To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left
to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:
Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a
murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and
may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did not mean to
recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded. “I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoria
was delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria
died; and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative
has told the rest.”

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