“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.