thou mistakest,” said Matilda, sighing: “I am Manfred’s daughter,
but no dangers await me.”

“Amazement!” said Theodore; “but last night I blessed myself for yielding
thee the service thy gracious compassion so charitably returns me now.”

“Still thou art in an error,” said the Princess; “but this is no time for
explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee:
should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to
tremble.”

“How!” said Theodore; “thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept
of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? Better I endured a
thousand deaths.”

“I run no risk,” said Matilda, “but by thy delay. Depart; it cannot be
known that I have assisted thy flight.”

“Swear by the saints above,” said Theodore, “that thou canst not be
suspected; else here I vow to await whatever can befall me.”

“Oh! thou art too generous,” said Matilda; “but rest assured that no
suspicion can alight on me.”

“Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,” said
Theodore; “and let me bathe it with the warm tears of gratitude.”

“Forbear!” said the Princess; “this must not be.”

“Alas!” said Theodore, “I have never known but calamity until this
hour—perhaps shall never know other fortune again: suffer the chaste
raptures of holy gratitude: ’tis my soul would print its effusions on thy
hand.”

“Forbear, and be gone,” said Matilda. “How would Isabella approve of
seeing thee at my feet?”

“Who is Isabella?” said the young man with surprise. “Ah, me! I fear,” said the Princess, “I am serving a deceitful one. Hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?”

“Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation of
divinity,” said Theodore; “but thy words are dark and mysterious. Speak,
Lady; speak to thy servant’s comprehension.”

“Thou understandest but too well!” said Matilda; “but once more I command
thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my head, if
I waste the time in vain discourse.”

“I go, Lady,” said Theodore, “because it is thy will, and because I would
not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave. Say but,
adored Lady, that I have thy gentle pity.”

“Stay,” said Matilda; “I will conduct thee to the subterraneous vault by
which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas,
where thou mayst take sanctuary.”

“What!” said Theodore, “was it another, and not thy lovely self that I
assisted to find the subterraneous passage?”

“It was,” said Matilda; “but ask no more; I tremble to see thee still
abide here; fly to the sanctuary.”

“To sanctuary,” said Theodore; “no, Princess; sanctuaries are for
helpless damsels, or for criminals. Theodore’s soul is free from guilt,
nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a sword, Lady, and thy
father shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight.”

“Rash youth!” said Matilda; “thou wouldst not dare to lift thy
presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?”

“Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not,” said Theodore. “Excuse me,
Lady; I had forgotten. But could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art
sprung from the tyrant Manfred! But he is thy father, and from this
moment my injuries are buried in oblivion.”

A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the
Princess and Theodore. “Good heaven! we are overheard!” said the Princess. They listened; but
perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up
vapours. And the Princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her
father’s armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was
conducted by Matilda to the postern-gate. “Avoid the town,” said the Princess, “and all the western side of the
castle. ’Tis there the search must be making by Manfred and the
strangers; but hie thee to the opposite quarter. Yonder behind that
forest to the east is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of
caverns that reach to the sea coast. There thou mayst lie concealed,
till thou canst make signs to some vessel to put on shore, and take thee
off. Go! heaven be thy guide!—and sometimes in thy prayers
remember—Matilda!”

Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with
struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity
to get himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear
himself eternally her knight. Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of
thunder was suddenly heard that shook the battlements. Theodore,
regardless of the tempest, would have urged his suit: but the Princess,
dismayed, retreated hastily into the castle, and commanded the youth to
be gone with an air that would not be disobeyed. He sighed, and retired,
but with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, closing it, put an end to
an interview, in which the hearts of both had drunk so deeply of a
passion, which both now tasted for the first time. Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with his
deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit
that was making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose
story he now first became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his
nature prompted him to wish to assist her; but the Monks could lend him
no lights to guess at the route she had taken. He was not tempted to
wander far in search of her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted itself
so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear to absent himself at
much distance from her abode. The tenderness Jerome had expressed for
him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he even persuaded himself
that filial affection was the chief cause of his hovering between the
castle and monastery. Until Jerome should return at night, Theodore at length determined to
repair to the forest that Matilda had pointed out to him. Arriving
there, he sought the gloomiest shades, as best suited to the pleasing
melancholy that reigned in his mind. In this mood he roved insensibly to
the caves which had formerly served as a retreat to hermits, and were now
reported round the country to be haunted by evil spirits. He recollected
to have heard this tradition; and being of a brave and adventurous
disposition, he willingly indulged his curiosity in exploring the secret
recesses of this labyrinth. He had not penetrated far before he thought
he heard the steps of some person who seemed to retreat before him. Theodore, though firmly grounded in all our holy faith enjoins to be
believed, had no apprehension that good men were abandoned without cause
to the malice of the powers of darkness. He thought the place more
likely to be infested by robbers than by those infernal agents who are
reported to molest and bewilder travellers. He had long burned with
impatience to approve his valour. Drawing his sabre, he marched sedately
onwards, still directing his steps as the imperfect rustling sound before
him led the way.