The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole (e textbook reader txt) 📕

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 to 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 know, died in the Holy Land⁠—ye would interrupt me; ye would say he came not fairly to his end⁠—it is most true⁠—why else this bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my grandfather, was his chamberlain⁠—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s crimes⁠—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him⁠—yet he lost no Conrad, no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook him. Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted: the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it⁠—alas! alas! nor male nor female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race! I have done⁠—the woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be Alfonso’s heir I know not⁠—yet I do not doubt it. His are these dominions; I resign them⁠—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir⁠—I question not the will of heaven⁠—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space, until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”

“What remains is my part to declare,” said Jerome. “When Alfonso set sail for the Holy Land he was driven by a storm to the coast of Sicily. The other vessel, which bore Ricardo and his train, as your Lordship must have heard, was separated from him.”

“It is most true,” said Manfred; “and the title you give me is more than an outcast can claim⁠—well! be it so⁠—proceed.”

Jerome blushed, and continued. “For three months Lord Alfonso was wind-bound in Sicily. There he became enamoured of a fair virgin named Victoria. He was too pious to tempt her to forbidden pleasures. They were married. Yet deeming this amour incongruous with the holy vow of arms by which he was bound, he determined to conceal their nuptials until his return from the Crusade, when he purposed to seek and acknowledge her for his lawful wife. He left her pregnant. During his absence she was delivered of a daughter. But scarce had she felt a mother’s pangs ere she heard the fatal rumour of her Lord’s death, and the succession of Ricardo. What could a friendless, helpless woman do? Would her testimony avail?⁠—yet, my lord, I have an authentic writing⁠—”

“It needs not,” said Manfred; “the horrors of these days, the vision we have but now seen, all corroborate thy evidence beyond a thousand parchments. Matilda’s death and my expulsion⁠—”

“Be composed, my Lord,” said Hippolita; “this holy man did not mean to recall your griefs.” Jerome proceeded.

“I shall not dwell on what is needless. The daughter of which Victoria was delivered, was at her maturity bestowed in marriage on me. Victoria died; and the secret remained locked in my breast. Theodore’s narrative has told the rest.”

The friar ceased. The disconsolate company retired to the remaining part of the castle. In the morning Manfred signed his abdication of the principality, with the approbation of Hippolita, and each took on them the habit of religion in the neighbouring convents. Frederic offered his daughter to the new Prince, which Hippolita’s tenderness for Isabella concurred to promote. But Theodore’s grief was too fresh