The Castle of Otranto
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? Why were they to be shocked by a mysterious delicacy,
that has so little foundation?”
“Your words are rude, young man,” said the Marquis; “and though fortune
has favoured you once—”
“My honoured Lord,” said Isabella, who resented Theodore’s warmth, which
she perceived was dictated by his sentiments for Matilda, “discompose not
yourself for the glosing of a peasant’s son: he forgets the reverence he
owes you; but he is not accustomed—”
Hippolita, concerned at the heat that had arisen, checked Theodore for
his boldness, but with an air acknowledging his zeal; and changing the
conversation, demanded of Frederic where he had left her Lord? As the
Marquis was going to reply, they heard a noise without, and rising to
inquire the cause, Manfred, Jerome, and part of the troop, who had met an
imperfect rumour of what had happened, entered the chamber. Manfred
advanced hastily towards Frederic’s bed to condole with him on his
misfortune, and to learn the circumstances of the combat, when starting
in an agony of terror and amazement, he cried—
“Ha! what art thou? thou dreadful spectre! is my hour come?”
“My dearest, gracious Lord,” cried Hippolita, clasping him in her arms,
“what is it you see! Why do you fix your eye-balls thus?”
“What!” cried Manfred breathless; “dost thou see nothing, Hippolita? Is
this ghastly phantom sent to me alone—to me, who did not—”
“For mercy’s sweetest self, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “resume your soul,
command your reason. There is none here, but us, your friends.”
“What, is not that Alfonso?” cried Manfred. “Dost thou not see him? can
it be my brain’s delirium?”
“This! my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this is Theodore, the youth who has
been so unfortunate.”
“Theodore!” said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead; “Theodore
or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred. But how comes he
here? and how comes he in armour?”
“I believe he went in search of Isabella,” said Hippolita.
“Of Isabella!” said Manfred, relapsing into rage; “yes, yes, that is not
doubtful—. But how did he escape from durance in which I left him? Was
it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that procured his
enlargement?”
“And would a parent be criminal, my Lord,” said Theodore, “if he
meditated the deliverance of his child?”
Jerome, amazed to hear himself in a manner accused by his son, and
without foundation, knew not what to think. He could not comprehend how
Theodore had escaped, how he came to be armed, and to encounter Frederic.
Still he would not venture to ask any questions that might tend to
inflame Manfred’s wrath against his son. Jerome’s silence convinced
Manfred that he had contrived Theodore’s release.
“And is it thus, thou ungrateful old man,” said the Prince, addressing
himself to the Friar, “that thou repayest mine and Hippolita’s bounties?
And not content with traversing my heart’s nearest wishes, thou armest
thy bastard, and bringest him into my own castle to insult me!”
“My Lord,” said Theodore, “you wrong my father: neither he nor I are
capable of harbouring a thought against your peace. Is it insolence thus
to surrender myself to your Highness’s pleasure?” added he, laying his
sword respectfully at Manfred’s feet. “Behold my bosom; strike, my Lord,
if you suspect that a disloyal thought is lodged there. There is not a
sentiment engraven on my heart that does not venerate you and yours.”
The grace and fervour with which Theodore uttered these words interested
every person present in his favour. Even Manfred was touched—yet still
possessed with his resemblance to Alfonso, his admiration was dashed with
secret horror.
“Rise,” said he; “thy life is not my present purpose. But tell me thy
history, and how thou camest connected with this old traitor here.”
“My Lord,” said Jerome eagerly.
“Peace! impostor!” said Manfred; “I will not have him prompted.”
“My Lord,” said Theodore, “I want no assistance; my story is very brief.
I was carried at five years of age to Algiers with my mother, who had
been taken by corsairs from the coast of Sicily. She died of grief in
less than a twelvemonth;” the tears gushed from Jerome’s eyes, on whose
countenance a thousand anxious passions stood expressed. “Before she
died,” continued Theodore, “she bound a writing about my arm under my
garments, which told me I was the son of the Count Falconara.”
“It is most true,” said Jerome; “I am that wretched father.”
“Again I enjoin thee silence,” said Manfred: “proceed.”
“I remained in slavery,” said Theodore, “until within these two years,
when attending on my master in his cruises, I was delivered by a
Christian vessel, which overpowered the pirate; and discovering myself to
the captain, he generously put me on shore in Sicily; but alas! instead
of finding a father, I learned that his estate, which was situated on the
coast, had, during his absence, been laid waste by the Rover who had
carried my mother and me into captivity: that his castle had been burnt
to the ground, and that my father on his return had sold what remained,
and was retired into religion in the kingdom of Naples, but where no man
could inform me. Destitute and friendless, hopeless almost of attaining
the transport of a parent’s embrace, I took the first opportunity of
setting sail for Naples, from whence, within these six days, I wandered
into this province, still supporting myself by the labour of my hands;
nor until yester-morn did I believe that heaven had reserved any lot for
me but peace of mind and contented poverty. This, my Lord, is Theodore’s
story. I am blessed beyond my hope in finding a father; I am unfortunate
beyond my desert in having incurred your Highness’s displeasure.”
He ceased. A murmur of approbation gently arose from the audience.
“This is not all,” said Frederic; “I am bound in honour to add what he
suppresses. Though he is modest, I must be generous; he is one of the
bravest youths on Christian ground. He is warm too; and from the short
knowledge I have of him, I will pledge myself for his veracity: if what
he reports of himself were not true, he would not utter it—and for me,
youth, I honour a frankness which becomes thy birth; but now, and thou
didst offend me: yet the noble blood which flows in thy veins, may well
be allowed to boil out, when it has so recently traced itself to its
source. Come, my Lord,” (turning to Manfred), “if I can pardon him,
surely you may; it is not the youth’s fault, if you took him for a
spectre.”
This bitter taunt galled the soul of Manfred.
“If beings from another world,” replied he haughtily, “have power to
impress my mind with awe, it is more than living man can do; nor could a
stripling’s arm.”
“My Lord,” interrupted Hippolita, “your guest has occasion for repose:
shall we not leave him to his rest?” Saying this, and taking Manfred by
the hand, she took leave of Frederic, and led the company forth.
The Prince, not sorry to quit a conversation which recalled to mind the
discovery he had made of his most secret sensations, suffered himself to
be conducted to his own apartment, after permitting Theodore, though
under engagement to return to the castle on the morrow (a condition the
young man gladly accepted), to retire with his father to the convent.
Matilda and Isabella were too much occupied with their own reflections,
and too little content with each other, to wish for farther converse that
night. They separated each to her chamber, with more expressions of
ceremony and fewer of affection than had passed between them since their
childhood.
If they parted with small cordiality, they did but meet with greater
impatience, as soon as the sun was risen. Their minds were in a
situation that excluded sleep, and each recollected a thousand questions