“Heavens! Bianca,” said the Princess softly, “do I dream? or is not that
youth the exact resemblance of Alfonso’s picture in the gallery?”

She could say no more, for her father’s voice grew louder at every word. “This bravado,” said he, “surpasses all thy former insolence. Thou shalt
experience the wrath with which thou darest to trifle. Seize him,”
continued Manfred, “and bind him—the first news the Princess hears of her
champion shall be, that he has lost his head for her sake.”

“The injustice of which thou art guilty towards me,” said Theodore,
“convinces me that I have done a good deed in delivering the Princess
from thy tyranny. May she be happy, whatever becomes of me!”

“This is a lover!” cried Manfred in a rage: “a peasant within sight of
death is not animated by such sentiments. Tell me, tell me, rash boy,
who thou art, or the rack shall force thy secret from thee.”

“Thou hast threatened me with death already,” said the youth, “for the
truth I have told thee: if that is all the encouragement I am to expect
for sincerity, I am not tempted to indulge thy vain curiosity farther.”

“Then thou wilt not speak?” said Manfred. “I will not,” replied he. “Bear him away into the courtyard,” said Manfred; “I will see his head
this instant severed from his body.”

Matilda fainted at hearing those words. Bianca shrieked, and cried—“Help! help! the Princess is dead!”

Manfred started at this ejaculation, and demanded what was the matter! The young peasant, who heard it too, was struck with horror, and asked
eagerly the same question; but Manfred ordered him to be hurried into
the court, and kept there for execution, till he had informed himself
of the cause of Bianca’s shrieks. When he learned the meaning, he
treated it as a womanish panic, and ordering Matilda to be carried to
her apartment, he rushed into the court, and calling for one of his
guards, bade Theodore kneel down, and prepare to receive the fatal blow. The undaunted youth received the bitter sentence with a resignation that
touched every heart but Manfred’s. He wished earnestly to know the
meaning of the words he had heard relating to the Princess; but fearing
to exasperate the tyrant more against her, he desisted. The only boon he
deigned to ask was, that he might be permitted to have a confessor, and
make his peace with heaven. Manfred, who hoped by the confessor’s means
to come at the youth’s history, readily granted his request; and being
convinced that Father Jerome was now in his interest, he ordered him to
be called and shrive the prisoner. The holy man, who had little foreseen
the catastrophe that his imprudence occasioned, fell on his knees to the
Prince, and adjured him in the most solemn manner not to shed innocent
blood. He accused himself in the bitterest terms for his indiscretion,
endeavoured to disculpate the youth, and left no method untried to soften
the tyrant’s rage. Manfred, more incensed than appeased by Jerome’s
intercession, whose retraction now made him suspect he had been imposed
upon by both, commanded the Friar to do his duty, telling him he would
not allow the prisoner many minutes for confession. “Nor do I ask many, my Lord,” said the unhappy young man. “My sins,
thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected
at my years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is
a bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.”

“Oh wretched youth!” said Jerome; “how canst thou bear the sight of me
with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour
upon thee!”

“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hope heaven will
pardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing.”

“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome. “Thou
canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive that
impious man there?”

“I can,” said Theodore; “I do.”

“And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?” said the Friar. “I sent for thee to confess him,” said Manfred, sternly; “not to plead
for him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thy
head!”

“It will! it will!” said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. “Thou and
I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!”

“Despatch!” said Manfred; “I am no more to be moved by the whining of
priests than by the shrieks of women.”

“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate could have
occasioned what I heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?”

“Thou dost but remember me of my wrath,” said Manfred. “Prepare thee,
for this moment is thy last.”

The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the
sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as
into the Friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and
unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his
shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a
bloody arrow. “Gracious heaven!” cried the holy man, starting; “what do I see? It is
my child! my Theodore!”

The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The
tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by
joy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to
feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the
countenance of the youth. He received with modest submission the
effusion of the old man’s tears and embraces. Yet afraid of giving a
loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of
Manfred’s temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say,
canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this? Manfred’s heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his
astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even
doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save
the youth. “What may this mean?” said he. “How can he be thy son? Is it consistent
with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’s offspring for
the fruit of thy irregular amours!”

“Oh, God!” said the holy man, “dost thou question his being mine? Could
I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! good
Prince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest.”

“Spare him! spare him!” cried the attendants; “for this good man’s sake!”

“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I am disposed to
pardon. A Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”

“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty. If I am
this venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood
that flows in my veins—”

“Yes,” said the Friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble; nor is he
that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and
Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But
alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles,
miserable, sinful creatures.