“Yes,” said Isabella; “and, to complete his crime, he meditates--I cannot speak it!” “What can surpass what thou hast already uttered?” said Matilda. Hippolita was silent. Grief choked her speech; and the recollection of Manfred’s late ambiguous discourses confirmed what she heard. “Excellent, dear lady!--madam! mother!” cried Isabella, flinging herself at Hippolita’s feet in a transport of passion; “trust me, believe me, I will die a thousand deaths sooner than consent to injure you, than yield to so odious----” “Oh, this is too much!” cried Hippolita. “What crimes does one crime suggest! Rise, dear Isabella; I do not doubt your virtue. Oh, Matilda, this stroke is too heavy for thee! weep not, my child; and not a murmur, I charge thee. Remember, he is _thy_ father still!” “But you are my mother, too,” said Matilda, fervently; “and _you_ are virtuous, _you_ are guiltless! Oh, must not I, must not I complain?” “You must not,” said Hippolita; “come, all will be well. Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said; perhaps Isabella misunderstood him: his heart is good--and, my child, thou knowest not all. There is a destiny hangs over us: the hand of Providence is stretched out. Oh, could I but save thee from the wreck.--Yes,” continued she, in a firmer tone, “perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all; I will go and offer myself to this divorce--it boots not what becomes of me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and--the prince.” “Thou art as much too good for this world,” said Isabella, “as Manfred is execrable--but think not, lady, that thy weakness shall determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels----” “Stop, I adjure thee,” cried Hippolita: “remember thou dost not depend on thyself; thou hast a father----” “My father is too pious, too noble,” interrupted Isabella, “to command an impious deed. But should he command it; can a father enjoin a cursed act? I was contracted to the son, can I wed the father?--No, madam, no; force should not drag me to Manfred’s hated bed. I loathe him, I abhor him: divine and human laws forbid; and, my friend, my dearest Matilda, would I wound her tender soul by injuring her adored mother? my own mother--I never have known another.” “Oh, she is the mother of both,” cried Matilda: “can we, can we, Isabella, adore her too much?”