The armour he wore was a like indication to the person
who avoided him. Theodore, now convinced that he was not mistaken,
redoubled his pace, and evidently gained on the person that fled, whose
haste increasing, Theodore came up just as a woman fell breathless before
him. He hasted to raise her, but her terror was so great that he
apprehended she would faint in his arms. He used every gentle word to
dispel her alarms, and assured her that far from injuring, he would
defend her at the peril of his life. The Lady recovering her spirits
from his courteous demeanour, and gazing on her protector, said—

“Sure, I have heard that voice before!”

“Not to my knowledge,” replied Theodore; “unless, as I conjecture, thou
art the Lady Isabella.”

“Merciful heaven!” cried she. “Thou art not sent in quest of me, art
thou?” And saying those words, she threw herself at his feet, and
besought him not to deliver her up to Manfred. “To Manfred!” cried Theodore—“no, Lady; I have once already delivered
thee from his tyranny, and it shall fare hard with me now, but I will
place thee out of the reach of his daring.”

“Is it possible,” said she, “that thou shouldst be the generous unknown
whom I met last night in the vault of the castle? Sure thou art not a
mortal, but my guardian angel. On my knees, let me thank—”

“Hold! gentle Princess,” said Theodore, “nor demean thyself before a poor
and friendless young man. If heaven has selected me for thy deliverer,
it will accomplish its work, and strengthen my arm in thy cause. But
come, Lady, we are too near the mouth of the cavern; let us seek its
inmost recesses. I can have no tranquillity till I have placed thee
beyond the reach of danger.”

“Alas! what mean you, sir?” said she. “Though all your actions are
noble, though your sentiments speak the purity of your soul, is it
fitting that I should accompany you alone into these perplexed retreats? Should we be found together, what would a censorious world think of my
conduct?”

“I respect your virtuous delicacy,” said Theodore; “nor do you harbour a
suspicion that wounds my honour. I meant to conduct you into the most
private cavity of these rocks, and then at the hazard of my life to guard
their entrance against every living thing. Besides, Lady,” continued he,
drawing a deep sigh, “beauteous and all perfect as your form is, and
though my wishes are not guiltless of aspiring, know, my soul is
dedicated to another; and although—” A sudden noise prevented Theodore
from proceeding. They soon distinguished these sounds—

“Isabella! what, ho! Isabella!” The trembling Princess relapsed into her
former agony of fear. Theodore endeavoured to encourage her, but in
vain. He assured her he would die rather than suffer her to return under
Manfred’s power; and begging her to remain concealed, he went forth to
prevent the person in search of her from approaching. At the mouth of the cavern he found an armed Knight, discoursing with a
peasant, who assured him he had seen a lady enter the passes of the rock. The Knight was preparing to seek her, when Theodore, placing himself in
his way, with his sword drawn, sternly forbad him at his peril to
advance. “And who art thou, who darest to cross my way?” said the Knight,
haughtily. “One who does not dare more than he will perform,” said Theodore. “I seek the Lady Isabella,” said the Knight, “and understand she has
taken refuge among these rocks. Impede me not, or thou wilt repent
having provoked my resentment.”

“Thy purpose is as odious as thy resentment is contemptible,” said
Theodore. “Return whence thou camest, or we shall soon know whose
resentment is most terrible.”

The stranger, who was the principal Knight that had arrived from the
Marquis of Vicenza, had galloped from Manfred as he was busied in getting
information of the Princess, and giving various orders to prevent her
falling into the power of the three Knights. Their chief had suspected
Manfred of being privy to the Princess’s absconding, and this insult from
a man, who he concluded was stationed by that Prince to secrete her,
confirming his suspicions, he made no reply, but discharging a blow with
his sabre at Theodore, would soon have removed all obstruction, if
Theodore, who took him for one of Manfred’s captains, and who had no
sooner given the provocation than prepared to support it, had not
received the stroke on his shield. The valour that had so long been
smothered in his breast broke forth at once; he rushed impetuously on the
Knight, whose pride and wrath were not less powerful incentives to hardy
deeds. The combat was furious, but not long. Theodore wounded the
Knight in three several places, and at last disarmed him as he fainted by
the loss of blood. The peasant, who had fled on the first onset, had given the alarm to some
of Manfred’s domestics, who, by his orders, were dispersed through the
forest in pursuit of Isabella. They came up as the Knight fell, whom
they soon discovered to be the noble stranger. Theodore, notwithstanding
his hatred to Manfred, could not behold the victory he had gained without
emotions of pity and generosity. But he was more touched when he learned
the quality of his adversary, and was informed that he was no retainer,
but an enemy, of Manfred. He assisted the servants of the latter in
disarming the Knight, and in endeavouring to stanch the blood that flowed
from his wounds. The Knight recovering his speech, said, in a faint and
faltering voice—

“Generous foe, we have both been in an error. I took thee for an
instrument of the tyrant; I perceive thou hast made the like mistake. It
is too late for excuses. I faint. If Isabella is at hand—call her—I
have important secrets to—”

“He is dying!” said one of the attendants; “has nobody a crucifix about
them? Andrea, do thou pray over him.”

“Fetch some water,” said Theodore, “and pour it down his throat, while I
hasten to the Princess.”

Saying this, he flew to Isabella, and in few words told her modestly that
he had been so unfortunate by mistake as to wound a gentleman from her
father’s court, who wished, ere he died, to impart something of
consequence to her. The Princess, who had been transported at hearing the voice of Theodore,
as he called to her to come forth, was astonished at what she heard. Suffering herself to be conducted by Theodore, the new proof of whose
valour recalled her dispersed spirits, she came where the bleeding Knight
lay speechless on the ground. But her fears returned when she beheld the
domestics of Manfred. She would again have fled if Theodore had not made
her observe that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with
instant death if they should dare to seize the Princess. The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, “Art
thou—pray tell me truly—art thou Isabella of Vicenza?”

“I am,” said she: “good heaven restore thee!”

“Then thou—then thou”—said the Knight, struggling for
utterance—“seest—thy father. Give me one—”

“Oh! amazement! horror! what do I hear!