“Hippolita!” replied a hollow voice; “camest thou to this castle to seek Hippolita?” and then the figure, turning slowly round, discovered to Frederic the fleshless jaws and empty sockets of a skeleton, wrapt in a hermit’s cowl. “Angels of grace protect me!” cried Frederic, recoiling. “Deserve their protection!” said the Spectre. Frederic, falling on his knees, adjured the phantom to take pity on him. “Dost thou not remember me?” said the apparition. “Remember the wood of Joppa!” “Art thou that holy hermit?” cried Frederic, trembling. “Can I do aught for thy eternal peace?” “Wast thou delivered from bondage,” said the spectre, “to pursue carnal delights? Hast thou forgotten the buried sabre, and the behest of Heaven engraven on it?” “I have not, I have not,” said Frederic; “but say, blest spirit, what is thy errand to me? What remains to be done?” “To forget Matilda!” said the apparition; and vanished. Frederic’s blood froze in his veins. For some minutes he remained motionless. Then falling prostrate on his face before the altar, he besought the intercession of every saint for pardon. A flood of tears succeeded to this transport; and the image of the beauteous Matilda rushing in spite of him on his thoughts, he lay on the ground in a conflict of penitence and passion. Ere he could recover from this agony of his spirits, the Princess Hippolita with a taper in her hand entered the oratory alone. Seeing a man without motion on the floor, she gave a shriek, concluding him dead. Her fright brought Frederic to himself. Rising suddenly, his face bedewed with tears, he would have rushed from her presence; but Hippolita stopping him, conjured him in the most plaintive accents to explain the cause of his disorder, and by what strange chance she had found him there in that posture. “Ah, virtuous Princess!” said the Marquis, penetrated with grief, and stopped. “For the love of Heaven, my Lord,” said Hippolita, “disclose the cause of this transport! What mean these doleful sounds, this alarming exclamation on my name? What woes has heaven still in store for the wretched Hippolita? Yet silent! By every pitying angel, I adjure thee, noble Prince,” continued she, falling at his feet, “to disclose the purport of what lies at thy heart. I see thou feelest for me; thou feelest the sharp pangs that thou inflictest—speak, for pity! Does aught thou knowest concern my child?” “I cannot speak,” cried Frederic, bursting from her. “Oh, Matilda!”