“No,” replied Matilda, “I will ask him myself: if he knows aught of Isabella, he is not worthy that I should converse farther with him.” She was going to open the casement, when they heard the bell ring at the postern gate of the castle, which is on the right hand of the tower where Matilda lay. This prevented the princess from renewing the conversation with the stranger.
After continuing silent for some time, “I am persuaded,” said she to Bianca, “that whatever be the cause of Isabella’s flight, it had no unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be satisfied of his fidelity and worth. I observed, did not you, Bianca? that his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was no ruffian’s speech: his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth.”
“I told you, madam,” said Bianca, “that I was sure he was some prince in disguise.”
“Yet,” said Matilda, “if he was privy to her escape how will you account for his not accompanying her in her flight? Why expose himself unnecessarily and rashly to my father’s resentment?”
“As for that, madam,” replied she, “if he could get from under the helmet, he will find ways of eluding your father’s anger. I do not doubt but he has some talisman or other about him.”
“You resolve everything into magic,” said Matilda; “but a man who has any intercourse with infernal spirits does not dare to make use of those tremendous and holy words which he uttered. Didst thou not observe with what fervour he vowed to remember me to Heaven in his prayers? yes; Isabella was undoubtedly convinced of his piety.”
“Commend me to the piety of a young fellow and a damsel that consult to elope!” said Bianca. “No, no, madam; my Lady Isabella is of another guess-mould than you take her for. She used, indeed, to sigh and lift up her eyes in your company, because she knows you are a saint; but when your back was turned——”
“You wrong her,” said Matilda. “Isabella is no hypocrite: she has a due sense of devotion, but never affected a call she has not. On the contrary, she always combated my inclination for the cloister; and though I own the mystery she has made to me of her flight confounds me—though it seems inconsistent with the friendship between us—I cannot forget the disinterested warmth with which she always opposed my taking the veil: she wished to see me married, though my dower would have been a loss to her and my brother’s children. For her sake, I will believe well of this young peasant.”
“Then you do think there is some liking between them?” said Bianca. While she was speaking, a servant came hastily into the chamber, and told the princess that the Lady Isabella was found.
“Where?” said Matilda.
“She has taken sanctuary in St. Nicholas’s church,” replied the servant: “Father Jerome has brought the news himself; he is below with his highness.”
“Where is my mother?” said Matilda.
“She is in her own chamber, madam, and has asked for you.”
Manfred had risen at the first dawn of light, and gone to Hippolita’s apartment, to inquire if she knew aught of Isabella. While he was questioning her, word was brought that Jerome demanded to speak with him. Manfred, little suspecting the cause of the friar’s arrival, and knowing he was employed by Hippolita in her charities, ordered him to be admitted, intending to leave them together, while he pursued his search after Isabella.
“Is your business with me or the princess?” said Manfred.
“With both,” replied the holy man. “The Lady Isabella——”
“What of her?” interrupted Manfred, eagerly.
“Is at St. Nicholas’s altar,” replied Jerome.
“That is no business of Hippolita’s,” said Manfred with confusion: “let us retire to my chamber, father, and inform me how she came thither.”
“No, my lord,” replied the good man with an air of firmness and authority, that daunted even the resolute Manfred, who could not help revering the saint-like virtues of Jerome, “my commission is to both; and, with your highness’s good liking, in the presence of both, I shall deliver it: but first, my lord, I must interrogate the princess, whether she is acquainted with the cause of the Lady Isabella’s retirement from your castle.”
“No, on my soul,” said Hippolita: “does Isabella charge me with being privy to it?”
“Father,” interrupted Manfred, “I pay due reverence to your holy profession; but I am sovereign here, and will allow no meddling priest to interfere in the affairs of my domestic. If you have aught to say, attend me to my chamber. I do not use to let my wife be acquainted with the secret affairs of my state: they are not within a woman’s province.”
“My lord,” said the holy man, “I am no intruder into the secrets of families. My office is to promote peace, to heal divisions, to preach repentance, and teach mankind to curb their headstrong passions. I forgive your highness’s uncharitable apostrophe: I know my duty, and am the minister of a mightier prince than Manfred. Hearken to him who speaks through my organs.”
Manfred trembled with rage and shame. Hippolita’s countenance declared her astonishment and impatience to know where this would end: her silence more strongly spoke her observance of Manfred.
“The Lady Isabella,” resumed Jerome, “commends herself to both your highnesses: she thanks both for the kindness with which she has been treated in your castle: she deplores the loss of your son, and her own misfortune in not becoming the daughter of such wise and noble princes, whom she shall always respect as parents: she prays for uninterrupted union and felicity between you (Manfred’s colour changed); but, as it is no longer possible for her to be allied to you, she entreats your consent to remain in sanctuary till she can learn news of her father, or, by the certainty of his death, be at liberty, by the approbation of her guardians, to dispose of herself in suitable marriage.”
“I shall give no such consent,” said the prince; “but insist on her return to the castle without delay: I am answerable for her person to her guardians, and will not brook her being in any hands but my own.”
“Your highness will recollect whether that can any longer be proper,” replied the friar.
“I want no monitor,” said Manfred, colouring: “Isabella’s conduct leaves room for strange suspicions; and that young villain, who was at least the accomplice of her flight, if not the cause of it——”
“The cause!” interrupted Jerome; “was a young man the cause?”
“This is not to be borne!” cried Manfred. “Am I to be bearded in my own palace by an insolent monk? thou art privy, I guess, to their amours.”
“I would pray to Heaven to clear up your uncharitable surmises,” said Jerome, “if your highness were not satisfied in your conscience how unjustly you accuse me. I do pray to Heaven to pardon that uncharitableness; and I implore your highness to leave the princess at peace in that holy place, where she is not liable to be disturbed by such vain and worldly fantasies as discourses of love from any man.”
“Cant not to me,” said Manfred, “but return and bring the princess to her duty.”
“It is my duty to prevent her return hither,” said Jerome. “She is where orphans and virgins are safest from the snares and wiles of this world; and nothing but a parent’s authority shall take her thence.”
“I am her parent,” cried Manfred, “and demand her.”
“She wished to have you for her parent,” said the friar: “but Heaven, that forbade that connection, has for ever dissolved all ties betwixt you: and I announce to your highness——”
“Stop! audacious man,” said Manfred, “and dread my displeasure.”
“Holy father,” said Hippolita,