When the news reached
Manfred’s ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady Isabella to deliver
her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by which alliance he had
proposed to unite the claims of the two houses. This motive, on Conrad’s
death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve on espousing her
himself; and the same reflection determined him now to endeavour at
obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage. A like policy
inspired him with the thought of inviting Frederic’s champion into the
castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella’s flight, which he
strictly enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight’s
retinue. “Herald,” said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these reflections,
“return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by
the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid him welcome to
my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have
courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we
cannot adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in
safety, and shall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms:
So help me God and His holy Trinity!”

The Herald made three obeisances and retired. During this interview Jerome’s mind was agitated by a thousand contrary
passions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was
to persuade Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less
alarmed at the thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita’s
unbounded submission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt
but he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get
access to her; yet should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from
him, it might be equally fatal to Theodore. He was impatient to know
whence came the Herald, who with so little management had questioned the
title of Manfred: yet he did not dare absent himself from the convent,
lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be imputed to him. He
returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain on what conduct to
resolve. A Monk, who met him in the porch and observed his melancholy
air, said—

“Alas! brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent Princess
Hippolita?”

The holy man started, and cried, “What meanest thou, brother? I come
this instant from the castle, and left her in perfect health.”

“Martelli,” replied the other Friar, “passed by the convent but a quarter
of an hour ago on his way from the castle, and reported that her Highness
was dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for her happy
transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival. They know
thy holy attachment to that good Lady, and are anxious for the affliction
it will cause in thee—indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a mother
to our house. But this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur—we
shall all follow her! May our end be like hers!”

“Good brother, thou dreamest,” said Jerome. “I tell thee I come from the
castle, and left the Princess well. Where is the Lady Isabella?”

“Poor Gentlewoman!” replied the Friar; “I told her the sad news, and
offered her spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the transitory
condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the
example of the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon.”

“Thy zeal was laudable,” said Jerome, impatiently; “but at present it was
unnecessary: Hippolita is well—at least I trust in the Lord she is; I
heard nothing to the contrary—yet, methinks, the Prince’s
earnestness—Well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella?”

“I know not,” said the Friar; “she wept much, and said she would retire
to her chamber.”

Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she
was not in her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but
could learn no news of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery
and the church, and despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get
intelligence if she had been seen; but to no purpose. Nothing could
equal the good man’s perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting
Manfred of having precipitated his wife’s death, had taken the alarm, and
withdrawn herself to some more secret place of concealment. This new
flight would probably carry the Prince’s fury to the height. The report
of Hippolita’s death, though it seemed almost incredible, increased his
consternation; and though Isabella’s escape bespoke her aversion of
Manfred for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it, while it
endangered the life of his son. He determined to return to the castle,
and made several of his brethren accompany him to attest his innocence to
Manfred, and, if necessary, join their intercession with his for
Theodore. The Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the
gates of the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger
Knight and his train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First
came two harbingers with wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and
two trumpets. Then a hundred foot-guards. These were attended by as
many horse. After them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the
colours of the Knight. Then a led horse. Two heralds on each side of a
gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the arms of Vicenza and
Otranto quarterly—a circumstance that much offended Manfred—but he
stifled his resentment. Two more pages. The Knight’s confessor telling
his beads. Fifty more footmen clad as before. Two Knights habited in
complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal Knight. The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. The
Knight’s own squire. A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of it. The Knight himself on a
chestnut steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face
entirely concealed by his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of
scarlet and black feathers. Fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets
closed the procession, which wheeled off to the right and left to make
room for the principal Knight. As soon as he approached the gate he stopped; and the herald advancing,
read again the words of the challenge. Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the
gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his
attention was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him. He turned and beheld the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the
same extraordinary manner as before. It required intrepidity like
Manfred’s not to sink under a concurrence of circumstances that seemed to
announce his fate. Yet scorning in the presence of strangers to betray
the courage he had always manifested, he said boldly—

“Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal
mould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight,
thou wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point.