what do I see!” cried Isabella. “My father! You my father! How came you here, Sir? For heaven’s sake,
speak! Oh! run for help, or he will expire!”

“’Tis most true,” said the wounded Knight, exerting all his force; “I am
Frederic thy father. Yes, I came to deliver thee. It will not be. Give
me a parting kiss, and take—”

“Sir,” said Theodore, “do not exhaust yourself; suffer us to convey you
to the castle.”

“To the castle!” said Isabella. “Is there no help nearer than the
castle? Would you expose my father to the tyrant? If he goes thither, I
dare not accompany him; and yet, can I leave him!”

“My child,” said Frederic, “it matters not for me whither I am carried. A few minutes will place me beyond danger; but while I have eyes to dote
on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave Knight—I know not who
he is—will protect thy innocence. Sir, you will not abandon my child,
will you?”

Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the
Princess at the expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself
to be conducted to the castle. They placed him on a horse belonging to
one of the domestics, after binding up his wounds as well as they were
able. Theodore marched by his side; and the afflicted Isabella, who
could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully behind. CHAPTER IV. The sorrowful troop no sooner arrived at the castle, than they were met
by Hippolita and Matilda, whom Isabella had sent one of the domestics
before to advertise of their approach. The ladies causing Frederic to be
conveyed into the nearest chamber, retired, while the surgeons examined
his wounds. Matilda blushed at seeing Theodore and Isabella together;
but endeavoured to conceal it by embracing the latter, and condoling with
her on her father’s mischance. The surgeons soon came to acquaint
Hippolita that none of the Marquis’s wounds were dangerous; and that he
was desirous of seeing his daughter and the Princesses. Theodore, under pretence of expressing his joy at being freed from his
apprehensions of the combat being fatal to Frederic, could not resist the
impulse of following Matilda. Her eyes were so often cast down on
meeting his, that Isabella, who regarded Theodore as attentively as he
gazed on Matilda, soon divined who the object was that he had told her in
the cave engaged his affections. While this mute scene passed, Hippolita
demanded of Frederic the cause of his having taken that mysterious course
for reclaiming his daughter; and threw in various apologies to excuse her
Lord for the match contracted between their children. Frederic, however incensed against Manfred, was not insensible to the
courtesy and benevolence of Hippolita: but he was still more struck with
the lovely form of Matilda. Wishing to detain them by his bedside, he
informed Hippolita of his story. He told her that, while prisoner to the
infidels, he had dreamed that his daughter, of whom he had learned no
news since his captivity, was detained in a castle, where she was in
danger of the most dreadful misfortunes: and that if he obtained his
liberty, and repaired to a wood near Joppa, he would learn more. Alarmed
at this dream, and incapable of obeying the direction given by it, his
chains became more grievous than ever. But while his thoughts were
occupied on the means of obtaining his liberty, he received the agreeable
news that the confederate Princes who were warring in Palestine had paid
his ransom. He instantly set out for the wood that had been marked in
his dream. For three days he and his attendants had wandered in the forest without
seeing a human form: but on the evening of the third they came to a cell,
in which they found a venerable hermit in the agonies of death. Applying
rich cordials, they brought the fainting man to his speech. “My sons,” said he, “I am bounden to your charity—but it is in vain—I am
going to my eternal rest—yet I die with the satisfaction of performing
the will of heaven. When first I repaired to this solitude, after seeing
my country become a prey to unbelievers—it is alas! above fifty years
since I was witness to that dreadful scene! St. Nicholas appeared to me,
and revealed a secret, which he bade me never disclose to mortal man, but
on my death-bed. This is that tremendous hour, and ye are no doubt the
chosen warriors to whom I was ordered to reveal my trust. As soon as ye
have done the last offices to this wretched corse, dig under the seventh
tree on the left hand of this poor cave, and your pains will—Oh! good
heaven receive my soul!” With those words the devout man breathed his
last. “By break of day,” continued Frederic, “when we had committed the holy
relics to earth, we dug according to direction. But what was our
astonishment when about the depth of six feet we discovered an enormous
sabre—the very weapon yonder in the court. On the blade, which was then
partly out of the scabbard, though since closed by our efforts in
removing it, were written the following lines—no; excuse me, Madam,”
added the Marquis, turning to Hippolita; “if I forbear to repeat them: I
respect your sex and rank, and would not be guilty of offending your ear
with sounds injurious to aught that is dear to you.”

He paused. Hippolita trembled. She did not doubt but Frederic was
destined by heaven to accomplish the fate that seemed to threaten her
house. Looking with anxious fondness at Matilda, a silent tear stole
down her cheek: but recollecting herself, she said—

“Proceed, my Lord; heaven does nothing in vain; mortals must receive its
divine behests with lowliness and submission. It is our part to
deprecate its wrath, or bow to its decrees. Repeat the sentence, my
Lord; we listen resigned.”

Frederic was grieved that he had proceeded so far. The dignity and
patient firmness of Hippolita penetrated him with respect, and the tender
silent affection with which the Princess and her daughter regarded each
other, melted him almost to tears. Yet apprehensive that his forbearance
to obey would be more alarming, he repeated in a faltering and low voice
the following lines:

    “Where’er a casque that suits this sword is found,
    With perils is thy daughter compass’d round;
    _Alfonso’s_ blood alone can save the maid,
    And quiet a long restless Prince’s shade.”

“What is there in these lines,” said Theodore impatiently, “that affects
these Princesses?