60 Gothic Classics. Эдгар Аллан По

bless my father, and forgive him as I do! My lord, my gracious sire, dost thou forgive thy child? Indeed I came not hither to meet Theodore. I found him praying at this tomb, whither my mother sent me to intercede for thee, for her—dearest father, bless your child, and say you forgive her.”

      “Forgive thee, murderous monster,” cried Manfred, “can assassins forgive? I took thee for Isabella; but Heaven directed my bloody hand to the heart of my child—oh, Matilda, I cannot utter it: canst thou forgive the blindness of my rage?”

      “I can, I do, and may Heaven confirm it,” said Matilda; “but while I have life to ask it—oh, my mother, what will she feel! will you comfort her, my lord, will you not put her away? indeed she loves you—oh, I am faint; bear me to the castle—can I live to have her close my eyes?”

      Theodore and the monks besought her earnestly to suffer herself to be borne into the convent; but her instances were so pressing to be carried to the castle, that, placing her on a litter, they conveyed her thither as she requested. Theodore, supporting her head with his arm, and hanging over her in an agony of despairing love, still endeavoured to inspire her with hopes of life. Jerome on the other side comforted her with discourses of heaven; and holding a crucifix before her, which she bathed with innocent tears, prepared her for her passage to immortality. Manfred, plunged in the deepest affliction, followed the litter in despair.

      Ere they reached the castle, Hippolita, informed of the dreadful catastrophe, had flown to meet her murdered child; but when she saw the afflicted procession, the mightiness of her grief deprived her of her senses, and she fell lifeless to the earth in a swoon. Isabella and Frederic, who attended her, were overwhelmed in almost equal sorrow. Matilda alone seemed insensible to her own situation: every thought was lost in tenderness for her mother. Ordering the litter to stop, as soon as Hippolita was brought to herself, she asked for her father. He approached, unable to speak. Matilda, seizing his hand and her mother’s, locked them in her own, and then clasped them to her heart. Manfred could not support this act of pathetic piety. He dashed himself on the ground, and cursed the day he was born. Isabella, apprehensive that these struggles of passion were more than Matilda could support, took upon herself to order Manfred to be borne to his apartment, while she caused Matilda to be conveyed to the nearest chamber. Hippolita, scarce more alive than her daughter, was regardless of everything but her; but when the tender Isabella’s care would have likewise removed her, while the surgeons examined Matilda’s wound, she cried:

      “Remove me! never! never! never! I lived but in her, and will expire with her.” Matilda raised her eyes at her mother’s voice, but closed them again without speaking. Her sinking pulse and the damp coldness of her hand soon dispelled all hopes of recovery. Theodore followed the surgeons into the outer chamber, and heard them pronounce the fatal sentence with a transport equal to frenzy.

      “Since she cannot live mine,” cried he, “at least she shall be mine in death! Father! Jerome! will you not join our hands?” cried he to the friar, who with the marquis had accompanied the surgeons.

      “What means thy distracted rashness?” said Jerome; “is this an hour for marriage?”

      “It is, it is,” cried Theodore: “alas! there is no other!”

      “Young man, thou art too unadvised,” said Frederic: “dost thou think we are to listen to thy fond transports in this hour of fate? what pretensions hast thou to the princess?”

      “Those of a prince,” said Theodore, “of the sovereign of Otranto. This reverend man, my father, has informed me who I am.”

      “Thou ravest,” said the marquis: “there is no prince of Otranto but myself, now Manfred, by murder, by sacrilegious murder, has forfeited all pretensions.”

      “My lord,” said Jerome, assuming an air of command, “he tells you true. It was not my purpose the secret should have been divulged so soon; but fate presses onward to its work. What his hot-headed passion has revealed, my tongue confirms. Know, prince, that when Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land——”

      “Is this a season for explanations?” cried Theodore. “Father, come and unite me to the princess; she shall be mine—in every other thing I will dutifully obey you. My life; my adored Matilda!” continued Theodore, rushing back into the inner chamber, “will you not be mine? will you not bless your——” Isabella made signs to him to be silent, apprehending the princess was near her end. “What, is she dead?” cried Theodore; “is it possible?” The violence of his exclamations brought Matilda to herself. Lifting up her eyes, she looked around for her mother.

      “Life of my soul! I am here,” cried Hippolita; “think not I will quit thee!”

      “Oh, you are too good,” said Matilda; “but weep not for me, my mother! I am going where sorrow never dwells;—Isabella, thou hast loved me: wo’t thou not supply my fondness to this dear, dear woman?—Indeed I am faint!”

      “Oh, my child, my child!” said Hippolita, in a flood of tears, “can I not withhold thee a moment?”

      “It will not be,” said Matilda: “commend me to Heaven—where is my father? Forgive him, dearest mother—forgive him my death; it was an error. Oh, I had forgotten, dearest mother, I vowed never to see Theodore more—perhaps that has drawn down this calamity, but it was not intentional—can you pardon me?”

      “Oh, wound not my agonizing soul,” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst offend me. Alas! she faints! help! help!”

      “I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it wonnot be—Isabella—Theodore—for my sake—oh!” She expired. Isabella and her women tore Hippolita from the corse; but Theodore threatened destruction to all who attempted to remove him from it. He printed a thousand kisses on her clay-cold hands, and uttered every expression that despairing love could dictate.

      Isabella, in the meantime, was accompanying the afflicted Hippolita to her apartment; but in the middle of the court they were met by Manfred, who, distracted with his own thoughts, and anxious once more to behold his daughter, was advancing towards the chamber where she lay. As the moon was now at its height, he read in the countenances of this unhappy company the event he dreaded.

      “What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion: a clap of thunder at that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared, the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared in the centre of the ruins.

      “Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision; and having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

      The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita.

      “My lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! in Theodore we view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so, I know not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! Shall we not—can we but—dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the further wrath of Heaven? Heaven ejects us: whither can we fly, but to yon holy cells that yet offer us a retreat?”

      “Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh, could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder,—let me at last do justice on myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left to offer to offended Heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments: let my confession atone—but ah! what can atone for usurpation and a murdered child; a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!

      “Alfonso, ye all