The Castle of Otranto
lest Isabella should leave it, and her flight be imputed to him. He
returned disconsolately to the monastery, uncertain on what conduct to
resolve. A Monk, who met him in the porch and observed his melancholy
air, said—
“Alas! brother, is it then true that we have lost our excellent Princess
Hippolita?”
The holy man started, and cried, “What meanest thou, brother? I come
this instant from the castle, and left her in perfect health.”
“Martelli,” replied the other Friar, “passed by the convent but a quarter
of an hour ago on his way from the castle, and reported that her Highness
was dead. All our brethren are gone to the chapel to pray for her happy
transit to a better life, and willed me to wait thy arrival. They know
thy holy attachment to that good Lady, and are anxious for the affliction
it will cause in thee—indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a mother
to our house. But this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur—we
shall all follow her! May our end be like hers!”
“Good brother, thou dreamest,” said Jerome. “I tell thee I come from the
castle, and left the Princess well. Where is the Lady Isabella?”
“Poor Gentlewoman!” replied the Friar; “I told her the sad news, and
offered her spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the transitory
condition of mortality, and advised her to take the veil: I quoted the
example of the holy Princess Sanchia of Arragon.”
“Thy zeal was laudable,” said Jerome, impatiently; “but at present it was
unnecessary: Hippolita is well—at least I trust in the Lord she is; I
heard nothing to the contrary—yet, methinks, the Prince’s
earnestness—Well, brother, but where is the Lady Isabella?”
“I know not,” said the Friar; “she wept much, and said she would retire
to her chamber.”
Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but she
was not in her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the convent, but
could learn no news of her. He searched in vain throughout the monastery
and the church, and despatched messengers round the neighbourhood, to get
intelligence if she had been seen; but to no purpose. Nothing could
equal the good man’s perplexity. He judged that Isabella, suspecting
Manfred of having precipitated his wife’s death, had taken the alarm, and
withdrawn herself to some more secret place of concealment. This new
flight would probably carry the Prince’s fury to the height. The report
of Hippolita’s death, though it seemed almost incredible, increased his
consternation; and though Isabella’s escape bespoke her aversion of
Manfred for a husband, Jerome could feel no comfort from it, while it
endangered the life of his son. He determined to return to the castle,
and made several of his brethren accompany him to attest his innocence to
Manfred, and, if necessary, join their intercession with his for
Theodore.
The Prince, in the meantime, had passed into the court, and ordered the
gates of the castle to be flung open for the reception of the stranger
Knight and his train. In a few minutes the cavalcade arrived. First
came two harbingers with wands. Next a herald, followed by two pages and
two trumpets. Then a hundred foot-guards. These were attended by as
many horse. After them fifty footmen, clothed in scarlet and black, the
colours of the Knight. Then a led horse. Two heralds on each side of a
gentleman on horseback bearing a banner with the arms of Vicenza and
Otranto quarterly—a circumstance that much offended Manfred—but he
stifled his resentment. Two more pages. The Knight’s confessor telling
his beads. Fifty more footmen clad as before. Two Knights habited in
complete armour, their beavers down, comrades to the principal Knight.
The squires of the two Knights, carrying their shields and devices. The
Knight’s own squire. A hundred gentlemen bearing an enormous sword, and
seeming to faint under the weight of it. The Knight himself on a
chestnut steed, in complete armour, his lance in the rest, his face
entirely concealed by his vizor, which was surmounted by a large plume of
scarlet and black feathers. Fifty foot-guards with drums and trumpets
closed the procession, which wheeled off to the right and left to make
room for the principal Knight.
As soon as he approached the gate he stopped; and the herald advancing,
read again the words of the challenge. Manfred’s eyes were fixed on the
gigantic sword, and he scarce seemed to attend to the cartel: but his
attention was soon diverted by a tempest of wind that rose behind him.
He turned and beheld the Plumes of the enchanted helmet agitated in the
same extraordinary manner as before. It required intrepidity like
Manfred’s not to sink under a concurrence of circumstances that seemed to
announce his fate. Yet scorning in the presence of strangers to betray
the courage he had always manifested, he said boldly—
“Sir Knight, whoever thou art, I bid thee welcome. If thou art of mortal
mould, thy valour shall meet its equal: and if thou art a true Knight,
thou wilt scorn to employ sorcery to carry thy point. Be these omens
from heaven or hell, Manfred trusts to the righteousness of his cause and
to the aid of St. Nicholas, who has ever protected his house. Alight,
Sir Knight, and repose thyself. To-morrow thou shalt have a fair field,
and heaven befriend the juster side!”
The Knight made no reply, but dismounting, was conducted by Manfred to
the great hall of the castle. As they traversed the court, the Knight
stopped to gaze on the miraculous casque; and kneeling down, seemed to
pray inwardly for some minutes. Rising, he made a sign to the Prince to
lead on. As soon as they entered the hall, Manfred proposed to the
stranger to disarm, but the Knight shook his head in token of refusal.
“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, “this is not courteous, but by my good faith
I will not cross thee, nor shalt thou have cause to complain of the
Prince of Otranto. No treachery is designed on my part; I hope none is
intended on thine; here take my gage” (giving him his ring): “your
friends and you shall enjoy the laws of hospitality. Rest here until
refreshments are brought. I will but give orders for the accommodation
of your train, and return to you.” The three Knights bowed as accepting
his courtesy. Manfred directed the stranger’s retinue to be conducted to
an adjacent hospital, founded by the Princess Hippolita for the reception
of pilgrims. As they made the circuit of the court to return towards the
gate, the gigantic sword burst from the supporters, and falling to the
ground opposite to the helmet, remained immovable. Manfred, almost
hardened to preternatural appearances, surmounted the shock of this new
prodigy; and returning to the hall, where by this time the feast was
ready, he invited his silent guests to take their places. Manfred,
however ill his heart was at ease, endeavoured to inspire the company
with mirth. He put several questions to them, but was answered only by
signs. They raised their vizors but sufficiently to feed themselves, and
that sparingly.
“Sirs” said the Prince, “ye are the first guests I ever treated within
these walls who scorned to hold any intercourse with me: nor has it oft
been customary, I ween, for princes to hazard their state and dignity
against strangers and mutes. You say you come in the name of Frederic of
Vicenza; I have ever heard that he was a gallant and courteous Knight;
nor would he, I am bold to say, think it beneath him to mix in social
converse with a Prince that is his equal, and not unknown by deeds in
arms. Still ye are silent—well! be it as it may—by the laws of
hospitality and chivalry ye are masters under this roof: ye shall do your
pleasure. But come, give me a goblet of wine; ye will not refuse to
pledge me to the healths of your fair mistresses.”
The principal Knight sighed and crossed himself, and was rising from the
board.
“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, “what I said was but in sport. I shall
constrain you in nothing: use your good liking. Since mirth is not your
mood, let us be sad. Business may hit your fancies better. Let us
withdraw, and hear if what I have to unfold may be better relished than
the vain efforts I have made for your pastime.”
Manfred then conducting the three Knights into an inner chamber, shut the
door, and inviting them to be seated, began thus, addressing himself to
the chief personage:—
“You come, Sir Knight, as I understand, in the name of the Marquis of
Vicenza, to re-demand the Lady Isabella, his daughter, who has been
contracted in the face of Holy Church to my son, by the consent of her
legal guardians; and to require me to resign my dominions to your Lord,
who gives himself for the nearest of blood to Prince Alfonso, whose soul
God rest! I shall speak to the latter article of your demands first.
You must know, your Lord knows, that I enjoy the principality of Otranto
from my father, Don Manuel, as he received it from his father, Don
Ricardo. Alfonso, their predecessor, dying childless in the Holy Land,
bequeathed his estates to my grandfather, Don Ricardo, in consideration
of his faithful services.” The stranger shook his head.
“Sir Knight,” said Manfred, warmly, “Ricardo was a valiant and upright
man; he was a pious man; witness his munificent foundation of the
adjoining church and two convents. He was peculiarly patronised by St.
Nicholas—my grandfather was incapable—I say, Sir, Don Ricardo was
incapable—excuse me, your interruption has disordered me. I venerate the
memory of my grandfather. Well, Sirs, he held this estate; he held it by
his good sword and by the favour of St. Nicholas—so did my father; and
so, Sirs, will I, come what come will. But Frederic, your Lord, is
nearest in blood. I have consented to put my title to the issue of the
sword. Does that imply a vicious title? I might have asked, where is
Frederic your Lord? Report speaks him dead in captivity. You say, your
actions say, he lives—I question it not—I might, Sirs, I might—but I do
not. Other Princes would bid Frederic take his inheritance by force, if
he can: they would not stake their dignity on a single combat: they would
not submit it to the decision of unknown mutes!—pardon me, gentlemen, I
am too warm: but suppose yourselves in my situation: as ye are stout
Knights, would it not move your choler to have your own and the honour of
your ancestors called in question?” “But to the point. Ye require me to
deliver up the Lady Isabella. Sirs, I must ask if ye are authorised to
receive her?”
The Knight nodded.
“Receive her,” continued Manfred; “well, you are authorised to receive
her, but, gentle Knight, may I ask if you have full powers?”
The Knight nodded.
“’Tis well,” said Manfred; “then hear what I have to offer. Ye see,
gentlemen, before you, the most unhappy of men!” (he began to weep);
“afford me your compassion; I am entitled to it, indeed I am. Know, I
have lost my only hope, my joy, the support of my house—Conrad died
yester morning.”
The Knights discovered signs of surprise.
“Yes, Sirs, fate has disposed of my son. Isabella is at liberty.”
“Do you then restore her?” cried the chief Knight, breaking silence.
“Afford me your patience,” said Manfred. “I rejoice to find, by this
testimony of your goodwill, that this matter may be adjusted without
blood. It is no interest of mine dictates what little I have farther to
say. Ye behold in me a man disgusted with the world: the loss of my son
has weaned me from earthly cares. Power and greatness have no longer any
charms in my eyes. I wished to transmit the sceptre I had received from
my ancestors with honour to my son—but that is over! Life itself is so
indifferent to me, that I accepted your defiance with joy. A good Knight
cannot go to the grave with more satisfaction than when falling in his