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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, “it is your office to be no respecter of persons: you must speak as your duty prescribes; but it is my duty to hear nothing that it pleases not my lord I should hear. Attend the prince to his chamber. I will retire to my oratory, and pray to the blessed Virgin to inspire you with her holy counsels, and to restore the heart of my gracious lord to its wonted peace and gentleness.”

      “Excellent woman!” said the friar.—“My lord, I attend your pleasure.”

      Manfred, accompanied by the friar, passed to his own apartment, where, shutting the door, “I perceive, father,” said he, “that Isabella has acquainted you with my purpose. Now hear my resolve, and obey. Reasons of state, most urgent reasons, my own and the safety of my people, demand that I should have a son. It is in vain to expect an heir from Hippolita; I have made choice of Isabella. You must bring her back, and you must do more. I know the influence you have with Hippolita: her conscience is in your hands. She is, I allow, a faultless woman: her soul is set on heaven, and scorns the little grandeur of this world: you can withdraw her from it entirely. Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery: she shall endow one if she will; and shall have the means of being as liberal to your order as she or you can wish. Thus you will divert the calamities that are hanging over our heads, and have the merit of saving the principality of Otranto from destruction. You are a prudent man, and, though the warmth of my temper betrayed me into some unbecoming expressions, I honour your virtue, and wish to be indebted to you for the repose of my life and the preservation of my family.”

      “The will of Heaven be done,” said the friar. “I am but its worthless instrument. It makes use of my tongue to tell thee, prince, of thy unwarrantable designs. The injuries of the virtuous Hippolita have mounted to the throne of pity. By me thou art reprimanded for