herald that shall save your son, if you do not return with the
Princess.”
It was in
vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be conducted to
the postern-gate, and shut out from the castle. And he ordered some of
his attendants to carry Theodore to the top of the black tower, and guard him
strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to exchange a hasty embrace at
parting. He then withdrew to the hall, and seating himself in princely
state, ordered the Herald to be admitted to his presence.
“Well!
thou insolent!” said the Prince, “what wouldst thou with me?”
“I come,”
replied he, “to thee, Manfred, usurper of the principality of Otranto, from the
renowned and invincible Knight, the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre: in the name
of his Lord, Frederic, Marquis of Vicenza, he demands the Lady Isabella,
daughter of that Prince, whom thou hast basely and traitorously got into thy
power, by bribing her false guardians during his absence; and he requires thee
to resign the principality of Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord
Frederic, the nearest of blood to the last rightful Lord, Alfonso the
Good. If thou dost not instantly comply with these just demands, he
defies thee to single combat to the last extremity.” And so saying the
Herald cast down his warder.
“And where
is this braggart who sends thee?” said Manfred.
“At the
distance of a league,” said the Herald: “he comes to make good his Lord’s claim
against thee, as he is a true knight, and thou an usurper and ravisher.”
Injurious
as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his interest to
provoke the Marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of Frederic was;
nor was this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic’s ancestors had
assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of Alfonso the Good
without issue; but Manfred, his father, and grandfather, had been too powerful
for the house of Vicenza to dispossess them. Frederic, a martial and
amorous young Prince, had married a beautiful young lady, of whom he was
enamoured, and who had died in childbed of Isabella. Her death affected
him so much that he had taken the cross and gone to the Holy Land, where he was
wounded in an engagement against the infidels, made prisoner, and reported to
be dead. When the news reached Manfred’s ears, he bribed the guardians of
the Lady Isabella to deliver her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by
which alliance he had proposed to unite the claims of the two houses.
This motive, on Conrad’s death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve
on espousing her himself; and the same reflection determined him now to
endeavour at obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage. A like
policy inspired him with the thought of inviting Frederic’s champion into the
castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella’s flight, which he strictly
enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight’s retinue.
“Herald,”
said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these reflections, “return to thy
master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by the sword, Manfred
would hold some converse with him. Bid him welcome to my castle, where by
my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have courteous reception, and full
security for himself and followers. If we cannot adjust our quarrel by
amicable means, I swear he shall depart in safety, and shall have full
satisfaction according to the laws of arms: So help me God and His holy
Trinity!”
The Herald
made three obeisances and retired.
During
this interview Jerome’s mind was agitated by a thousand contrary passions.
He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was to persuade
Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less alarmed at the
thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita’s unbounded
submission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt but he could
alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get access to her; yet
should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from him, it might be equally
fatal to Theodore. He was impatient to know whence came the Herald, who
with so little management had questioned the title of Manfred: yet he did not
dare absent himself from the convent, lest Isabella should leave it, and her
flight be imputed to him. He returned disconsolately to the monastery,
uncertain on what conduct to resolve. A Monk, who met him in the porch
and observed his melancholy air, said—
“Alas!
brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent Princess Hippolita?”
The holy
man started, and cried, “What meanest thou, brother? I come this instant
from the castle, and left her in perfect health.”
“Martelli,”
replied the other Friar, “passed by the convent but a quarter of an hour ago on
his way from the castle, and reported that her Highness was dead. All our
brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for her happy transit to a better life,
and willed me to wait thy arrival. They know thy holy attachment to that
good Lady, and are anxious for the affliction it will cause in thee—indeed we
have all reason to weep; she was a mother to our house. But this life is
but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur—we shall all follow her! May our end
be like hers!”
“Good
brother, thou dreamest,” said Jerome. “I tell thee I come from the
castle, and left the Princess well. Where is the Lady Isabella?”
“Poor
Gentlewoman!” replied the Friar; “I told her the sad news, and offered her
spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the transitory condition of
mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the example of the holy
Princess Sanchia of Arragon.”
“Thy zeal
was laudable,” said Jerome, impatiently; “but at present it was unnecessary:
Hippolita is well—at least I trust in the Lord she is; I heard nothing to the
contrary—yet, methinks, the Prince’s earnestness—Well, brother, but where is
the Lady Isabella?”
“I know
not,” said the Friar; “she wept much, and said she would retire to her
chamber.”
Jerome
left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she was not in her
chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but could learn no
news of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery and the church,
and despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get intelligence if she
had been seen; but to no purpose. Nothing could equal the good man’s
perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having
precipitated his wife’s death, had taken the alarm, and withdrawn herself to
some more secret place of concealment. This new flight would probably
carry the Prince’s fury to the height. The report of Hippolita’s death,
though it seemed almost incredible, increased his consternation; and though
Isabella’s escape bespoke her aversion of Manfred for a husband, Jerome could
feel no comfort from it, while it endangered the life of his son. He
determined to return to the castle, and made several of his brethren accompany
him to attest his innocence to Manfred, and, if necessary, join their
intercession with his for Theodore.
The
Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the gates of
the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger Knight and his
train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First came two
harbingers with wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and two
trumpets. Then a hundred foot-guards. These were attended by as
many horse. After them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the
colours of the Knight. Then a led horse. Two heralds on each side
of a gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the arms of Vicenza and
Otranto quarterly—a circumstance that much offended Manfred—but he stifled his
resentment. Two more pages. The Knight’s confessor telling his
beads. Fifty more footmen clad as before. Two Knights habited in
complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal Knight.
The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. The
Knight’s own squire. A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of it. The Knight himself on a chestnut
steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face entirely concealed
by his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of scarlet and black
feathers. Fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets closed the
procession, which wheeled off to the right and left to make room for the principal
Knight.
As soon as
he approached the gate he stopped; and the herald advancing, read again the
words of the challenge. Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the gigantic sword,
and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his attention was soon
diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned and beheld
the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the same extraordinary manner as
before. It required intrepidity like Manfred’s not to sink under a
concurrence of circumstances that seemed to announce his fate. Yet
scorning in the presence of strangers to betray the courage he had always
manifested, he said boldly—
“Sir
Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal
mould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight, thou
wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be these omens from
heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of his cause and to the aid
of St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his house. Alight, Sir Knight, and
repose thyself. To-morrow thou shalt have a fair field, and heaven
befriend the juster side!”
The Knight
made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to the great hall of
the castle. As they traversed the court, the Knight stopped to gaze on
the miraculous casque; and kneeling down, seemed to pray inwardly for some
minutes. Rising, he made a sign to the Prince to lead on. As soon
as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the stranger to disarm, but the
Knight shook his head in token of refusal.
“Sir
Knight,” said Manfred, “this is not courteous, but by my good faith I will not
cross thee, nor shalt thou have cause to complain of the Prince of
Otranto. No treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is intended on
thine; here take my gage” (giving him his ring): “your friends and you shall
enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here until refreshments are
brought. I will but give orders for the accommodation of your train, and
return to you.” The three Knights bowed as accepting his courtesy.
Manfred directed the stranger’s retinue to be conducted to an adjacent
hospital, founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception of
pilgrims. As they made the circuit of the court to return towards the
gate, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters, and falling to the ground
opposite to the helmet, remained immovable. Manfred, almost hardened to
preternatural appearances, surmounted the shock of this new prodigy; and
returning to the hall, where by this time the feast was ready, he invited his
silent guests to take their places. Manfred, however ill his heart was at
ease, endeavoured to inspire the company with mirth. He put several
questions to them, but was answered only by signs. They raised their
vizors but sufficiently to feed themselves, and that sparingly.
“Sirs”
said the Prince, “ye are the first guests I ever treated within these walls who
scorned to hold any intercourse with me: nor has it oft been customary, I ween,
for princes to hazard their state and dignity against strangers and mutes.
You say you come in the name of Frederic of Vicenza; I have ever heard that he
was a gallant and courteous Knight; nor would he, I am bold to say, think it
beneath him to mix in social converse with a Prince that is his equal, and not
unknown by deeds in arms. Still ye are silent—well! be it as it may—by
the laws of hospitality and chivalry ye are masters under this roof: ye shall
do your pleasure. But come, give me a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse
to pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses.”
The
principal Knight sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the board.
“Sir
Knight,” said Manfred, “what I said was but in sport. I shall constrain
you in nothing: use your good liking. Since mirth is not your mood, let
us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better. Let us withdraw,
and hear if what I have to unfold may be better relished than the vain efforts
I have made for your pastime.”
Manfred
then conducting the three Knights into an inner chamber, shut the door, and
inviting them to be seated, began thus, addressing himself to the chief
personage:—
“You come,
Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of Vicenza, to
re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been contracted in the face
of Holy Church to my son, by the consent of her legal guardians; and to require
me to resign my dominions to your Lord, who gives himself for the nearest of
blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul God rest! I shall speak to the latter
article of your demands first. You must know, your Lord knows, that I
enjoy the principality of Otranto from my father, Don Manuel, as he received it
from his father, Don Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless
in the Holy Land, bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in
consideration of his faithful services.” The stranger shook his head.
“Sir
Knight,” said Manfred, warmly, “Ricardo was a valiant and upright man; he was a
pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the adjoining church and two
convents. He was peculiarly patronised by St. Nicholas—my grandfather was
incapable—I say, Sir, Don Ricardo was incapable—excuse me, your interruption
has disordered me. I venerate the memory of my grandfather. Well,
Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by his good sword and by the favour of
St. Nicholas—so did my father; and so, Sirs, will I, come what come will.
But Frederic, your Lord, is nearest in blood. I have consented to put my
title to the issue of the sword. Does that imply a vicious title? I
might have asked, where is Frederic your Lord? Report speaks him dead in
captivity. You say, your actions say, he lives—I question it not—I might,
Sirs, I might—but I do not. Other Princes would bid Frederic take his
inheritance by force, if he can: they would not stake their dignity on a single
combat: they would not submit it to the decision of unknown mutes!—pardon me,
gentlemen, I am too warm: but suppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are
stout Knights, would it not move your choler to have your own and the honour of
your ancestors called in question?”
“But to
the point. Ye require me to deliver up the Lady Isabella. Sirs, I
must ask if ye are authorised to receive her?”
The Knight
nodded.
“Receive
her,” continued Manfred; “well, you are authorised to receive her, but, gentle
Knight, may I ask if you have full powers?”
The Knight
nodded.
“’Tis
well,” said Manfred; “then hear what I have to offer. Ye see, gentlemen,
before you, the most unhappy of men!” (he began to weep); “afford me your
compassion; I am entitled to it, indeed I am. Know, I have lost my only
hope, my joy, the support of my house—Conrad died yester morning.”
The
Knights discovered signs of surprise.
“Yes,
Sirs, fate has disposed of my son. Isabella is at liberty.”
“Do you
then restore her?” cried the chief Knight, breaking silence.
“Afford me
your patience,” said Manfred. “I rejoice to find, by this testimony of
your goodwill, that this matter may be adjusted without blood. It is no
interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to say. Ye behold in
me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of my son has weaned me from
earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer any charms in my
eyes. I wished to transmit the sceptre I had received from my ancestors
with honour to my son—but that is over! Life itself is so indifferent to
me, that I accepted your defiance with joy. A good Knight cannot go to
the grave with more satisfaction than when falling in his vocation: whatever is
the will of heaven, I submit; for alas! Sirs, I am a man of many sorrows.
Manfred is no object of envy, but no doubt you are acquainted with my story.”
The Knight
made signs of ignorance, and seemed curious to have Manfred proceed.
“Is it
possible, Sirs,” continued the Prince, “that my story should be a secret to
you? Have you heard nothing relating to me and the Princess Hippolita?”
They shook
their heads.
“No!
Thus, then, Sirs, it is. You think me ambitious: ambition, alas! is
composed of more rugged materials. If I were ambitious, I should not for
so many years have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious scruples.
But I weary your patience: I will be brief. Know, then, that I have long
been troubled in mind on my union with the Princess Hippolita. Oh! Sirs,
if ye were acquainted with that excellent woman! if ye knew that I adore her
like a mistress, and cherish her as a friend—but man was not born for perfect
happiness! She shares my scruples, and with her consent I have brought
this matter before the church, for we are related within the forbidden
degrees. I expect every hour the definitive sentence that must separate
us for ever—I am sure you feel for me—I see you do—pardon these tears!”
The
Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end.
Manfred
continued—
“The death
of my son betiding while my soul was under this anxiety, I thought of nothing
but resigning my dominions, and retiring for ever from the sight of
mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who would be
tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who is dear to me as
my own blood. I was willing to restore the line of Alfonso, even in his
most distant kindred. And though, pardon me, I am satisfied it was his will
that Ricardo’s lineage should take place of his own relations; yet where was I
to search for those relations? I knew of none but Frederic, your Lord; he
was a captive to the infidels, or dead; and were he living, and at home, would
he quit the flourishing State of Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality of
Otranto? If he would not, could I bear the thought of seeing a hard,
unfeeling, Viceroy set over my poor faithful people? for, Sirs, I love my
people, and thank heaven am beloved by them. But ye will ask whither
tends this long discourse? Briefly, then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in
your arrival seems to point out a remedy for these difficulties and my
misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is at liberty; I shall soon be so. I
would submit to anything for the good of my people. Were it not the best,
the only way to extinguish the feuds between our families, if I was to take the
Lady Isabella to wife? You start. But though Hippolita’s virtues
will ever be dear to me, a Prince must not consider himself; he is born for his
people.” A servant at that instant entering the chamber apprised Manfred
that Jerome and several of his brethren demanded immediate access to him.
The
Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar would
discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was going to
forbid Jerome’s entrance. But recollecting that he was certainly arrived
to notify the Princess’s return, Manfred began to excuse himself to the Knights
for leaving them for a few moments, but was prevented by the arrival of the
Friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded them for their intrusion, and would
have forced them back from the chamber; but Jerome was too much agitated to be
repulsed. He declared aloud the flight of Isabella, with protestations of
his own innocence.
Manfred,
distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the knowledge of the
strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences, now upbraiding the Friar,
now apologising to the Knights, earnest to know what was become of Isabella,
yet equally afraid of their knowing; impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to
have them join in the pursuit. He offered to despatch messengers in quest
of her, but the chief Knight, no longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in
bitter terms for his dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of
Isabella’s first absence from the castle. Manfred, casting a stern look
at Jerome, implying a command of silence, pretended that on Conrad’s death he
had placed her in sanctuary until he could determine how to dispose of
her. Jerome, who trembled for his son’s life, did not dare contradict
this falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared
frankly that she had fled to their church in the preceding night. The Prince
in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed him with shame
and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at the contradictions he
heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had secreted the Princess,
notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her flight, rushing to the door,
said—
“Thou
traitor Prince! Isabella shall be found.”
Manfred
endeavoured to hold him, but the other Knights assisting their comrade, he
broke from the Prince, and hastened into the court, demanding his attendants.
Manfred, finding it vain to divert him from the pursuit, offered to accompany
him and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome and some of the Friars to
guide them, they issued from the castle; Manfred privately giving orders to
have the Knight’s company secured, while to the knight he affected to despatch
a messenger to require their assistance.
The
company had no sooner quitted the castle than Matilda, who felt herself deeply
interested for the young peasant, since she had seen him condemned to death in
the hall, and whose thoughts had been taken up with concerting measures to save
him, was informed by some of the female attendants that Manfred had despatched
all his men various ways in pursuit of Isabella. He had in his hurry
given this order in general terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had
set upon Theodore, but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to obey so
peremptory a Prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty to
join in any precipitate chase, had to a man left the castle. Matilda
disengaged herself from her women, stole up to the black tower, and unbolting
the door, presented herself to the astonished Theodore.
“Young
man,” said she, “though filial duty and womanly modesty condemn the step I am
taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all other ties, justifies this act.
Fly; the doors of thy prison are open: my father and his domestics are absent;
but they may soon return. Be gone in safety; and may the angels of heaven
direct thy course!”
“Thou art
surely one of those angels!” said the enraptured Theodore: “none but a blessed
saint could speak, could act—could look—like thee. May I not know the
name of my divine protectress? Methought thou namedst thy father.
Is it possible? Can Manfred’s blood feel holy pity! Lovely Lady,
thou answerest not. But how art thou here thyself? Why dost thou
neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch like Theodore?
Let us fly together: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to thy defence.”
“Alas!
thou mistakest,” said Matilda, signing: “I am Manfred’s daughter, but no
dangers await me.”
“Amazement!”
said Theodore; “but last night I blessed myself for yielding thee the service
thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me now.”
“Still
thou art in an error,” said the Princess; “but this is no time for
explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee:
should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to tremble.”
“How!”
said Theodore; “thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept of life at the
hazard of aught calamitous to thee? Better I endured a thousand deaths.”
“I run no
risk,” said Matilda, “but by thy delay. Depart; it cannot be known that I
have assisted thy flight.”
“Swear by
the saints above,” said Theodore, “that thou canst not be suspected; else here
I vow to await whatever can befall me.”
“Oh! thou
art too generous,” said Matilda; “but rest assured that no suspicion can alight
on me.”
“Give me
thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,” said Theodore; “and
let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude.”
“Forbear!”
said the Princess; “this must not be.”
“Alas!”
said Theodore, “I have never known but calamity until this hour—perhaps shall
never know other fortune again: suffer the chaste raptures of holy gratitude:
’tis my soul would print its effusions on thy hand.”
“Forbear,
and be gone,” said Matilda. “How would Isabella approve of seeing thee at
my feet?”
“Who is
Isabella?” said the young man with surprise.
“Ah,
me! I fear,” said the Princess, “I am serving a deceitful one. Hast
thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?”
“Thy
looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation of divinity,” said
Theodore; “but thy words are dark and mysterious. Speak, Lady; speak to
thy servant’s comprehension.”
“Thou
understandest but too well!” said Matilda; “but once more I command thee to be
gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my head, if I waste the time
in vain discourse.”
“I go,
Lady,” said Theodore, “because it is thy will, and because I would not bring
the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave. Say but, adored
Lady, that I have thy gentle pity.”
“Stay,”
said Matilda; “I will conduct thee to the subterraneous vault by which Isabella
escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas, where thou mayst take
sanctuary.”
“What!”
said Theodore, “was it another, and not thy lovely self that I assisted to find
the subterraneous passage?”
“It was,”
said Matilda; “but ask no more; I tremble to see thee still abide here; fly to
the sanctuary.”
“To
sanctuary,” said Theodore; “no, Princess; sanctuaries are for helpless damsels,
or for criminals. Theodore’s soul is free from guilt, nor will wear the
appearance of it. Give me a sword, Lady, and thy father shall learn that
Theodore scorns an ignominious flight.”
“Rash
youth!” said Matilda; “thou wouldst not dare to lift thy presumptuous arm
against the Prince of Otranto?”
“Not
against thy father; indeed, I dare not,” said Theodore. “Excuse me, Lady;
I had forgotten. But could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art sprung
from the tyrant Manfred! But he is thy father, and from this moment my
injuries are buried in oblivion.”
A deep and
hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the Princess and
Theodore.
“Good
heaven! we are overheard!” said the Princess. They listened; but
perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up
vapours. And the Princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her
father’s armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was conducted
by Matilda to the postern-gate.
“Avoid the
town,” said the Princess, “and all the western side of the castle. ’Tis
there the search must be making by Manfred and the strangers; but hie thee to
the opposite quarter. Yonder behind that forest to the east is a chain of
rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns that reach to the sea coast.
There thou mayst lie concealed, till thou canst make signs to some vessel to
put on shore, and take thee off. Go! heaven be thy guide!—and sometimes
in thy prayers remember—Matilda!”
Theodore
flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with struggles she
suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to get himself
knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear himself eternally her
knight. Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly
heard that shook the battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest,
would have urged his suit: but the Princess, dismayed, retreated hastily into
the castle, and commanded the youth to be gone with an air that would not be
disobeyed. He sighed, and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate, until
Matilda, closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of both
had drunk so deeply of a passion, which both now tasted for the first time.
Theodore
went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with his
deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit that
was making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose story he now
first became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his nature prompted
him to wish to assist her; but the Monks could lend him no lights to guess at
the route she had taken. He was not tempted to wander far in search of
her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted itself so strongly on his heart,
that he could not bear to absent himself at much distance from her abode.
The tenderness Jerome had expressed for him concurred to confirm this reluctance;
and he even persuaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause of his
hovering between the castle and monastery.
Until
Jerome should return at night, Theodore at length determined to repair to the
forest that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving there, he sought the
gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing melancholy that reigned in his
mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to the caves which had formerly
served as a retreat to hermits, and were now reported round the country to be haunted
by evil spirits. He recollected to have heard this tradition; and being
of a brave and adventurous disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity in
exploring the secret recesses of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated
far before he thought he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreat
before him.
Theodore,
though firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be believed, had no
apprehension that good men were abandoned without cause to the malice of the
powers of darkness. He thought the place more likely to be infested by
robbers than by those infernal agents who are reported to molest and bewilder
travellers. He had long burned with impatience to approve his
valour. Drawing his sabre, he marched sedately onwards, still directing
his steps as the imperfect rustling sound before him led the way. The
armour he wore was a like indication to the person who avoided him.
Theodore, now convinced that he was not mistaken, redoubled his pace, and
evidently gained on the person that fled, whose haste increasing, Theodore came
up just as a woman fell breathless before him. He hasted to raise her,
but her terror was so great that he apprehended she would faint in his
arms. He used every gentle word to dispel her alarms, and assured her
that far from injuring, he would defend her at the peril of his life. The
Lady recovering her spirits from his courteous demeanour, and gazing on her
protector, said—
“Sure, I
have heard that voice before!”
“Not to my
knowledge,” replied Theodore; “unless, as I conjecture, thou art the Lady
Isabella.”
“Merciful
heaven!” cried she. “Thou art not sent in quest of me, art thou?”
And saying those words, she threw herself at his feet, and besought him not to
deliver her up to Manfred.
“To
Manfred!” cried Theodore—“no, Lady; I have once already delivered thee from his
tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now, but I will place thee out of the
reach of his daring.”
“Is it
possible,” said she, “that thou shouldst be the generous unknown whom I met
last night in the vault of the castle? Sure thou art not a mortal, but my
guardian angel. On my knees, let me thank—”
“Hold!
gentle Princess,” said Theodore, “nor demean thyself before a poor and
friendless young man. If heaven has selected me for thy deliverer, it
will accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy cause. But come,
Lady, we are too near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its inmost
recesses. I can have no tranquillity till I have placed thee beyond the
reach of danger.”
“Alas!
what mean you, sir?” said she. “Though all your actions are noble, though
your sentiments speak the purity of your soul, is it fitting that I should
accompany you alone into these perplexed retreats? Should we be found
together, what would a censorious world think of my conduct?”
“I respect
your virtuous delicacy,” said Theodore; “nor do you harbour a suspicion that
wounds my honour. I meant to conduct you into the most private cavity of
these rocks, and then at the hazard of my life to guard their entrance against
every living thing. Besides, Lady,” continued he, drawing a deep sigh,
“beauteous and all perfect as your form is, and though my wishes are not
guiltless of aspiring, know, my soul is dedicated to another; and
although—” A sudden noise prevented Theodore from proceeding. They
soon distinguished these sounds—
“Isabella!
what, ho! Isabella!” The trembling Princess relapsed into her former
agony of fear. Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in vain.
He assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return under Manfred’s
power; and begging her to remain concealed, he went forth to prevent the person
in search of her from approaching.
At the
mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with a peasant, who
assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock. The Knight
was preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in his way, with his
sword drawn, sternly forbad him at his peril to advance.
“And who
art thou, who darest to cross my way?” said the Knight, haughtily.
“One who
does not dare more than he will perform,” said Theodore.
“I seek
the Lady Isabella,” said the Knight, “and understand she has taken refuge among
these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent having provoked my
resentment.”
“Thy
purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible,” said Theodore.
“Return whence thou camest, or we shall soon know whose resentment is most
terrible.”
The
stranger, who was the principal Knight that had arrived from the Marquis of
Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting information of
the Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her falling into the power
of the three Knights. Their chief had suspected Manfred of being privy to
the Princess’s absconding, and this insult from a man, who he concluded was
stationed by that Prince to secrete her, confirming his suspicions, he made no
reply, but discharging a blow with his sabre at Theodore, would soon have
removed all obstruction, if Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred’s
captains, and who had no sooner given the provocation than prepared to support
it, had not received the stroke on his shield. The valour that had so
long been smothered in his breast broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on
the Knight, whose pride and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy
deeds. The combat was furious, but not long. Theodore wounded the
Knight in three several places, and at last disarmed him as he fainted by the
loss of blood.
The
peasant, who had fled on the first onset, had given the alarm to some of
Manfred’s domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through the forest in
pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the Knight fell, whom they soon
discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding his hatred
to Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without emotions of pity
and generosity. But he was more touched when he learned the quality of
his adversary, and was informed that he was no retainer, but an enemy, of
Manfred. He assisted the servants of the latter in disarming the Knight,
and in endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed from his wounds. The
Knight recovering his speech, said, in a faint and faltering voice—
“Generous
foe, we have both been in an error. I took thee for an instrument of the
tyrant; I perceive thou hast made the like mistake. It is too late for
excuses. I faint. If Isabella is at hand—call her—I have important
secrets to—”
“He is
dying!” said one of the attendants; “has nobody a crucifix about them?
Andrea, do thou pray over him.”
“Fetch
some water,” said Theodore, “and pour it down his throat, while I hasten to the
Princess.”
Saying
this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her modestly that he had been
so unfortunate by mistake as to wound a gentleman from her father’s court, who
wished, ere he died, to impart something of consequence to her.
The
Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore, as he
called to her to come forth, was astonished at what she heard. Suffering
herself to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose valour recalled her
dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding Knight lay speechless on the
ground. But her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of
Manfred. She would again have fled if Theodore had not made her observe
that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with instant death if they
should dare to seize the Princess.
The
stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, “Art thou—pray tell me
truly—art thou Isabella of Vicenza?”
“I am,”
said she: “good heaven restore thee!”
“Then
thou—then thou”—said the Knight, struggling for utterance—“seest—thy
father. Give me one—”
“Oh!
amazement! horror! what do I hear! what do I see!” cried Isabella. “My
father! You my father! How came you here, Sir? For heaven’s
sake, speak! Oh! run for help, or he will expire!”
“’Tis most
true,” said the wounded Knight, exerting all his force; “I am Frederic thy
father. Yes, I came to deliver thee. It will not be. Give me
a parting kiss, and take—”
“Sir,”
said Theodore, “do not exhaust yourself; suffer us to convey you to the
castle.”
“To the
castle!” said Isabella. “Is there no help nearer than the castle?
Would you expose my father to the tyrant? If he goes thither, I dare not
accompany him; and yet, can I leave him!”
“My
child,” said Frederic, “it matters not for me whither I am carried. A few
minutes will place me beyond danger; but while I have eyes to dote on thee,
forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave Knight—I know not who he
is—will protect thy innocence. Sir, you will not abandon my child, will
you?”
Theodore,
shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the Princess at the expense
of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be conducted to the
castle. They placed him on a horse belonging to one of the domestics,
after binding up his wounds as well as they were able. Theodore marched
by his side; and the afflicted Isabella, who could not bear to quit him,
followed mournfully behind.
To be continued.
