The Castle of Otranto
I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!”
“Despatch!” said Manfred; “I am no more to be moved by the whining of
priests than by the shrieks of women.”
“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate could have
occasioned what I heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?”
“Thou dost but remember me of my wrath,” said Manfred. “Prepare thee,
for this moment is thy last.”
The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the
sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as
into the Friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and
unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his
shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a
bloody arrow.
“Gracious heaven!” cried the holy man, starting; “what do I see? It is
my child! my Theodore!”
The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The
tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by
joy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to
feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the
countenance of the youth. He received with modest submission the
effusion of the old man’s tears and embraces. Yet afraid of giving a
loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of
Manfred’s temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say,
canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this?
Manfred’s heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his
astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even
doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the Friar to save
the youth.
“What may this mean?” said he. “How can he be thy son? Is it consistent
with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’s offspring for
the fruit of thy irregular amours!”
“Oh, God!” said the holy man, “dost thou question his being mine? Could
I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! good
Prince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest.”
“Spare him! spare him!” cried the attendants; “for this good man’s sake!”
“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I am disposed to
pardon. A Saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”
“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty. If I am
this venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood
that flows in my veins—”
“Yes,” said the Friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble; nor is he
that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and
Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But
alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles,
miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us
from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return.”
“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are no longer Friar
Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will
have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the
grace of that sturdy criminal there.”
“Mother of God!” said the Friar, “is it possible my Lord can refuse a
father the life of his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, my Lord,
scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!”
“Thou canst feel, then,” said Manfred, “what it is to lose an only son!
A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: _my_ house, if
fate so pleased, must perish—but the Count of Falconara—”
“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; but aggravate
not an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such
vanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the
dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead?”
“Her soul has long been with the blessed,” said Theodore.
“Oh! how?” cried Jerome, “tell me—no—she is happy! Thou art all my care
now!—Most dread Lord! will you—will you grant me my poor boy’s life?”
“Return to thy convent,” answered Manfred; “conduct the Princess hither;
obey me in what else thou knowest; and I promise thee the life of thy
son.”
“Oh! my Lord,” said Jerome, “is my honesty the price I must pay for this
dear youth’s safety?”
“For me!” cried Theodore. “Let me die a thousand deaths, rather than
stain thy conscience. What is it the tyrant would exact of thee? Is the
Princess still safe from his power? Protect her, thou venerable old man;
and let all the weight of his wrath fall on me.”
Jerome endeavoured to check the impetuosity of the youth; and ere Manfred
could reply, the trampling of horses was heard, and a brazen trumpet,
which hung without the gate of the castle, was suddenly sounded. At the
same instant the sable plumes on the enchanted helmet, which still
remained at the other end of the court, were tempestuously agitated, and
nodded thrice, as if bowed by some invisible wearer.
CHAPTER III.
Manfred’s heart misgave him when he beheld the plumage on the miraculous
casque shaken in concert with the sounding of the brazen trumpet.
“Father!” said he to Jerome, whom he now ceased to treat as Count of
Falconara, “what mean these portents? If I have offended—” the plumes
were shaken with greater violence than before.
“Unhappy Prince that I am,” cried Manfred. “Holy Father! will you not
assist me with your prayers?”
“My Lord,” replied Jerome, “heaven is no doubt displeased with your
mockery of its servants. Submit yourself to the church; and cease to
persecute her ministers. Dismiss this innocent youth; and learn to
respect the holy character I wear. Heaven will not be trifled with: you
see—” the trumpet sounded again.
“I acknowledge I have been too hasty,” said Manfred. “Father, do you go
to the wicket, and demand who is at the gate.”
“Do you grant me the life of Theodore?” replied the Friar.
“I do,” said Manfred; “but inquire who is without!”
Jerome, falling on the neck of his son, discharged a flood of tears, that
spoke the fulness of his soul.
“You promised to go to the gate,” said Manfred.
“I thought,” replied the Friar, “your Highness would excuse my thanking
you first in this tribute of my heart.”
“Go, dearest Sir,” said Theodore; “obey the Prince. I do not deserve
that you should delay his satisfaction for me.”
Jerome, inquiring who was without, was answered, “A Herald.”
“From whom?” said he.
“From the Knight of the Gigantic Sabre,” said the Herald; “and I must
speak with the usurper of Otranto.”
Jerome returned to the Prince, and did not fail to repeat the message in
the very words it had been uttered. The first sounds struck Manfred with
terror; but when he heard himself styled usurper, his rage rekindled, and
all his courage revived.
“Usurper!—insolent villain!” cried he; “who dares to question my title?
Retire, Father; this is no business for Monks: I will meet this
presumptuous man myself. Go to your convent and prepare the Princess’s
return. Your son shall be a hostage for your fidelity: his life depends
on your obedience.”
“Good heaven! my Lord,” cried Jerome, “your Highness did but this instant
freely pardon my child—have you so soon forgot the interposition of
heaven?”
“Heaven,” replied Manfred, “does not send Heralds to question the title
of a lawful Prince. I doubt whether it even notifies its will through
Friars—but that is your affair, not mine. At present you know my
pleasure; and it is not a saucy Herald that shall save your son, if you
do not return with the Princess.”
It was in vain for the holy man to reply. Manfred commanded him to be
conducted to the postern-gate, and shut out from the castle. And he
ordered some of his attendants to carry Theodore to the top of the black
tower, and guard him strictly; scarce permitting the father and son to
exchange a hasty embrace at parting. He then withdrew to the hall, and
seating himself in princely state, ordered the Herald to be admitted to
his presence.
“Well! thou insolent!” said the Prince, “what wouldst thou with me?”
“I come,” replied he, “to thee, Manfred, usurper of the principality of
Otranto, from the renowned and invincible Knight, the Knight of the
Gigantic Sabre: in the name of his Lord, Frederic, Marquis of Vicenza, he
demands the Lady Isabella, daughter of that Prince, whom thou hast basely
and traitorously got into thy power, by bribing her false guardians
during his absence; and he requires thee to resign the principality of
Otranto, which thou hast usurped from the said Lord Frederic, the nearest
of blood to the last rightful Lord, Alfonso the Good. If thou dost not
instantly comply with these just demands, he defies thee to single combat
to the last extremity.” And so saying the Herald cast down his warder.
“And where is this braggart who sends thee?” said Manfred.
“At the distance of a league,” said the Herald: “he comes to make good
his Lord’s claim against thee, as he is a true knight, and thou an
usurper and ravisher.”
Injurious as this challenge was, Manfred reflected that it was not his
interest to provoke the Marquis. He knew how well founded the claim of
Frederic was; nor was this the first time he had heard of it. Frederic’s
ancestors had assumed the style of Princes of Otranto, from the death of
Alfonso the Good without issue; but Manfred, his father, and grandfather,
had been too powerful for the house of Vicenza to dispossess them.
Frederic, a martial and amorous young Prince, had married a beautiful
young lady, of whom he was enamoured, and who had died in childbed of
Isabella. Her death affected him so much that he had taken the cross and
gone to the Holy Land, where he was wounded in an engagement against the
infidels, made prisoner, and reported to be dead. When the news reached
Manfred’s ears, he bribed the guardians of the Lady Isabella to deliver
her up to him as a bride for his son Conrad, by which alliance he had
proposed to unite the claims of the two houses. This motive, on Conrad’s
death, had co-operated to make him so suddenly resolve on espousing her
himself; and the same reflection determined him now to endeavour at
obtaining the consent of Frederic to this marriage. A like policy
inspired him with the thought of inviting Frederic’s champion into the
castle, lest he should be informed of Isabella’s flight, which he
strictly enjoined his domestics not to disclose to any of the Knight’s
retinue.
“Herald,” said Manfred, as soon as he had digested these reflections,
“return to thy master, and tell him, ere we liquidate our differences by
the sword, Manfred would hold some converse with him. Bid him welcome to
my castle, where by my faith, as I am a true Knight, he shall have
courteous reception, and full security for himself and followers. If we
cannot adjust our quarrel by amicable means, I swear he shall depart in
safety, and shall have full satisfaction according to the laws of arms:
So help me God and His holy Trinity!”
The Herald made three obeisances and retired.
During this interview Jerome’s mind was agitated by a thousand contrary
passions. He trembled for the life of his son, and his first thought was
to persuade Isabella to return to the castle. Yet he was scarce less
alarmed at the thought of her union with Manfred. He dreaded Hippolita’s
unbounded submission to the will of her Lord; and though he did not doubt
but he could alarm her piety not to consent to a divorce, if he could get
access to her; yet should Manfred discover that the obstruction came from
him, it might be equally fatal to Theodore. He was impatient to know
whence came the Herald, who with so little management had questioned the
title of Manfred: yet he did not dare absent himself from the convent,