Part 9 (2/2)

”Still thou art in an error,” said the Princess; ”but this is no time for explanation. Fly, virtuous youth, while it is in my power to save thee: should my father return, thou and I both should indeed have cause to tremble.”

”How!” said Theodore; ”thinkest thou, charming maid, that I will accept of life at the hazard of aught calamitous to thee? Better I endured a thousand deaths.”

”I run no risk,” said Matilda, ”but by thy delay. Depart; it cannot be known that I have a.s.sisted thy flight.”

”Swear by the saints above,” said Theodore, ”that thou canst not be suspected; else here I vow to await whatever can befall me.”

”Oh! thou art too generous,” said Matilda; ”but rest a.s.sured that no suspicion can alight on me.”

”Give me thy beauteous hand in token that thou dost not deceive me,” said Theodore; ”and let me bathe it with the warm tears of grat.i.tude.”

”Forbear!” said the Princess; ”this must not be.”

”Alas!” said Theodore, ”I have never known but calamity until this hour-perhaps shall never know other fortune again: suffer the chaste raptures of holy grat.i.tude: 'tis my soul would print its effusions on thy hand.”

”Forbear, and be gone,” said Matilda. ”How would Isabella approve of seeing thee at my feet?”

”Who is Isabella?” said the young man with surprise.

”Ah, me! I fear,” said the Princess, ”I am serving a deceitful one.

Hast thou forgot thy curiosity this morning?”

”Thy looks, thy actions, all thy beauteous self seem an emanation of divinity,” said Theodore; ”but thy words are dark and mysterious. Speak, Lady; speak to thy servant's comprehension.”

”Thou understandest but too well!” said Matilda; ”but once more I command thee to be gone: thy blood, which I may preserve, will be on my head, if I waste the time in vain discourse.”

”I go, Lady,” said Theodore, ”because it is thy will, and because I would not bring the grey hairs of my father with sorrow to the grave. Say but, adored Lady, that I have thy gentle pity.”

”Stay,” said Matilda; ”I will conduct thee to the subterraneous vault by which Isabella escaped; it will lead thee to the church of St. Nicholas, where thou mayst take sanctuary.”

”What!” said Theodore, ”was it another, and not thy lovely self that I a.s.sisted to find the subterraneous pa.s.sage?”

”It was,” said Matilda; ”but ask no more; I tremble to see thee still abide here; fly to the sanctuary.”

”To sanctuary,” said Theodore; ”no, Princess; sanctuaries are for helpless damsels, or for criminals. Theodore's soul is free from guilt, nor will wear the appearance of it. Give me a sword, Lady, and thy father shall learn that Theodore scorns an ignominious flight.”

”Rash youth!” said Matilda; ”thou wouldst not dare to lift thy presumptuous arm against the Prince of Otranto?”

”Not against thy father; indeed, I dare not,” said Theodore. ”Excuse me, Lady; I had forgotten. But could I gaze on thee, and remember thou art sprung from the tyrant Manfred! But he is thy father, and from this moment my injuries are buried in oblivion.”

A deep and hollow groan, which seemed to come from above, startled the Princess and Theodore.

”Good heaven! we are overheard!” said the Princess. They listened; but perceiving no further noise, they both concluded it the effect of pent-up vapours. And the Princess, preceding Theodore softly, carried him to her father's armoury, where, equipping him with a complete suit, he was conducted by Matilda to the postern-gate.

”Avoid the town,” said the Princess, ”and all the western side of the castle. 'Tis there the search must be making by Manfred and the strangers; but hie thee to the opposite quarter. Yonder behind that forest to the east is a chain of rocks, hollowed into a labyrinth of caverns that reach to the sea coast. There thou mayst lie concealed, till thou canst make signs to some vessel to put on sh.o.r.e, and take thee off. Go! heaven be thy guide!-and sometimes in thy prayers remember-Matilda!”

Theodore flung himself at her feet, and seizing her lily hand, which with struggles she suffered him to kiss, he vowed on the earliest opportunity to get himself knighted, and fervently entreated her permission to swear himself eternally her knight. Ere the Princess could reply, a clap of thunder was suddenly heard that shook the battlements. Theodore, regardless of the tempest, would have urged his suit: but the Princess, dismayed, retreated hastily into the castle, and commanded the youth to be gone with an air that would not be disobeyed. He sighed, and retired, but with eyes fixed on the gate, until Matilda, closing it, put an end to an interview, in which the hearts of both had drunk so deeply of a pa.s.sion, which both now tasted for the first time.

Theodore went pensively to the convent, to acquaint his father with his deliverance. There he learned the absence of Jerome, and the pursuit that was making after the Lady Isabella, with some particulars of whose story he now first became acquainted. The generous gallantry of his nature prompted him to wish to a.s.sist her; but the Monks could lend him no lights to guess at the route she had taken. He was not tempted to wander far in search of her, for the idea of Matilda had imprinted itself so strongly on his heart, that he could not bear to absent himself at much distance from her abode. The tenderness Jerome had expressed for him concurred to confirm this reluctance; and he even persuaded himself that filial affection was the chief cause of his hovering between the castle and monastery.

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