 Preface of the Castle of Autrinto. The following work was found in the library of an ancient Catholic family in the north of England. It was printed at Naples in the black letter in the year 1529. How much sooner it was written does not appear. The principal incidents are such as were believed in the darkest ages of Christianity, but the language and conduct have nothing that savors of barbarism. The style is the purest Italian. If the story was written near the time when it is supposed to have happened, it must have been between 1095, the era of the First Crusade, and 1243, the date of the last, or not long afterwards. There is no other circumstance in the work that can lead us to guess at the period in which the scene is laid. The names of the actors are evidently fictitious, and probably disguised on purpose. Yet the Spanish names of the domestics seem to indicate that this work was not composed until the establishment of the Aragonian kings in Naples had made the Spanish appellations familiar in that country. The beauty of the dictation and the zeal of the author, moderated, however, by singular judgment, concurred to make me think that the date of the composition was little antecedent to that of the impression. Letters were then in their most flourishing state in Italy, and contributed to dispel the empire of superstition, at that time so forcibly attacked by the reformers. It is not unlikely that an artful priest might endeavor to turn their own arms on the innovators, and might avail himself of his abilities as an author to confirm the populace in their ancient errors and superstitions. If this was his view, he has certainly acted with signal address. Such a work as the following would enslave a hundred vulgar minds beyond half the books of controversy that have been written from the days of Luther to the present hour. This solution of the author's motives is, however, offered as a mere conjecture. Whatever his views were or whatever effects the execution of them might have, his work can only be laid before the public at present as a matter of entertainment. And as such, some apology for it is necessary. Miracles, visions, necromancy, dreams, and other preternatural events are exploded now even from romances. That was not the case when our author wrote, much less when the story itself is supposed to have happened. Belief in every kind of prodigy was so established in those dark ages that an author would not be faithful to the manners of the times who should omit all mention of them. He is not bound to believe them himself, but he must represent his actors as believing them. If this error of the miraculous is excused, the reader will find nothing else unworthy of his perusal. Allow the possibility of the facts and all the actors comport themselves as persons would do in their situation. There is no bombast, no similes, flowers, digressions, or unnecessary descriptions. Everything tends directly to the catastrophe. Never is the reader's attention relaxed. The rules of the drama are almost observed throughout the conduct of the piece. The characters are well drawn and still better maintained. Terror, the author's principal engine, prevents the story from ever languishing, and it is so often contrasted by pity that the mind is kept up in a constant vicissitude of interesting passions. Some persons may perhaps think the characters of the domestics too little serious for the general cast of the story. But besides their opposition to the principal personages, the art of the author is very observable in his conduct of the subalterns. They discover many passages essential to the story, which could not be well brought to light, but by their naivete and simplicity. In particular, the womanish terror and foibles of Bianca in the last chapter conduce essentially towards advancing the catastrophe. It is natural for a translator to be prejudiced in favor of his adopted work. Our impartial readers may not be so much struck with the beauties of the piece as I was, yet I am not blind to my author's defects. I could wish he had grounded his plan on a more useful moral than this, that the sins of the father are visited on their children to the third and fourth generation. I doubt whether in his time any more than at present ambition curbed its appetite of dominion from the dread of so remote a punishment, and yet this moral is weakened by that less direct insinuation, that even such anathema may be diverted by devotion to St. Nicholas. Here the interest of the monk plainly gets the better of the judgment of the author. However, with all its faults, I have no doubt but the English reader will be pleased with the sight of this performance. The piety that ranged throughout, the lessons of virtue that are inculcated, and the rigid purity of the sentiments, exempt this work from the censure to which romances are but too liable. Should it meet with the success I hoped for, I may be encouraged to reprint the original Italian, though it will tend to depreciate my own labor. Our language falls far short of the charms of the Italian, both for variety and harmony. The latter is particularly excellent for simple narrative. It is difficult in English to relate without falling too low or rising too high, a fault obviously occasioned by the little care taken to speak pure language in common conversation. Every Italian or Frenchman of any rank peaks himself on speaking his own tongue correctly and with choice. I cannot flatter myself with having done justice to my author in this respect. His style is as elegant as his conduct of the passions is masterly. It is a pity that he did not apply his talents to what they were evidently proper for, the theatre. I will detain the reader no longer, but to make one short remark. Though the machinery is invention and the names of the actor's imaginary, I cannot but believe that the groundwork of this story is founded on truth. The scene is undoubtedly laid in some real castle. The author seems frequently without design to describe particular parts. The chamber he says on the right hand, the door on the left hand, the distance from the chapel to Conrad's apartment. These and other passages are strong presumptions that the author had some certain building in his eye. Curious persons who have leisure to employ in such researches may possibly discover in the Italian writers the foundations on which our author has built. If a catastrophe, at all resembling that which he describes, is believed to have given rise to this work, it will contribute to the interest of the reader and will make the Castle of Autronto a still more moving story. Sonnet, to the right honourable Lady Mary Cook. The gentle maid whose hapless tale these melancholy pages speak. Say gracious lady, shall she fail to draw the tear a down thy cheek? No, never was thy pitying breast insensible to human woes. Tender, though firm, it melts distressed. For weakness it never knows. O, guard the marvels I relate of fell ambition scourged by fate, from reason's peevish blame. Blessed with thy smile, my dauntless sail, I dare expand to Fante's Gale, for sure thy smiles are fain. H.W. Son and One Daughter. The latter, a most beautiful virgin, aged eighteen, was called Matilda. Conrad, the son, was three years younger, a homely youth, sickly and of no promising disposition, yet he was the darling of his father, who never showed any symptoms of affection to Matilda. Manfred had contracted a marriage for his son with the Marquia Vicenza's daughter Isabella, and she had already been delivered by her guardians into the hands of Manfred, that he might celebrate the wedding as soon as Conrad's infirm state of health would permit. Manfred's impatience for the ceremonial was remarked by his family and neighbors. The former, indeed, apprehending the severity of their prince's disposition, did not dare to utter their surmises on this precipitation. Hippolita, his wife and amiable lady, did sometimes venture to represent the danger of marrying their only son so early, considering his great youth and greater infirmities, but she never received any other answer than reflections on her own sterility, who had given him but one heir. His tenets and subjects were less cautious in their discourses. They attributed this hasty wedding to the prince's dread of seeing accomplished an ancient prophecy, which was said to have pronounced that the castle and lordship of Autrinto should pass from the present family whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it. It was difficult to make any sense of this prophecy, and still less easy to conceive what it had to do with the marriage in question. Yet these mysteries or contradictions did not make the populous adhere the less to their opinion. Young Conrad's birthday was fixed for his espousals. The company was assembled in the chapel of the castle, and everything ready for beginning a divine office, when Conrad himself was missing. Manfred, impatient of the least delay, and who had not observed his son retire, dispatched one of his attendants to summon the young prince. The servant, who had not stayed long enough to have crossed the court to Conrad's apartment, came running back breathless in a frantic manner, his eyes staring and foaming at the mouth. He said nothing but pointed to the court. The company were struck with terror and amazement. Princess Hippolita, without knowing what was the matter, but anxious for her son, swooned away. Manfred, less apprehensive than enraged at the procrastination of the nuptials, and at the folly of his domestic, asked imperiously what was the matter. The fellow made no answer, but continued pointing towards the courtyard, and at last, after repeated questions put to him, cried out, The helmet! The helmet! In the meantime, some of the company had run into the court, from whence was heard a confused noise of shrieks, horror, and surprise. Manfred, who began to be alarmed at not seeing his son, went himself to get information of what occasioned this strange confusion. Matilda remained endeavouring to assist her mother, and Isabella stayed for the same purpose, and to avoid showing any impatience for the bridegroom. For whom, in truth, she had a conceived little affection. The first thing that struck Manfred's eyes was a group of his servants, endeavouring to raise something that appeared to him a mountain of sable-plumes. He gazed without believing his sight. What are ye doing? cried Manfred wrathfully. Where is my son? A volley of voices replied, Oh, my lord! the prince! the prince! the helmet! the helmet! with these lamentable sounds, and dreading he knew not what. He advanced hastily. But what a sight for a father's eyes he beheld his child dashed two pieces, almost buried under an enormous helmet a hundred times more larger than any cask ever made for a human being, and shaded with a proportional quantity of black feathers. The horror of the spectacle, the ignorance of all around how this misfortune had happened, and above all the tremendous phenomenon before him, took away the prince's speech. Yet his silence lasted longer than even grief could occasion. He fixed his eyes on what he wished in vain to believe a vision, and seemed less attentive to his loss than buried in meditation on the stupendous object that had occasioned it. He touched, he examined the fatal cask, nor could even the bleeding mangled remains of the young prince divert the eyes of Manfred from the portent before him. All who had known his partial fondness for young Conrad were as much surprised at their prince's insensibility, as thunder struck themselves at the miracle of the helmet. They conveyed the disfigured corpse into the hall, without receiving the least direction from Manfred, as little was he attentive to the ladies who remained in the chapel. On the contrary, without mentioning the unhappy princesses, his wife and daughter, the first sounds that dropped from Manfred's lips were, take care of the lady Isabella. The domestics, without observing the singularity of this direction, were guided by their affection to their mistress, to consider it as peculiarly addressed to her situation and flew to her assistance. They conveyed her to her chamber more dead than alive and indifferent to all the strange circumstances she heard, except the death of her son. Matilda, who doted on her mother, smothered her own grief and amazement, and thought of nothing but assisting and comforting her afflicted parent. Isabella, who had been treated by Hippolita like a daughter and who returned that tenderness with equal duty and affection, was scarcely assiduous about the princess. At the same time, endeavouring to partake and lessen the weight of sorrow which she saw Matilda strove to suppress, for whom she had conceived the warmest sympathies of friendship, yet her own situation could not help finding its place in her thoughts. She felt no concern for the death of young Conrad except commiseration, and she was not sorry to be delivered from a marriage which had promised her little felicity, either from her destined bridegroom, or from the severe temper of Manfred, who, though he had distinguished her by great indulgence, had imprinted her mind with terror, from his causeless rigor to such amiable princesses as Hippolita and Matilda. While the ladies were conveying the wretched mother to her bed, Manfred remained in the court, gazing on the ominous cask, and regardless of the crowd which the strangeness of the event had now assembled around him. The few words he articulated tended solely to inquiries whether any man knew from whence it could have come. Nobody could give him the least information. However, as it seemed to be the sole object of his curiosity, it soon became so to the rest of the spectators, whose conjectures were as absurd and improbable as the catastrophe itself was unprecedented. In the midst of their senseless guesses, a young peasant, whom rumor had drawn thither from a neighbouring village, observed that the miraculous helmet was exactly like that on the figure in black marble of Alfonso the Good, one of their former princes in the church of St. Nicholas. Villain, what sayest thou? cried Manfred, starting from his trance in a tempest of rage and seizing the young man by the collar. How darest thou utter such treason? Thy life shall pay for it! The spectators, who as little comprehended the cause of the prince's fury as all the rest they had seen, were at a loss to unravel this new circumstance. The young peasant himself was still more astonished, not conceiving how he had offended the prince, yet recollecting himself with a mixture of grace and humility, he disengaged himself from Manfred's and then with an obeisance which discovered more jealousy of innocence than dismay, he asked with respect of what he was guilty. Manfred, more enraged at the vigor however decently exerted, with which the young man had shaken off his hold, then appeased by his submission, ordered his attendants to seize him, and if he had not been withheld by his friends whom he had invited to the nuptials, would have poignarded the peasant in their arms. During this altercation some of the vulgar spectators had run to the great church, which stood near the castle, and came back open-mouthed, declaring that the helmet was missing from Alfonso's statue. Manfred, at this news, grew perfectly frantic, and as if he sought the subject on which to vent the tempest within him, he rushed again on the young peasant crying, Villain, monster, sorcerer! Tisthau has done this! Tisthau has slain my son! The mob, who wanted some object within the scope of their capacities, on whom they might discharge their bewildered reasoning, caught the words from the mouth of their lord, and re-echoed, Aye! Aye! Tis he! Tis he! He has stolen the helmet from Good Alfonso's tomb, and dashed out the brains of our young prince with it! Never reflecting how enormous the disproportion was between the marble helmet that had been seen in the church, and that of steel before their eyes, nor how impossible it was for a youth, seemingly not twenty, to wield a piece of armor so prodigious await. The folly of these ejaculations brought Manfred to himself, yet weather-provoked at the peasant having observed the resemblance between the two helmets, and thereby led to the farther discovery of the absence of that in the church, or wishing to bury any such rumour under so impertinent a supposition, he bravely pronounced that the young man was certainly a necromancer, and that till the church could take cognizance of the affair, he would have the magician whom they had thus detected, kept prisoner under the helmet itself, which he ordered his attendants to raise, and place the young man under it, declaring he should be kept there without food, with which his own infernal art might furnish him. It was in vain for the youth to represent against this preposterous sentence. In vain did Manfred's friends endeavour to divert him from this savage and ill-grounded resolution. The generality were charmed with their lord's decision which, to their apprehensions, carried great appearance of justice, as the magician was to be punished by the very instrument with which he had offended. Nor were they struck with the least compunction at the probability of the youth being starved, for they firmly believed that, by his diabolical skill, he could easily supply himself with nutriment. Manfred thus saw his commands even cheerfully obeyed, and, appointing a guard with strict orders to prevent any food being conveyed to the prisoner, he dismissed his friends and attendants and retired to his own chamber after locking the gates of the castle, in which he suffered none but his domestics to remain. In the meantime the caronzeal of the young ladies had brought Princess Hippolita to herself, who emits the transports of her own sorrow, frequently demanded news of her lord, would have dismissed her attendants to watch over him, and at last enjoined Matilda to leave her and visit and comfort her father. Matilda, who wanted no affectionate duty to Manfred, though she trembled at his austerity, obeyed the orders of Hippolita, whom she tenderly recommended to Isabella, and inquiring of the domestics for her father, was informed that he was retired to his chamber, and had commanded that nobody should have admittance to him. Concluding that he was immersed in sorrow for the death of her brother, and fearing to renew his tears by the sight of his sole remaining child, she hesitated whether she should break in upon his affliction, yet solicitied for him backed by the commands of her mother, encouraged her to venture disobeying the orders he had given. A fault she had never been guilty of before. The gentle timidity of her nature made her pause for some minutes at his door. She heard him traverse his chamber backwards and forwards with disordered steps, a mood which increased her apprehensions. She was, however, just going to beg admittance when Manfred suddenly opened the door, and as it was now twilight, concurring with the disorder of his mind, he did not distinguish the person but asked angrily who it was. Matilda replied, trembling, "'My dearest father, it is I, your daughter.'" Manfred, stepping back hastily, cried, "'Begone! I do not want a daughter!' and, flinging back abruptly, clapped the door against the terrified Matilda. She was too well acquainted with her father's impetuosity to venture a second intrusion. When she had a little recovered the shock of so bitter a reception, she wiped away her tears to prevent the additional stab that the knowledge of it would give to Hippolita, who questioned her in the most anxious terms on the health of Manfred, and how he bore his loss. Matilda assured her he was well, and supported his misfortune, with manly fortitude. But will he not let me see him? said Hippolita mournfully. Will he not permit me to blend my tears with his, and shed a mother sorrow in the bosom of her lord? Or do you deceive me, Matilda? I know how Manfred doted on his son. Is not the stroke too heavy for him? Has he not sunk under it? You do not answer me. Alas! I dread the worst. Raise me, my maidens. I will. I will see my lord. Bear me to him instantly. He is dearer to me even than my children. Matilda made signs to Isabella to prevent Hippolita's rising, and both those lovely young women were using their gentle violence to stop and calm the princess, when a servant on the part of Manfred arrived and told Isabella that his lord demanded to speak with her. With me! cried Isabella, go! said Hippolita, relieved by a message from her lord. Manfred cannot support the sight of his own family. He thinks you less disordered than we are, and dreads the shock of my grief. Consol him, dear Isabella, and tell him I will smother my own anguish rather than add to his. As it was now evening, the servant who conducted Isabella bore a torch before her. When they came to Manfred, who was walking impatiently about the gallery, he started, and said hastily, Take away that light and be gone! Then shutting the doors impetuously, he flung himself upon a bench against the wall, and bade Isabella sit by him. She obeyed, trembling. I sent for you, lady, said he, and then stopped under great appearance of confusion. My lord! Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment. Resumed he. Dry your tears, young lady. You have lost your bridegroom. Yes, cruel fate, and I have lost the hopes of my race. But Conrad was not worthy of your beauty. How, my lord! said Isabella. Sir, you do not suspect me of not feeling the concern I ought. My duty and affection would have always, think no more of him. Interrupted Manfred. He was a sickly, puny child. And heaven has perhaps taken him away that I might not trust the honors of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence. But it is better as it is. I hope in a few years to have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad. Words cannot paint the astonishment of Isabella. At first she apprehended that grief had disordered Manfred's understanding. Her next thought suggested that this strange discourse was designed to ensnare her. She feared that Manfred had perceived her indifference for his son and in consequence of that idea she replied, Good, my lord, do not doubt my tenderness. My heart would have accompanied my hand. Conrad would have engrossed all my care, and wherever fate shall dispose of me I shall always cherish his memory, and regard your highness and the virtuous Hippolita as my parents. Curse on Hippolita! cried Manfred. Forget her from this moment as I do. In short, lady, you have missed a husband undeserving of your charms. They shall now be better disposed of. Instead of a sickly boy, you shall have a husband in the prime of his age who will know how to value your beauties, and who may expect a numerous offspring. Alas, my lord, said Isabella, my mind is too sadly engrossed by the recent catastrophe in your family to think of another marriage. If ever my father returns and it shall be his pleasure I shall obey, as I did when I consented to give my hand to your son. But until his return permit me to remain under your hospitable roof and employ the melancholy hours in assuaging yours Hippolitas and the fair Matilda's affliction. I desired you once before, said Manfred angrily, not to name that woman. From this hour she must be a stranger to you as she must be to me. In short, Isabella, since I cannot give you my son, I offer you myself. Heavens, cried Isabella, waking from her delusion. What do I hear? You, my lord, you, my father-in-law, the father of Conrad, the husband of the virtuous and tender Hippolita. I tell you, said Manfred imperiously, Hippolita is no longer my wife. I divorce her from this hour. Too long has she accursed me by her unfruitfulness. My fate depends on having sons, and this night I trust will give a new date to my hopes. At those words he seized the cold hand of Isabella, who was half-dead with fright and horror. She shrieked and started from him. Manfred rose to pursue her when the moon, which was now up and gleamed in at the opposite casement, presented to his sight the plumes of the fatal helmet, which rose to the height of the windows waving backwards and forwards in a tempestuous manner and accompanied with a hollow and rustling sound. Isabella, who gathered courage from her situation and who dreaded nothing so much as Manfred's pursuit of his declaration, cried, Look, my lord, see, Heaven itself declares against your impious intentions. Heaven nor hell shall impede my designs, said Manfred, advancing again to seize the princess. At that instant, the portrait of his grandfather, which hung over the bench where they had been sitting, uttered a deep sigh and heaved its breast. Isabella, whose back was turned to the picture, saw not the motion nor knew whence the sound came, but started and said, Hark, my lord, what sound was that? And at the same time made towards the door. Manfred distracted between the flight of Isabella, who had now reached the stairs and yet unable to keep his eye from the picture, which began to move had, however, advanced some steps after her. Still looking backwards on the portrait, when he saw it quit its panel and descend on the floor with a grave and melancholy air. Do I dream, cried Manfred, returning, or are the devils themselves in league against me? Speak, internal specter, or if thou art my grand sire, why dost thou too conspire against thy wretched descendants, who too dearly pays for error he could finish the sentence, the vision sighed again and made a sign to Manfred to follow him? Lead on, cried Manfred, I will follow thee to the gulf of perdition. The specter marched sedately but dejected to the end of the gallery and turned into a chamber on the right hand. Manfred accompanied him at a little distance, full of anxiety and horror, but resolved. As he would have entered the chamber, the door was clapped to with violence by an invisible hand. The prince, collecting courage from the stley, would have forcibly burst open the door with his foot, but found that it resisted his utmost efforts. Since hell will not satisfy my curiosity, said Manfred, I will use the human means in my power for preserving my race. Isabella shall not escape me. The lady, whose resolution had given way to terror the moment she had quitted Manfred, continued her flight to the bottom of the principal staircase. There she stopped, not knowing wither to direct her steps, nor how to escape from the impetuosity of the prince. The gates of the castle she knew were locked and the guards placed in the court. Should she, as her heart prompted her, go and prepare Hippolita for the cruel destiny that awaited her, she did not doubt but Manfred would seek her there and that his violence would incite him to double the injury he meditated without leaving room for them to avoid the impetuosity of his passions. Delay might give him time to reflect on the horrid measure he had conceived, or produce some circumstance in her favor if she could, for that night at least, avoid his odious purpose. Yet, where conceal herself, how avoid the pursuits he would infallibly make throughout the castle? As these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, she recollected a subterraneous passage which led from the vaults of the castle to the Church of St. Nicholas. Could she reach the altar before she was overtaken, she knew even Manfred's violence would not dare to profane the sacredness of the place, and she determined if no other means of deliverance offered to shut herself up forever among the holy virgins whose covenant was contiguous to the cathedral. In this resolution she seized a lamp that burned at the foot of the staircase and hurried towards the secret passage. The lower part of the castle was hollowed into several intricate cloisters, and it was not easy for one under so much anxiety to find the door that opened into the cavern, an awful silence reigned throughout the subterraneous regions, except now and then some blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness. Every murmur struck her with new terror. Yet more she dreaded to hear the wrathful voice of Manfred urging his domestics to pursue her. She trod as softly as impatience would give her leave, yet frequently stopped and listened to hear if she was followed. In one of those moments she thought she heard a sigh. She shuddered and recoiled a few paces. In a moment she thought she heard the step of some person. Her blood curdled, and she concluded it was Manfred. Every suggestion that horror could inspire rushed into her mind, she condemned her rash flight which had thus exposed her to his rage in a place where her cries were not likely to draw anybody to her assistance. Yet the sound seemed not to come from behind. If Manfred knew where she was he must have followed her. She was still in one of the cloisters, and the steps she had heard were too distinct to proceed from the way she had come. Cheered with this reflection and hoping to find a friend and whoever was not the prince, she was going to advance when a door that stood ajar at some distance to the left was opened gently. But error her lamp which she held up could discover who opened it. The person retreated precipitately on seeing the light. Isabella, whom every incident was sufficient to dismay, hesitated whether she should proceed. Her dread of Manfred soon outweighed every other terror. The very circumstance of the person avoiding her gave her a sort of courage. It could only be, she thought, some domestic belonging to the castle. Her gentleness had never raised her an enemy, and conscious innocence made her hope that, unless sent by the prince's order to seek her, his servants would rather assist than prevent her flight. Fortifying herself with these reflections and believing by what she could observe that she was near the mouth of the subterraneous cavern, she approached the door that had been opened. But a sudden gust of wind that met her at the door extinguished her lamp and left her in total darkness. Words cannot paint the horror of the prince's situation. Alone and so dismal a place, her mind imprinted with all the terrible events of the day, hopeless of escaping, expecting every moment the arrival of Manfred, and far from tranquil unknowing she was within reach of somebody she knew not whom, who for some cause seemed concealed their abouts. All these thoughts crowded on her distracted mind and she was ready to sink under her apprehensions. She addressed herself to every saint in heaven and inwardly implored their assistance. For considerable time she remained in an agony of despair. At last, as softly as was possible, she felt for the door, and having found it, entered trembling into the vault from when she had heard the sigh and steps. It gave her a kind of momentary joy to perceive an imperfect ray of clouded moonshine gleam from the roof of the vault, which seemed to be fallen in, and from whence hung a fragment of earth or building she could not distinguish which that appeared to have been crushed inwards. She advanced eagerly towards this chasm when she discerned a human form standing close against the wall. She shrieked, believing at the ghost of her betrothed Conrad. The figure, advancing, said, in a submissive voice, Be not alarmed, lady, I will not injure you. Isabella, a little encouraged by the words and tone of voice of the stranger, and recollecting that this must be the person who had opened the door, recovered her spirits enough to reply, Sir, whoever you are, take pity on a wretched princess standing on the brink of destruction. Assist me to escape from this fatal castle, or in a few moments I may be made miserable forever. Alas! said the stranger, what can I do to assist you? I will die in your defence, but I am unacquainted with the castle and want— Oh! said Isabella, hastily interrupting him. Help me but to find a trapdoor that must be here about, and it is the greatest service you can do for me, for I have not a minute to lose. Hearing these words, she felt about on the pavement, and directed the stranger to search likewise for a smooth piece of brass enclosed in one of the stones. That, said she, is the lock which opens with a spring of which I know the secret. If we can find that, I may escape. If not, alas, courteous stranger, I fear I shall have involved you in my misfortunes. Manfred will suspect you for the accomplice of my flight, and you will fall a victim to his resentment. I value not my life, said the stranger, and it will be some comfort to lose it in trying to deliver you from his tyranny. Generous youth, said Isabella, how shall I ever requite? As she uttered those words, a ray of moonshine streaming through the cranny of the ruin above shown directly on the lock they sought. Oh! transport! said Isabella, here is the trapdoor, and taking out the key she touched the spring which, starting aside, covered an iron ring. Lift up the door, said the princess. The stranger obeyed, and beneath appeared some stone steps descending into a vault totally dark. We must go down here, said Isabella. Follow me, dark and dismal as it is, we cannot miss our way. It leads directly to the church of St. Nicholas, but perhaps, added the princess modestly, you have no reason to leave the castle, nor have I farther occasion for your service, and a few minutes I shall be safe from Manfred's rage, only let me know to whom I am so much obliged. I will never quit you, said the stranger, eagerly, until I have placed you in safety. Nor think me, princess, more generous than I am, though you are my principal care. The stranger was interrupted by a sudden noise of voices that seemed approaching, and they soon distinguished these words. Talk not to me of necromancers. I tell you, she must be in the castle. I will find her in spite of enchantment. Oh, heavens! cried Isabella. It is the voice of Manfred. Make haste, or we are ruined, and shut the trap-door after you. Saying this, she descended the steps precipitately, and as the stranger hastened to follow her, he let the door slip out of his hands. It fell, and the spring closed over it. He tried in vain to open it, not having observed Isabella's method of touching the spring, nor had he many moments to make an assay. The noise of the falling door had been heard by Manfred, who, directed by the sound, hastened thither, attended by his servants with torches. It must be Isabella, cried Manfred before he entered the vault. She is escaping by the subterraneous passage, but she cannot have got far. What was the astonishment of the prince when, instead of Isabella, the light of the torches discovered to him the young peasant whom he thought confined under the fatal helmet? Trader, said Manfred, how camest thou here? I thought the endurance above in the court. I am no traitor, replied the young man boldly. Nor am I intruable for your thoughts. Presumptuous villain, cried Manfred, doth thou provoke my wrath? Tell me, how hast thou escaped from above? Thou hast corrupted thy guards and their lives shall answer it. My poverty, said the peasant calmly, will descopate them. Though the ministers of a tyrant's wrath, to thee they are faithful, and but too willing to execute the orders which you unjustly impose upon them, art thou so hardy as to dare my vengeance, said the prince, but torture shall force the truth from thee. Tell me, I will know thy accomplices. There was my accomplice, said the youth, smiling and pointing to the roof. Manfred ordered the torches to be held up, and perceived that one of the cheeks of the enchanted cask had forced its way through the pavement of the court, as his servants had let it fall over the peasant, and had broken through into the vault, leaving a gap through which the peasant had pressed himself some minutes before he was found by Isabella. Was that the way by which thou didst descend? said Manfred. It was, said the youth. But what noise was that? said Manfred, which I heard as I entered the cloister. A door clapped, said the peasant. I heard it as well as you. What door? said Manfred hastily. I am not acquainted with your castle, said the peasant. This is the first time I ever entered it. And this vault the only part of it within which I ever was. But I tell thee, said Manfred, wishing to find out if the youth had discovered the trap-door. It was this way I heard the noise. My servants heard it too. My Lord!" interrupted one of them officiously. To be sure it was the trap-door, and he was going to make his escape. "'Peace, blockhead,' said the prince angrily. If he was going to make his escape, how should he come on this side? I will know from his own mouth what noise it was I heard. Tell me truly, thy life depends on thy veracity. My veracity is dearer to me than my life,' said the peasant, nor would I purchase the one by forfeiting the other. Indeed, young philosopher!' said Manfred contemptuously. "'Tell me, then. What was the noise I heard?' "'Ask me what I can answer,' said he, and to put me to death instantly if I tell you a lie.' Manfred, growing impatient at the steady valour and indifference of the youth, cried, "'Well, then, thou man of truth answer. Was it the fall of the trap-door that I heard?' "'It was,' said the youth. "'It was,' said the prince. "'And how didst thou come to know there was a trap-door here?' "'I saw the plate of brass by a gleam of moonshine,' replied he. "'But what told thee it was a lock?' said Manfred. "'How didst thou discover the secret of opening it?' "'Providence that delivered me from the helmet was able to direct me to the spring of a lock,' said he. "'Providence should have gone a little farther, and have placed the out of the reach of my resentment,' said Manfred. When Providence had taught thee to open the lock, it abandoned thee for a fool who did not know how to make use of its favours. Why didst thou not pursue the path pointed out for thy escape? Why didst thou shut the trap-door before thou hadst ascended the steps?' "'I might ask you, my lord,' said the peasant, how I, totally unacquainted with your castle, was to know that these steps led to any outlet, but I scorned to evade your questions. Wherever those steps lead to, perhaps I should have explored the way. I could not be in a worse situation than I was. But the truth is, I let the trap-door fall, your immediate arrival followed. I had given the alarm what imported it to me whether I was seized a minute sooner or a minute later. "'Thou art a resolute villain for thy years,' said Manfred, yet on reflection I suspect that thou dost but trifle with me. Thou hast not yet told me how thou ditched open the lock. "'That I will show you, my lord,' said the peasant, and taking up a fragment of stone that had fallen from above he laid himself on the trap-door and began to beat on the piece of brass that covered it, meaning to gain time for the escape of the princess. This presence of mind, joined to the frankness of the youth, staggered Manfred. He even felt a disposition towards pardoning one who had been guilty of no crime. Manfred was not one of those savage tyrants who wanton and cruelty unprovoked. The circumstances of his fortune had given an asperity to his temper, which was naturally humane, and his virtues were always ready to operate when his passions did not obscure his reason. While the prince was in this suspense, a confused noise of voices echoed through the distant vaults. As the sound approached, he distinguished the clamours of some of his domestics, whom he had dispersed through the castle in search of Isabella, calling out, "'Where's my lord? Where's the prince?' "'Here I am,' said Manfred, as they came nearer. "'Have you found the princess?' The first that arrived replied, "'Oh, my lord, I am glad we have found you.' "'Found me,' said Manfred, "'have you found the princess?' "'Oh, we thought we had, my lord,' said the fellow, looking terrified. "'But—but—what?' cried the prince. "'Has she escaped?' "'Hockeys and I, my lord?' "'Yes, I and Diego,' interrupted the second, who came up and still greater consternation. "'Speak, one of you at a time,' said Manfred. "'I ask you, where is the princess?' "'We do not know,' said they both together. "'But we are frightened out of our wits. "'So I think, blockheads,' said Manfred. "'What is it has scared you thus?' "'Oh, my lord,' said Hockeys. "'Diego has seen such a sight. Your highness would not believe our eyes.' "'What new absurdity is this?' cried Manfred. "'Give me a direct answer, or by heaven—' "'Why, my lord, if it please your highness to hear me,' said the poor fellow. "'Diego and I—' "'Yes, I and Hockeys,' cried his comrade. "'Did I not forbid you to speak, both at a time?' said the prince. "'You, Hockeys, answer. "'For the other fool seems more distracted than thou art. "'What is the matter?' "'My gracious lord,' said Hockeys. "'If it please your highness to hear me, "'Diego and I, according to your highness's orders, "'went to search for the young lady. "'But being comprehensive that we might meet "'the ghost of my young lord, your highness's son, "'God rest his soul, "'as he has not received a Christian burial—' "'Sought!' cried a manfred in rage. "'Is it only a ghost, then, that thou hast seen?' "'Oh, worse, worse, my lord,' cried Diego. "'I had rather seen ten whole ghosts.' "'Grant me patience,' said manfred. "'These blockheads distract me. "'Out of my sight, Diego, and thou, Hockeys, "'tell me in one word, art thou sober, art thou raving. "'Thou must want to have some sense, "'as the other sought to frighten to himself, "'and thee, too, speak. "'What is it he fancies he has seen?' "'Why, my lord,' cried Hockeys, trembling, "'I was going to tell your highness "'that since the calamitous misfortune of my young lord, "'God rest his precious soul, not one of us, "'your highness's faithful servants. "'Indeed, we are, my lord, though four men. "'I say, not one of us has dared to set foot "'about the castle, but two together. "'So Diego and I, thinking that my young lady "'might be in the great gallery, "'went up there to look for her, "'and tell her your highness wanted something "'to impart to her.' "'Oh, blundering fools!' cried manfred. "'And in the meantime, she has made her escape, "'because you are afraid of goblins. "'Why, thou knave, she left me in the gallery. "'I came from thence myself.' "'For all that, she may be there still, for ought I know,' said Hockeys. "'But the devil shall have me "'before I seek her there again. "'Poor Diego. "'I do not believe he will ever recover it.' "'Recover what?' said manfred. "'Am I never to learn what it is "'has terrified these rascals? "'But I lose my time. "'Follow me, slave. "'I will see if she is in the gallery. "'For heaven sakes, my dear, good Lord!' cried Hockeys. "'Do not go to the gallery. "'Satan himself, I believe, is in the chamber "'next to the gallery.' Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror "'of his servants as an idle panic, "'was struck at this new circumstance. "'He recollected the apparition of the portrait "'and the sudden closing of the door "'at the end of the gallery. "'His voice faltered. "'And he asked, with disorder, "'What is in the great chamber?' "'My lord?' said Hockeys. "'When Diego and I came into the gallery, "'he went first, for he said he had more courage than I. "'So when we came into the gallery, we found nobody. "'We looked under every bench and stool, "'and still we found nobody.' "'Were all the pictures in their places?' said manfred. "'Yes, my lord,' answered Hockeys. "'But we did not think of looking behind them.' "'Well, well,' said manfred. "'Proceed. "'When we came to the door of the great chamber,' "'continued Hockeys, we found it shut. "'And you could not open it,' said manfred. "'Oh, yes, my lord, we had to heaven. "'We had not,' replied he. "'Nay, it was not I, neither. "'It was Diego. "'He was grown foolhardy and would go on, "'though I advised him not. "'If ever I open a door that is shut again, "'trifle not,' said manfred, shuttering. "'But tell me what you saw in the great chamber "'on opening the door.' "'I, my lord,' said Hockeys. "'I was behind Diego, but I heard the noise.' "'Hockeys,' said manfred, in a solemn tone of voice. "'Tell me, I adjure thee by the souls of my ancestors. "'What was it thou sawest? "'What was it thou hurtest?' "'It was Diego saw it, my lord. "'It was not I,' replied Hockeys. "'I only heard the noise. "'Diego had no sooner opened the door "'than he cried out and ran back. "'I ran back too, and said, "'Is it the ghost?' "'The ghost? No, no,' said Diego, "'and his hair stood on end. "'It is a giant, I believe. "'He is all clad in armour, "'for I saw his foot and part of his leg, "'and they are as large as the helmet below in the court. "'As he said these words, my lord, "'we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour "'as if the giant was rising, "'for Diego has told me since "'that he believes the giant was lying down, "'for the foot and leg were stretched at length "'on the floor. "'Before we could get to the end of the gallery, "'we heard the door of the great chamber clapped behind us. "'But we did not dare to turn back "'to see if the giant was following us. "'Yet now I think on it we must have heard him "'if he had pursued us. "'But for heaven's sakes, my good lord, "'send for the chaplain and have the castle exercised "'for certain it is enchanted. "'I pray do, my lord,' cried all the servants at once, "'or we must leave or hind us his service.' "'Peace, dotards,' said Amanford, "'and follow me. "'I will know what all this means.' "'We, my lord,' cried they with one voice, "'we would not go up to the galley for Your Highness's revenue.' "'The young peasant who had stood silent now spoke. "'Will Your Highness,' said he, "'permit me to try this adventure. "'My life is of consequence to nobody. "'I fear no bad angel and have offended no good one. "'Your behavior is above your seeming,' said Amanford, "'viewing him with surprise and admiration. "'Hereafter I will reward your bravery.' "'But now,' he continued with a sigh, "'I am so circumstanced that I dare trust no eyes but my own. "'However, I give you leave to accompany me.' Amanford, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the princess had retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious fondness to meet her lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their son. She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his bosom. But he pushed her rudely off and said, "'Where is Isabella?' "'Isabella, my lord,' said the astonished Hippolita. "'Yes, Isabella,' cried Manfred imperiously. "'I want Isabella.' "'My lord,' replied Matilda, "'who perceived how much his behavior had shocked her mother. "'She has not been with us since your Highness summoned her to your apartment. "'Tell me where she is,' said the prince. "'I do not want to know where she has been. "'My good lord,' said Hippolita. "'Your daughter tells you the truth. Isabella left us by your command and has not returned since. "'But, my good lord, compose yourself. Retire to your rest. This dismal day has disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.' "'What? Then you know where she is?' cried a Manfred. "'Tell me directly, for I will not lose an instant.' "'And you, woman, speaking to his wife, order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.' "'Isabella,' said Hippolita calmly, "'is retired. I suppose to her chamber. She is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious, my lord,' continued she, "'let me know what has disturbed you.' "'Has Isabella offended you?' "'Trouble me not with questions,' said Manfred. "'But tell me where she is.' "'Matilda shall call her,' said the princess. "'Sit down, my lord, and resume your wanted fortitude.' "'What? Art thou jealous of Isabella?' replied he, "'That you wish to be present at our interview. "'But heavens, my lord,' said Hippolita. "'What is it your highness means?' "'Thou wilt know, ere many minutes are past,' said the cruel prince. "'Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.' At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words, and frantic deportment, and lost in vain conjectures on what he was meditating.' Manfred was now returning from the vault. Manfred by the peasant and a few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended the staircase without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the princess's apartment, with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent lady, who no more than Manfred doubted the reality of the evision, yet affected to treat it as a delirium of the servant. vain, however, to save her lord from any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first sacrifice if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had visited the gallery and a great chamber, and now, with more serenity of soul than she had felt for many hours, she met with her lord, and assured him that the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable, and no doubt an impression made by fear and the dark and dismal hour of the night on the minds of his servants. She and the chaplain had examined the chamber and found everything in the usual order. Manfred, though persuaded, like his wife, that the vision had been no work of fancy, recovered a little from the tempest of mind into which so many strange events had thrown him, ashamed, too, of his inhuman treatment of a princess who returned every injury with new marks of tenderness and duty. He felt returning love forcing itself into his eyes, but not less ashamed of feeling remorse towards one against whom he was inwardly meditating a yet more bitter outrage. He curbed the yearnings of his heart and did not dare to lean even towards pity. The next transition of his soul was to exquisite villainy. Presuming on the unshaken submission of Ippolita, he flattered himself that she would not only acquiesce with patience to a divorce, but would obey, if it was his pleasure, in endeavouring to persuade Isabella to give him her hand. But ere he could indulge his horrid hope, he reflected that Isabella was not to be found. Coming to himself, he gave orders that every avenue to the castle should be strictly guarded and charged his domestics on pain of their lives to suffer nobody to pass out. The young peasant to whom he spoke favourably, he ordered to remain in a small chamber on the stairs in which there was a pallet bed and the key of which he took away himself, telling the youth he would talk with him in the morning, then dismissing his attendance and bestowing a sullen kind of half-knot on Ippolita, he retired to his own chamber. Matilda, who by Ippolita's orders had retired to her apartment, was ill-disposed to take any rest. The shocking fate of her brother had deeply affected her. She was surprised at not seeing Isabella, but the strange words which had fallen from her father and the obscure menace to the princess his wife, accompanied by the most furious behaviour, had filled her gentle mind with terror and alarm. She waited anxiously for the return of Bianca, a young damsel that attended her, whom she had sent to learn what was become of Isabella. Bianca soon appeared and informed her mistress of what she had gathered from the servants, that Isabella was nowhere to be found. She related the adventure of the young peasant, who had been discovered in the vault, though with many simple additions from the incoherent accounts of the domestics, and she dwelt principally on the gigantic leg and foot which had been seen in the gallery-chamber. This last circumstance had terrified Bianca so much that she was rejoiced when Matilda told her that she would not go to rest but would watch till the princess should rise. The young princess wearied herself in conjectures on the flight of Isabella, and on the threats of Manfred to her mother. But what business could he have so urgent with the chaplain? said Matilda. Does he intend to have my brother's body interred privately in the chapel? Oh, madam! said Bianca. Now I guess, as you are become his heiress, he is impatient to have you married. He has always been raving for more sons. I warrant he is now impatient for grandsons. As sure as I live, madam, I shall see you a bride at last. Good madam, you won't cast off your faithful Bianca. You won't put Donna Rosara over me now that you are a great princess. My poor Bianca, said Matilda, how fast your thoughts amble. I a great princess. What has thou seen in Manfred's behavior since my brother's death that bespeaks any increase of tenderness to me? No, Bianca, his heart was ever a stranger to me. But he is my father, and I must not complain. Nay, if heaven shuts my father's heart against me, it overpays my little merit and the tenderness of my mother. Oh, that dear mother, yes, Bianca, just there I feel the rugged temper of Manfred. I can support his harshness to me with patience. But it wounds my soul when I am to witness his causeless severity towards her. Oh, madam, said Bianca, all men use their wives so when they are weary of them. And yet you congratulated me but now, said Matilda, when you fancied my father intended to dispose of me. I would have you a great lady, replied Bianca. Come what will. I do not wish to see you moped in a convent as you would be if you had your will. And if my lady or mother, who knows that a bad husband is better than no husband at all, did not hinder you. Bless me, what noise is that? St. Nicholas, forgive me, I was but in jest. It is the wind, said Matilda, whistling through the battlements in the tower above. You have heard it a thousand times. Nay, said Bianca. There was no harm, neither, in what I said. It is no sin to talk of matrimony. And so, madam, as I was saying, if my lord Manfred should offer you a handsome young prince for a bridegroom, you would drop him a curtsy and tell him you would rather take the veil. Thank heaven I am in no such danger, said Matilda. You know how many proposals for me he has rejected, and you thank him like a dutiful daughter, do you, madam? But come, madam, suppose tomorrow morning he was to send for you to the great council chamber, and there you should find at his elbow a lovely young prince with large black eyes, a smooth white forehead, and manly curling locks like jet. In short, madam, a young hero resembling the picture of the good Alfonso in the gallery, which you sit and gaze at for hours together, do not speak lightly of that picture, interrupted Matilda, sighing. I know the adoration with which I look at that picture is uncommon, but I am not in love with a colored panel. The character of that virtuous prince, the veneration with which my mother has inspired me for his memory, the orisons which I know not why she has enjoined me to put forth at his tomb, all have concurred to persuade me that somehow or other my destiny is linked with something relating to him. Lord, madam, how should that be? said Bianca, I have always heard that your family was in no way related to his. And I am sure I cannot conceive why my lady the princess sends you in a cold morning or a damp evening to pray at his tomb. He is no saint by the almanac. If you must pray, why does she not bid you to address yourself to our great St. Nicholas? I am sure he is the saint I pray to for a husband. Perhaps my mind would be less affected, said Matilda, if my mother would explain her reasons to me. But it is the mystery she observes that inspires me with this. I know not what to call it. As she never acts from Caprice I am sure there is some fatal secret at the bottom. Nay, I know there is. In her agony of grief for my brother's death she dropped some words that intimated as much. Oh, dear madam! cried Bianca. What were they? No, said Matilda. If a parent lets follow word and wishes it recalled it is not for a child to utter it. What? Was she sorry for what she had said? asked Bianca. I am sure, madam, you may trust me with my own little secrets when I have any, I may, said Matilda, but never with my mothers. A child ought to have no ears or eyes but as a parent directs. Well, to be sure, madam, you were born to be a saint, said Bianca, and there is no resisting one's vocation. You will end in a convent at last. But there is my lady Isabella would not be so reserved to me. She will let me talk to her of young men, and when a handsome cavalier has come to the castle she has owned to me that she wished your brother Conrad resembled him. Bianca, said the princess, I do not allow you to mention my friend disrespectfully. Isabella is of a cheerful disposition, but her soul is pure as virtue itself. She knows your idle babbling humor, and perhaps has now and then encouraged it to divert melancholy and enliven the solitude in which my father keeps us. Blessed Mary, said Bianca, startling, there it is again. Dear madam, do you hear nothing? This castle is certainly haunted. Peace, said Matilda, and listen, I did think I heard a voice. But it must be fancy. Your terrors, I suppose, have infected me. Indeed, indeed, madam, said Bianca, half-weeping with agony. I am sure I heard a voice. Does anybody lie in the chamber beneath, said the princess. Nobody has dared to lie there, answered Bianca, since the great astrologer that was your brother's tutor drowned himself. For certain, madam, his ghost and the young princes are now met in the chamber below. For heaven's sakes, let us fly to your mother's apartment. I charge you not to stir, said Matilda. If they are spirits in pain, we may ease their suffering by questioning them. They can mean no hurt to us, for we have not injured them. And if they should, shall we be more safe in one chamber than in another. Reach me my beads, we shall say a prayer, and then speak to them. Oh, dear lady, I would not speak to a ghost for the world, cried Bianca. As she said those words, they heard the casement of the little chamber below Matilda's open. They listened attentively, and in a few minutes thought they heard a person sing, but could not distinguish the words. This can be no evil spirit, said the princess in a low voice. It is undoubtedly one of the family. Open the window, and we shall know the voice. I dare not, indeed, madam, said Bianca. Thou art a very fool, said Matilda, opening the window gently herself. The noise the princess made was, however, heard by the person beneath, who stopped, and they concluded had heard the casement open. Is anybody below, said the princess, if there is, speak. Yes, said an unknown voice. Who is it? said Matilda. A stranger, replied the voice. What stranger, she said, and how didst thou come there at this unusual hour when all the gates of the castle are locked? I am not here willingly, answered the voice, but pardon me, lady, if I have disturbed your rest. I knew not that I was overheard. Deep has forsaken me, I left a restless couch, and came to waste the irksome hours with gazing on the fair approach of mourning, impatient to be dismissed from this castle. Thy words and accents, said Matilda, are of a melancholy cast. If thou art unhappy, I pity thee. If poverty afflicts thee, let me know it. I will mention thee to the princess, whose beneficent soul ever melts for thee distressed, and she will relieve thee. I am indeed unhappy, said the stranger. And I know not what wealth is, but I do not complain of the lot which heaven has cast for me. I am young and healthy, and am not ashamed of owing my support to myself. Yet think me not proud, or that I disdain your generous offers. I will remember you in my orisons, and will pray for blessings on your gracious self and your noble mistress. If I sigh, lady, it is for others, not for myself. Now I have it, madam, said Bianca, whispering the princess. This is certainly the young peasant, and by my conscience he is in love. Well, this is a charming adventure. Do, madam, let us sift him. He does not know you, but takes you for one of my lady Hippolytus women. Art thou not ashamed, Bianca, said the princess? What right have we to pry into the secrets of this young man's heart? He seems virtuous and frank, and tells us he is unhappy. Are those circumstances that authorize us to make a property of him? How are we entitled to his confidence? Lord, madam, how little you know of love, replied Bianca, why lovers have no pleasure equal to talking of their mistress. And would you have me become a peasant's confidant, said the princess? Well then let me talk to him, said Bianca. Though I have the honor of being your highness's maid of honor, I was not always so great. Besides, if love levels ranks, it raises them too. I have respect for any young man in love. Peace, simpleton, said the princess, though he said he was unhappy, it does not follow that he must be in love. Think of all that has happened today, and tell me if there are no misfortunes but what love causes. Stranger, resumed the princess. If thy misfortunes have not been occasioned by thy own fault and are within the compass of the princess Hippolita's power to redress, I will take upon me to enter that she will be thy protectress. When thou art dismissed from this castle, repair to Holy Father Jerome, at the covenant adjoining to the Church of St. Nicholas, and make thy story known to him, as far as thou thinkest meet. He will not fail to inform the princess, who is the mother of all that want her assistance. Farewell! It is not seemly for me to hold farther converse with a man at this unwonted hour. May the saints guard thee, gracious lady, replied the peasant. But oh! if a poor worthless stranger might presume to beg a minute's audience farther, am I so happy? The casement is not shut. Might I venture to ask? Speak quickly, said Matilda. The morning dawns apace. Should the laborers come into the fields and perceive us? What wouldst thou ask? I know not how. I know not if I dare, said the young stranger, faltering, yet the humanity with which you have spoken to me in boldens. Lady, dare I trust you? Heavens, said Matilda, what dost thou mean? With what wouldst thou trust me? Speak boldly if thy secret is fit to be entrusted to a virtuous breast. I would ask, said the peasant, recollecting himself, whether what I have heard from the domestics is true, that the princess is missing from the castle. What imports it to thee to know? replied Matilda. Thy first words bespoke a prudent and becoming gravity. dost thou come hither to pry into the secrets of Manfred? I do. I have been mistaken in thee. Saying these words, she shut the casement hastily, without giving the young man time to reply. I had acted more wisely, said the princess to Bianca, with some sharpness, if I had let thee converse with the peasant. His inquisitiveness seems of a peace with thy own. It is not fit for me to argue with your highness, replied Bianca, but perhaps the questions I should have put to him would have been more to the purpose than those you have been pleased to ask him. Oh, no doubt, said Matilda, you are a very discreet personage. May I know what you would have asked him? A bystander often sees more of a game than those who play, answered Bianca. Does your highness think, madam, that this question about my lady Isabella was the result of mere curiosity? No, no, madam, there is more in it than you great folks are aware of. Lopez told me that all the servants believe this young fellow contrived my lady Isabella's escape. Now pray, madam, observe you and I both know that my lady Isabella never much fancied the prince, your brother. Well, he is killed just in a critical minute. I accuse nobody, a helmet falls from the moon, so my lord your father says, but Lopez and all the servants say that this young spark is a magician and stole it from Alfonso's tomb. Have done with this rhapsody of impertinence, said Matilda. Name, madam, as you please, cried Bianca. Yet it is very particular, though, that my lady Isabella should be missing the very same day and that this young sorcerer should be found at the mouth of the trap door. I accuse nobody, but if my young lord came honestly by his death, dare not on my duty, said Matilda, to breathe a suspicion on the purity of my dear Isabella's fame. Purity or not purity, said Bianca, gone she is. A stranger is found that nobody knows, you question him yourself, he tells you he is in love, or unhappy it is the same thing. Nay, he owned, he was unhappy about others, and is anybody unhappy about another unless they are in love with them, and that the very next word he asks innocently, poor soul, if my lady Isabella is missing. To be sure, said Matilda, thy observations are not totally without foundation. Isabella's flight amazes me. The curiosity of the stranger is very particular, yet Isabella never concealed a thought from me. So she told you, said Bianca, to fish out your secrets. But who knows, madam, but this stranger may be some prince in the skies. Do, madam, let me open the window and ask him a few questions. No, replied Matilda, I will ask him myself, if he knows aught of Isabella. He is not worthy I should converse farther with him. She was going to open the casement when they heard the bell-ring at the poster gate of the castle, which is on the right-hand side of the tower where Matilda lay. This prevented the princess from renewing the conversation with the stranger. After continuing silent for some time, I am persuaded, she said to Bianca, that whatever be the cause of Isabella's flight, it had no unworthy motive. If this stranger was an accessory to it, she must be satisfied with his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca, that his words were tinctured within uncommon infusion of piety. It was no Ruffian's speech. His phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth. I told you, madam, said Bianca, that I was sure he was some prince in the skies. Yet, said Matilda, if he was privy to her escape, how will you account for his not accompanying her in her flight? Why expose himself unnecessarily and rashly to my father's resentment? As for that, madam, replied she, if he could get from under the helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father's anger. I do not doubt, but he has some talisman or other about him. He resolve everything into magic, said Matilda, but a man who has any intercourse with infernal spirit does not dare to make use of those tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with what fervor he vowed to remember me to heavens in his prayers? Yes, Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety. Commend to me the piety of a young man in a damsel that consult to a lope. Said Bianca, no, no, madam, my lady Isabella is of another guest mold than you would take her for. She used, indeed, to sigh and lift up her eyes in your company because she knows you are a saint, but when your back was turned you wrong her. Said Matilda, Isabella is no hypocrite. She has a due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the contrary, she always combatted my inclination for the cloister, and though I own the mystery she has made of her flight, confounds me, though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us, I cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she has always opposed by taking the veil. She wished to see me married, though my dour would have been a loss to her and my brother's children. For her sake I will believe well of this young peasant. Then do you think there is some liking between them? Said Bianca. While she was speaking a servant came hastily into the chamber and told the princess that the lady Isabella was found. Where? said Matilda. She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas's church, replied the servant. Father Jerome has brought the news himself. He is below with his highness. Where is my mother? said Matilda. She is in her own chamber, madam, and has asked for you. Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light and gone to Hippolita's apartment to inquire if she knew aunt of Isabella. While he was questioning her word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the friar's arrival and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave them together while he pursued his search after Isabella. Is your business with me or the princess? said Manfred. With both, replied the holy man, the lady Isabella, what of her? interrupted Manfred eagerly. Is that St. Nicholas's altar? replied Jerome. That is no business of Hippolita, said Manfred, with confusion. Let us retire to my chamber, father, and inform me how she came thither. No, my lord, replied the good man, with an air of firmness and authority that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help revering these St. like virtues of Jerome. My commission is to both, and with your Highness's good liking, in the presence of both I shall deliver it. But first, my lord, I must interrogate the princess, whether she is acquainted with the cause of the lady Isabella's retirement from your castle. No, on my soul, said Hippolita. Does Isabella charge me with being privy to it? Father, interrupted Manfred, I pay due reverence to your holy profession, but I am sovereign here and will allow no meddling priests to interfere with the affairs of my domestic. If you have ought to say, attend me to my chamber, I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state. They are not within a woman's province. My lord, said the holy man, I am no intruder into the secrets of families, my office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach repentance, and to teach a mankind to curb their headstrong passions. I forgive your Highness's uncharitable apostrophe. I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred, hearken to him who speaks through my organs. Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita's countenance declared her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end. Her silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred. The lady Isabella, or Zunjerum, commends herself to both your highnesses. She thanks both for the kindness with which she has been treated in your castle. She deplores the loss of your son and her own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble princes, whom she shall always respect as parents. She prays for uninterrupted union and felicity between you. Manfred's color changed. But as it is no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to remain in sanctuary till she can learn news of her father or, by the certainty of his death, be at liberty with the approbation of her guardians to dispose of herself in suitable marriage. I shall give no such consent, said the prince, but insist on her return to the castle without delay. I am enterable for her person to her guardians and will not brook her being in any hands but my own. Your highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper, replied the friar. I want no monitor, said Manfred, coloring. Isabella's conduct leaves room for strange suspicions, and that young villain who was at least the accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it, the cause, interrupted Jerome, was a young man to cause. This is not to be borne, cried Manfred. Am I to be bearded in my own palace by an insolent monk? Thou art privy, I guess, to their amours. I would pray to heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises, said Jerome, if your highness were not satisfied in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to heaven to pardon that uncharitable-ness, and I implore your highness to leave the princess at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man. Can't not to me, said Manfred, but return and bring the princess to her duty. It is my duty to prevent her return hither, said Jerome. She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wilds of this world, and nothing but a parent's authority shall take her tense. I am her parent, cried Manfred, and demand her. She wished to have you for her parent, said the friar, but heaven that forbade that connection has forever dissolved all ties betooks to you, and I announce to your highness, Stop, eudacious man, said Manfred, and dread my displeasure. Holy Father, said Hippolyta, is it your office to be no respecter of persons? You must speak as your duty prescribes, but it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not my lord I should hear. Attend the prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the blessed virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the heart of my gracious lord to its won'ted peace and gentleness. That woman, said the friar, my lord, I attend your pleasure. Manfred, accompanied by the friar, passed to his own apartment, where shutting the door. I perceive, Father, said he, that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolyta. I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back, and you must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolyta. Her conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman. Her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world. You can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to the disillusion of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery. She shall endow one if she will, and she shall have the means of being as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving the Principality of Othronto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honor your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and the preservation of my family. The will of heaven be done, said the friar. I am but a worthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell the Prince of thy unbarranted designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolyta have mounted to the throne of Pity. By me thou art reprimanded for thy adulterous intentions of repudiating her. By me thou art warned not to pursue the incestuous design on thy contracted daughter. Women that delivered her from thy fury, when the judgment so recently fallen on thy house, ought to have inspired thee with other thoughts, will continue to watch over her. Even I, a poor and despised friar, am able to protect her from thy violence. I, a sinner as I am, and uncharitably reviled by your highness as an accomplice, of I know not what amours, scorn the averments with which it pleased thee to tempt my honesty. I love my order. I honour devout souls. I respect the piety of thy princess. But I will not betray the confidence she reposes in me, nor serve even to cause of religion by foul and sinful compliances. But forsooth, the welfare of the state depends on your highness having a son. Heaven mocks the short-sighted views of man. But yester-morne, whose house was so great, so flourishing as Manfred's. Where is the young con red now? My lord, I respect your tears. But I mean not to check them. Let them flow, prince. They will weigh more with the heaven toward the welfare of thy subjects than a marriage which, founded on lust or policy, could never prosper. The scepter which passed from the race of Alfonso to thine cannot be preserved by a match which the church will never allow. If it is the will of the most high that Manfred's name must perish, resign yourself, my lord, to its decrees. And thus deserve a crown that can never pass away. Come, my lord, I like this sorrow. Let us return to the princess. She is not deprived of your cruel intentions, nor did I mean more than to alarm you. You saw with what gentle patience, with what efforts of love she heard and rejected hearing, the extent of your guilt. I know she longs to fold you in her arms and assure you of her unalterable affection. Father, said the prince, you mistake my compunction. True, I honor Hippolita's virtues, I think her a saint, and wish it were for my soul's health, to tie faster than not that has united us. But alas, Father, you know not the bitterest of my pangs. It is some time I have had scruples on the legality of our union. Hippolita is related to me in the fourth degree. It is true. We had a dispensation. But I have been informed that she had also been contracted to another. This it is that sits heavy at my heart. To this state of unlawful wedlock I impute the visitation that has fallen on me in the death of Conrad. Ease my conscience of this burden, dissolve our marriage, and accomplish the work of godliness, which your divine exhortations have commenced in my soul. How cutting was the anguish the good man felt when he perceived this turn in the wily prince. He trembled for Hippolita, whose ruin he saw was determined, and he feared if Manfred had no hope of recovering Isabella that his impatience for a son would direct him to some other object who might not be equally proof against the temptations of Manfred's rank, for some time the holy man remained absorbed in thought. At length, conceiving some hopes from delay, he thought the wisest conduct would be to prevent the prince from despairing of recovering Isabella. Her the friar knew he could dispose, from her affections to Hippolita, and from the aversion she had expressed to him for Manfred's address, to second his views till the censure of the church could be fulminated against a divorce. With this intention, as if struck with the prince's scruples, he at length said, my lord, I have been pondering on what your highness has said, and if in truth it is delicacy of conscience that is the real motive of your repugnance to your virtuous lady, far be it from me to endeavor to harden your heart. The church is an indulgent mother, unfold to your griefs to her. She alone can administer comfort to your soul, either by satisfying your conscience, or upon examination of your scruples by setting you at liberty and indulging you in the lawful means of continuing your lineage. In the latter case, if the lady Isabella can be brought to consent, Manfred, who concluded that he had either overreached the good man, or that his first warmth had been but a tribute paid to appearance, was overjoyed at this sudden turn, and repeated the most magnificent promises, if he should succeed by the friar's mediation. The well-meaning priest suffered him to deceive himself, only determined to traverse his views, instead of seconding them. Since we now understand one another, resume the prince, I expect father that you satisfy me in one point. Who is the youth that I found in the vault? He must have been privy to Isabella's flight. Tell me truly, is he her lover, or is he an agent for another's passion? I have often suspected Isabella's indifference to my son, a thousand circumstances crowd on my mind that confirm that suspicion. She herself was so conscious of it, that while I discorsed her in the gallery, she outran my suspicious and endeavored to justify herself from the coolness to Conrad. The friar, who knew nothing of the youth but what he had learnt occasionally from the princess, ignorant what was become of him and not sufficiently reflecting on the impetuosity of Manfred's conceived that it might not be amiss to sow seeds of jealousy in his mind. They might be turned to some use hereafter, either by prejudicing the prince against Isabella, if he persisted in that union, or by diverting his attention to a wrong scent and employing his thoughts on a visionary intrigue, prevent his engaging in any new pursuit. With this unhappy policy, he answered in a manner to confirm Manfred in his belief of some connection between Isabella and the youth. The prince, whose passions wanted little fuel to throw them into a blaze, fell into a rage at the idea of what the friar suggested. I will fathom to the bottom of this intrigue, cried he, and quitting Jerome abruptly, with the command to remain there till his return, he hastened to the great hall of the castle, and ordered the peasant to be brought before him. Thou hardened young imposter, said the prince, as soon as he saw the youth. What becomes of thy boasted veracity now? It was providence, was it, and the light of the moon that discovered the lock of the trap-door to thee? Tell me, audacious boy, who thou art, and how long thou hast been acquainted with the princess, and take care to answer with less equivocation than thou didst last night, or torture shall ring the truth from thee? The young man, perceiving that his share in the flight of the princess was discovered, and concluding that anything he should say could no longer be of any service or detriment to her, replied, I am no imposter, my lord, nor have I deserved approbrious language. I answered to every question your highness put to me last night, with the same veracity that I shall speak now, and that will not be from fear of your tortures, but because my soul uphors a falsehood. Please to repeat your question, my lord, I am ready to give you all the satisfaction in my power. You know my questions, replied the prince, and only want time to prepare an evasion. Speak directly, who art thou, and how long hast thou been known to the princess? I am a laborer in the next village, said the peasant. My name is Theodore. The princess found me in the vault last night, before that hour I never was in her presence. I may believe as much or as little as I please of this, said Manfred, but I will hear thy own story before I examine into the truth of it. Tell me, what reason did the princess give thee for making her escape? Thy life depends on thy answer. She told me, replied Theodore, that she was on the brink of destruction, and that if she could not escape from the castle, she was in danger in a few moments of being made miserable forever. And on this slight foundation, on a silly girl's report, said Manfred, thou ditched hazard my displeasure. I fear no man's displeasure, said Theodore, when a woman in distress puts herself under my protection. During this examination Matilda was going to the apartment of Hippolita. At the upper end of the hall, where Manfred sat, was a boarded gallery with lattice windows, through which Matilda and Bianca were to pass. Hearing her father's voice, and seeing the servants assembled round him, she stopped to learn the occasion. The prisoner soon drew her attention. The steady and composed manner in which he entered, and the gallantry of his last reply, which were the first words she heard distinctly, interested her in his flavor. His person was noble, handsome, and commanding, even in that situation, but his countenance soon engrossed her whole care. Heaven's Bianca, said the princess softly, do I dream, or is not that youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso's picture in the gallery? She could say no more, for her father's voice grew louder at every word. This bravado, said he, surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt experience the wrath which thou derest to trifle. Seize him, continued Manfred, and bind him, the first news the princess hears of her champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her sake. The injustice which thou art guilty towards me, said Theodore, convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the princess from thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me. This is a lover, cried Manfred and Rage, a peasant with insight of death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy, who thou art, or the wrack shall force thy secret from thee? Thou hast threatened me with death already, said the youth, for the truth I have told thee. If that is all the encouragement I am to expect for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther. Then thou wilt not speak, said Manfred. I will not, replied he. Bear him away into the courtyard, said Manfred. I will see his head this instant severed from his body. Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked and cried, Help! Help! The princess is dead! Manfred started at this ejaculation and demanded what was the matter. The young peasant who heard it, too, was struck with horror and asked eagerly the same question. But Manfred ordered him to be hurried into the court and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself of the cause of Bianca's shrieks. When he learned the meaning, he treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to her apartment. He rushed into the court, and, calling for one of the guards, bait Theodore kneel down and prepare to receive the fatal blow. The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that touched every heart, but Manfred's. He wished earnestly to know the meaning of the words he had heard relating to the princess. But fearing to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he assisted. The only boon he was deigned to ask was that he might be permitted to have a confessor and make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor's means to come at the youth's history, readily granted his request. And being convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to be called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen the catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the prince and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent blood. He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion, endeavored to descopate the youth, and left no method untried to soften the tyrant's rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome's intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed upon by both, commanded the friar to do his duty, telling him he would not allow the prisoner many minutes for confession. Nor do I ask for many, my lord, said the unhappy young man. My sins, thank heaven, have not been numerous, nor exceed what might be expected at my years. Dry your tears, good father, and let us dispatch. This is a bad world, nor have I caused to leave it with regret. O wretched youth, said Jerome, how canst thou bear the sight of me with patience? I am thy murderer. It is I have brought to this dismal hour upon thee. I forgive thee from my soul, said the youth, as I hope heaven will pardon me. Hear my confession, father, and give me thy blessing. How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought, said Jerome? Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes, and canst thou forgive that impious man there? I can, said Theodore. I do. And does not this touch thee, cruel prince? said the friar. I sent for thee to confess him, said Manfred sternly, not to plead for him. Thou didst first incense me against him, his blood be upon thy head. It will, it will, said the good man in the agony of sorrow. Thou and I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going. Dispatch, said Manfred. I am no more to be moved by the whining of priests than by the shrieks of women. What, said the youth, is it possible that my fate could have occasioned what I heard? Is the princess then again in thy power? Thou dost but remember me of my wrath, said Manfred. Prepare thee for this moment is thy last. The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as into the friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet and unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a bloody arrow. Gracious heavens! cried the holy man, starting, what do I see? Is this my child, my Theodore? The passions that ensued must be conceived. They cannot be painted. The tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by joy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their lord what they ought to feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of the youth. He received, with modest submission, the effusions of the old man's tears and embraces, yet afraid of giving a loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of Manfred's temper, he cast a glance towards the prince, as if to say, can't thou be unmoved at such a scene as this? Manfred's heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his astonishment. Yet his pride forbade his owning himself affected. He even doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the friar to save the youth. What may this mean? said he. How can he be thy son? Is it consistent with thy profession, or reputed sanctity, to avow a peasant's offspring, for the fruit of thy irregular amours? Oh, God! said the holy man, thus thou question his being mine. Could I feel to anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! Good prince, spare him, and revile me as thou pleasest. Spare him! Spare him! cried the attendants. For this good man's sake! Peace! said Manfred sternly. I must know more ere I am disposed to pardon. A saint's bastard may be no saint himself. Injurious lord! said Theodore. Add not insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable man's son, though no prince is thou art know the blood that flows in my veins. Yes! said the friar, interrupting him. His blood is noble. Nor is he that abject thing. My lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But alas, my lord, what is blood? What is nobility? We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dust wince we sprung, and wither we must return. Truce to your sermon! said Manfred, you forget you are no longer friar Jerome, but the count of Falconara. Let me know your history. You will have time to moralize hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there. Mother of God! said the friar, is it possible my lord can refuse a father the life of his only, his long lost child? Trample me, my lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son. Thou canst feel, then, said Manfred, what it is to lose an only son. A little hour ago, thou ditched preach up resignation to me. My house, if fate so pleased, must perish. But the count of Falconara, alas, my lord, said Jerome, I confess I have offended, but aggravate not an old man's suffering. I boast not of my family, nor think of such fanities. It is nature that pleads for this boy. It is the memory of the dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead? Her soul has long been with the blessed, said Theodore. Oh, ow, cried Jerome, tell me, no. She is happy. Thou art all my care now. Most dread, lord, will you? Will you grant me my poor boy's life? Return to thy convent, answered Manfred. Conduct the princess hither, obey me in what else thou knowest, and I promise thee the life of thy son. Oh, my lord, said Jerome, is my honesty the price I must pay for this dear youth's safety. For me, cried Theodore, let me die a thousand deaths rather than stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the princess still safe from his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man, and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me. Jerome endeavored to check the impetuosity of the youth, and ere Manfred could reply the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet, which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the same instant the sable-plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still remained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously agitated, and nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer. End of chapter 2