I
do not believe he will ever recover it.”

“Recover what?” said Manfred; “am I never to learn what it is has
terrified these rascals?—but I lose my time; follow me, slave; I will see
if she is in the gallery.”

“For Heaven’s sake, my dear, good Lord,” cried Jaquez, “do not go to the
gallery. Satan himself I believe is in the chamber next to the gallery.”

Manfred, who hitherto had treated the terror of his servants as an idle
panic, was struck at this new circumstance. He recollected the
apparition of the portrait, and the sudden closing of the door at the end
of the gallery. His voice faltered, and he asked with disorder—

“What is in the great chamber?”

“My Lord,” said Jaquez, “when Diego and I came into the gallery, he went
first, for he said he had more courage than I. So when we came into the
gallery we found nobody. We looked under every bench and stool; and
still we found nobody.”

“Were all the pictures in their places?” said Manfred. “Yes, my Lord,” answered Jaquez; “but we did not think of looking behind
them.”

“Well, well!” said Manfred; “proceed.”

“When we came to the door of the great chamber,” continued Jaquez, “we
found it shut.”

“And could not you open it?” said Manfred. “Oh! yes, my Lord; would to Heaven we had not!” replied he—“nay, it was
not I neither; it was Diego: he was grown foolhardy, and would go on,
though I advised him not—if ever I open a door that is shut again—”

“Trifle not,” said Manfred, shuddering, “but tell me what you saw in the
great chamber on opening the door.”

“I, my Lord!” said Jaquez; “I was behind Diego; but I heard the noise.”

“Jaquez,” said Manfred, in a solemn tone of voice; “tell me, I adjure
thee by the souls of my ancestors, what was it thou sawest? what was it
thou heardest?”

“It was Diego saw it, my Lord, it was not I,” replied Jaquez; “I only
heard the noise. Diego had no sooner opened the door, than he cried out,
and ran back. I ran back too, and said, ‘Is it the ghost?’ ‘The ghost! no, no,’ said Diego, and his hair stood on end—‘it is a giant, I believe;
he is all clad in armour, for I saw his foot and part of his leg, and
they are as large as the helmet below in the court.’ As he said these
words, my Lord, we heard a violent motion and the rattling of armour, as
if the giant was rising, for Diego has told me since that he believes the
giant was lying down, for the foot and leg were stretched at length on
the floor. Before we could get to the end of the gallery, we heard the
door of the great chamber clap behind us, but we did not dare turn back
to see if the giant was following us—yet, now I think on it, we must have
heard him if he had pursued us—but for Heaven’s sake, good my Lord, send
for the chaplain, and have the castle exorcised, for, for certain, it is
enchanted.”

“Ay, pray do, my Lord,” cried all the servants at once, “or we must leave
your Highness’s service.”

“Peace, dotards!” said Manfred, “and follow me; I will know what all this
means.”

“We! my Lord!” cried they with one voice; “we would not go up to the
gallery for your Highness’s revenue.” The young peasant, who had stood
silent, now spoke. “Will your Highness,” said he, “permit me to try this adventure? My life
is of consequence to nobody; I fear no bad angel, and have offended no
good one.”

“Your behaviour is above your seeming,” said Manfred, viewing him with
surprise and admiration—“hereafter I will reward your bravery—but now,”
continued he with a sigh, “I am so circumstanced, that I dare trust no
eyes but my own. However, I give you leave to accompany me.”

Manfred, when he first followed Isabella from the gallery, had gone
directly to the apartment of his wife, concluding the Princess had
retired thither. Hippolita, who knew his step, rose with anxious
fondness to meet her Lord, whom she had not seen since the death of their
son. She would have flown in a transport mixed of joy and grief to his
bosom, but he pushed her rudely off, and said—

“Where is Isabella?”

“Isabella! my Lord!” said the astonished Hippolita. “Yes, Isabella,” cried Manfred imperiously; “I want Isabella.”

“My Lord,” replied Matilda, who perceived how much his behaviour had
shocked her mother, “she has not been with us since your Highness
summoned her to your apartment.”

“Tell me where she is,” said the Prince; “I do not want to know where she
has been.”

“My good Lord,” says Hippolita, “your daughter tells you the truth:
Isabella left us by your command, and has not returned since;—but, my
good Lord, compose yourself: retire to your rest: this dismal day has
disordered you. Isabella shall wait your orders in the morning.”

“What, then, you know where she is!” cried Manfred. “Tell me directly,
for I will not lose an instant—and you, woman,” speaking to his wife,
“order your chaplain to attend me forthwith.”

“Isabella,” said Hippolita calmly, “is retired, I suppose, to her
chamber: she is not accustomed to watch at this late hour. Gracious my
Lord,” continued she, “let me know what has disturbed you. Has Isabella
offended you?”

“Trouble me not with questions,” said Manfred, “but tell me where she
is.”

“Matilda shall call her,” said the Princess. “Sit down, my Lord, and
resume your wonted fortitude.”

“What, art thou jealous of Isabella?” replied he, “that you wish to be
present at our interview!”

“Good heavens! my Lord,” said Hippolita, “what is it your Highness
means?”

“Thou wilt know ere many minutes are passed,” said the cruel Prince. “Send your chaplain to me, and wait my pleasure here.”

At these words he flung out of the room in search of Isabella, leaving
the amazed ladies thunderstruck with his words and frantic deportment,
and lost in vain conjectures on what he was meditating. Manfred was now returning from the vault, attended by the peasant and a
few of his servants whom he had obliged to accompany him. He ascended
the staircase without stopping till he arrived at the gallery, at the
door of which he met Hippolita and her chaplain. When Diego had been
dismissed by Manfred, he had gone directly to the Princess’s apartment
with the alarm of what he had seen. That excellent Lady, who no more
than Manfred doubted of the reality of the vision, yet affected to treat
it as a delirium of the servant. Willing, however, to save her Lord from
any additional shock, and prepared by a series of griefs not to tremble
at any accession to it, she determined to make herself the first
sacrifice, if fate had marked the present hour for their destruction. Dismissing the reluctant Matilda to her rest, who in vain sued for leave
to accompany her mother, and attended only by her chaplain, Hippolita had
visited the gallery and great chamber; and now with more serenity of soul
than she had felt for many hours, she met her Lord, and assured him that
the vision of the gigantic leg and foot was all a fable; and no doubt an
impression made by fear, and the dark and dismal hour of the night, on
the minds of his servants.