“Is it possible, Sirs,” continued the Prince, “that my story should be a
secret to you? Have you heard nothing relating to me and the Princess
Hippolita?”

They shook their heads. “No! Thus, then, Sirs, it is. You think me ambitious: ambition, alas! is composed of more rugged materials. If I were ambitious, I should not
for so many years have been a prey to all the hell of conscientious
scruples. But I weary your patience: I will be brief. Know, then, that
I have long been troubled in mind on my union with the Princess
Hippolita. Oh! Sirs, if ye were acquainted with that excellent woman! if
ye knew that I adore her like a mistress, and cherish her as a friend—but
man was not born for perfect happiness! She shares my scruples, and with
her consent I have brought this matter before the church, for we are
related within the forbidden degrees. I expect every hour the definitive
sentence that must separate us for ever—I am sure you feel for me—I see
you do—pardon these tears!”

The Knights gazed on each other, wondering where this would end. Manfred continued—

“The death of my son betiding while my soul was under this anxiety, I
thought of nothing but resigning my dominions, and retiring for ever from
the sight of mankind. My only difficulty was to fix on a successor, who
would be tender of my people, and to dispose of the Lady Isabella, who is
dear to me as my own blood. I was willing to restore the line of
Alfonso, even in his most distant kindred. And though, pardon me, I am
satisfied it was his will that Ricardo’s lineage should take place of his
own relations; yet where was I to search for those relations? I knew of
none but Frederic, your Lord; he was a captive to the infidels, or dead;
and were he living, and at home, would he quit the flourishing State of
Vicenza for the inconsiderable principality of Otranto? If he would not,
could I bear the thought of seeing a hard, unfeeling, Viceroy set over my
poor faithful people? for, Sirs, I love my people, and thank heaven am
beloved by them. But ye will ask whither tends this long discourse? Briefly, then, thus, Sirs. Heaven in your arrival seems to point out a
remedy for these difficulties and my misfortunes. The Lady Isabella is
at liberty; I shall soon be so. I would submit to anything for the good
of my people. Were it not the best, the only way to extinguish the feuds
between our families, if I was to take the Lady Isabella to wife? You
start. But though Hippolita’s virtues will ever be dear to me, a Prince
must not consider himself; he is born for his people.” A servant at that
instant entering the chamber apprised Manfred that Jerome and several of
his brethren demanded immediate access to him. The Prince, provoked at this interruption, and fearing that the Friar
would discover to the strangers that Isabella had taken sanctuary, was
going to forbid Jerome’s entrance. But recollecting that he was
certainly arrived to notify the Princess’s return, Manfred began to
excuse himself to the Knights for leaving them for a few moments, but was
prevented by the arrival of the Friars. Manfred angrily reprimanded them
for their intrusion, and would have forced them back from the chamber;
but Jerome was too much agitated to be repulsed. He declared aloud the
flight of Isabella, with protestations of his own innocence. Manfred, distracted at the news, and not less at its coming to the
knowledge of the strangers, uttered nothing but incoherent sentences, now
upbraiding the Friar, now apologising to the Knights, earnest to know
what was become of Isabella, yet equally afraid of their knowing;
impatient to pursue her, yet dreading to have them join in the pursuit. He offered to despatch messengers in quest of her, but the chief Knight,
no longer keeping silence, reproached Manfred in bitter terms for his
dark and ambiguous dealing, and demanded the cause of Isabella’s first
absence from the castle. Manfred, casting a stern look at Jerome,
implying a command of silence, pretended that on Conrad’s death he had
placed her in sanctuary until he could determine how to dispose of her. Jerome, who trembled for his son’s life, did not dare contradict this
falsehood, but one of his brethren, not under the same anxiety, declared
frankly that she had fled to their church in the preceding night. The
Prince in vain endeavoured to stop this discovery, which overwhelmed him
with shame and confusion. The principal stranger, amazed at the
contradictions he heard, and more than half persuaded that Manfred had
secreted the Princess, notwithstanding the concern he expressed at her
flight, rushing to the door, said—

“Thou traitor Prince! Isabella shall be found.”

Manfred endeavoured to hold him, but the other Knights assisting their
comrade, he broke from the Prince, and hastened into the court, demanding
his attendants. Manfred, finding it vain to divert him from the pursuit,
offered to accompany him and summoning his attendants, and taking Jerome
and some of the Friars to guide them, they issued from the castle;
Manfred privately giving orders to have the Knight’s company secured,
while to the knight he affected to despatch a messenger to require their
assistance. The company had no sooner quitted the castle than Matilda, who felt
herself deeply interested for the young peasant, since she had seen him
condemned to death in the hall, and whose thoughts had been taken up with
concerting measures to save him, was informed by some of the female
attendants that Manfred had despatched all his men various ways in
pursuit of Isabella. He had in his hurry given this order in general
terms, not meaning to extend it to the guard he had set upon Theodore,
but forgetting it. The domestics, officious to obey so peremptory a
Prince, and urged by their own curiosity and love of novelty to join in
any precipitate chase, had to a man left the castle. Matilda disengaged
herself from her women, stole up to the black tower, and unbolting the
door, presented herself to the astonished Theodore. “Young man,” said she, “though filial duty and womanly modesty condemn
the step I am taking, yet holy charity, surmounting all other ties,
justifies this act. Fly; the doors of thy prison are open: my father and
his domestics are absent; but they may soon return. Be gone in safety;
and may the angels of heaven direct thy course!”

“Thou art surely one of those angels!” said the enraptured Theodore:
“none but a blessed saint could speak, could act—could look—like thee. May I not know the name of my divine protectress? Methought thou namedst
thy father. Is it possible? Can Manfred’s blood feel holy pity! Lovely
Lady, thou answerest not. But how art thou here thyself? Why dost thou
neglect thy own safety, and waste a thought on a wretch like Theodore? Let us fly together: the life thou bestowest shall be dedicated to thy
defence.”

“Alas!