Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging
over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her
with hopes of life. Jerome, on the other side, comforted her with
discourses of heaven, and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed
with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in
despair. Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful
catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the
afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her
senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and
Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was
lost in tenderness for her mother. Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself,
she asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda,
seizing his hand and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then
clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of
pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he
was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were
more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be
borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the
nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was
regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella’s care
would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda’s
wound, she cried,

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

Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again
without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand
soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons
into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with
a transport equal to frenzy. “Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shall be mine in
death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried he to the
Friar, who, with the Marquis, had accompanied the surgeons. “What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome. “Is this an hour for
marriage?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the Princess was
near her end. “What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible!”

The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up
her eyes, she looked round for her mother. “Life of my soul, I am here!” cried Hippolita; “think not I will quit
thee!”

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

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

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

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

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot
be—Isabella—Theodore—for my sake—Oh!—” she expired. Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore
threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He
printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every
expression that despairing love could dictate. Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to
her apartment; but, in the middle of the court, they were met by Manfred,
who, distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold
his daughter, was advancing to the chamber where she lay. As the moon
was now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhappy
company the event he dreaded. “What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunder at
that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and
the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and
Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore
along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared,
the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty
force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared
in the centre of the ruins. “Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: And
having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it
ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the
form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were
soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory. The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine
will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita. “My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of
human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore we
view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I know
not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but
dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the
further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon
holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.”

“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied
Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh! could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last do justice on
myself!