“Nor do I ask many, my Lord,” said the unhappy young man. “My sins, thank heaven, have not been numerous; nor exceed what might be expected at my years. Dry your tears, good Father, and let us despatch. This is a bad world; nor have I had cause to leave it with regret.”
“Oh wretched youth!” said Jerome; “how canst thou bear the sight of me with patience? I am thy murderer! it is I have brought this dismal hour upon thee!”
“I forgive thee from my soul,” said the youth, “as I hope heaven will pardon me. Hear my confession, Father; and give me thy blessing.”
“How can I prepare thee for thy passage as I ought?” said Jerome. “Thou canst not be saved without pardoning thy foes—and canst thou forgive that impious man there?”
“I can,” said Theodore; “I do.”
“And does not this touch thee, cruel Prince?” said the friar.
“I sent for thee to confess him,” said Manfred, sternly; “not to plead for him. Thou didst first incense me against him—his blood be upon thy head!”
“It will! it will!” said the good man, in an agony of sorrow. “Thou and I must never hope to go where this blessed youth is going!”
“Despatch!” said Manfred; “I am no more to be moved by the whining of priests than by the shrieks of women.”
“What!” said the youth; “is it possible that my fate could have occasioned what I heard! Is the Princess then again in thy power?”
“Thou dost but remember me of my wrath,” said Manfred. “Prepare thee, for this moment is thy last.”
The youth, who felt his indignation rise, and who was touched with the sorrow which he saw he had infused into all the spectators, as well as into the friar, suppressed his emotions, and putting off his doublet, and unbuttoning his collar, knelt down to his prayers. As he stooped, his shirt slipped down below his shoulder, and discovered the mark of a bloody arrow.
“Gracious heaven!” cried the holy man, starting; “what do I see? It is my child! my Theodore!”
The passions that ensued must be conceived; they cannot be painted. The tears of the assistants were suspended by wonder, rather than stopped by joy. They seemed to inquire in the eyes of their Lord what they ought to feel. Surprise, doubt, tenderness, respect, succeeded each other in the countenance of the youth. He received with modest submission the effusion of the old man’s tears and embraces. Yet afraid of giving a loose to hope, and suspecting from what had passed the inflexibility of Manfred’s temper, he cast a glance towards the Prince, as if to say, canst thou be unmoved at such a scene as this?
Manfred’s heart was capable of being touched. He forgot his anger in his astonishment; yet his pride forbad his owning himself affected. He even doubted whether this discovery was not a contrivance of the friar to save the youth.
“What may this mean?” said he. “How can he be thy son? Is it consistent with thy profession or reputed sanctity to avow a peasant’s offspring for the fruit of thy irregular amours!”
“Oh, God!” said the holy man, “dost thou question his being mine? Could I feel the anguish I do if I were not his father? Spare him! good Prince! spare him! and revile me as thou pleasest.”
“Spare him! spare him!” cried the attendants; “for this good man’s sake!”
“Peace!” said Manfred, sternly. “I must know more ere I am disposed to pardon. A saint’s bastard may be no saint himself.”
“Injurious Lord!” said Theodore, “add not insult to cruelty. If I am this venerable man’s son, though no Prince, as thou art, know the blood that flows in my veins—”
“Yes,” said the friar, interrupting him, “his blood is noble; nor is he that abject thing, my Lord, you speak him. He is my lawful son, and Sicily can boast of few houses more ancient than that of Falconara. But alas! my Lord, what is blood! what is nobility! We are all reptiles, miserable, sinful creatures. It is piety alone that can distinguish us from the dust whence we sprung, and whither we must return.”
“Truce to your sermon,” said Manfred; “you forget you are no longer Friar Jerome, but the Count of Falconara. Let me know your history; you will have time to moralise hereafter, if you should not happen to obtain the grace of that sturdy criminal there.”
“Mother of God!” said the friar, “is it possible my Lord can refuse a father the life of his only, his long-lost, child! Trample me, my Lord, scorn, afflict me, accept my life for his, but spare my son!”
“Thou canst feel, then,” said Manfred, “what it is to lose an only son! A little hour ago thou didst preach up resignation to me: my house, if fate so pleased, must perish—but the Count of Falconara—”
“Alas! my Lord,” said Jerome, “I confess I have offended; but aggravate not an old man’s sufferings! I boast not of my family, nor think of such vanities—it is nature, that pleads for this boy; it is the memory of the dear woman that bore him. Is she, Theodore, is she dead?”
“Her soul has long been with the blessed,” said Theodore.
“Oh! how?” cried Jerome, “tell me—no—she is happy! Thou art all my care now!—Most dread Lord! will you—will you grant
