Dwaraka/Training_Dataset_of_Project_Gutebberg_Gothic_Fiction

text stringlengths 0 102
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 round 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;
wouldst 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 agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst
offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot
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 to 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.

“What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunder at
that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and
the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and
Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore
along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared,
the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty
force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared
in the centre of the ruins.

“Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: And
having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it
ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the
form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were
soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine
will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita.

“My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of
human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore we
view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I know
not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but
dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the
further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon
holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.”

“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied
Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh!
could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last do justice on
myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left
to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:
Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a
murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and
may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”

“Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would interrupt me; ye
would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true—why else this
bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my
grandfather, was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s
crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will
declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no Conrad,
no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook
him. Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and
two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted:
the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s
posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be
grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from
Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor
female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race! I have done—the
woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be
Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these
dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question
not the will of heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space,
until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”

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 round 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;

wouldst 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 agonising soul!” said Hippolita; “thou never couldst

offend me—Alas! she faints! help! help!”

“I would say something more,” said Matilda, struggling, “but it cannot

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 to 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.

“What! is she dead?” cried he in wild confusion. A clap of thunder at

that instant shook the castle to its foundations; the earth rocked, and

the clank of more than mortal armour was heard behind. Frederic and

Jerome thought the last day was at hand. The latter, forcing Theodore

along with them, rushed into the court. The moment Theodore appeared,

the walls of the castle behind Manfred were thrown down with a mighty

force, and the form of Alfonso, dilated to an immense magnitude, appeared

in the centre of the ruins.

“Behold in Theodore the true heir of Alfonso!” said the vision: And

having pronounced those words, accompanied by a clap of thunder, it

ascended solemnly towards heaven, where the clouds parting asunder, the

form of St. Nicholas was seen, and receiving Alfonso’s shade, they were

soon wrapt from mortal eyes in a blaze of glory.

The beholders fell prostrate on their faces, acknowledging the divine

will. The first that broke silence was Hippolita.

“My Lord,” said she to the desponding Manfred, “behold the vanity of

human greatness! Conrad is gone! Matilda is no more! In Theodore we

view the true Prince of Otranto. By what miracle he is so I know

not—suffice it to us, our doom is pronounced! shall we not, can we but

dedicate the few deplorable hours we have to live, in deprecating the

further wrath of heaven? heaven ejects us—whither can we fly, but to yon

holy cells that yet offer us a retreat.”

“Thou guiltless but unhappy woman! unhappy by my crimes!” replied

Manfred, “my heart at last is open to thy devout admonitions. Oh!

could—but it cannot be—ye are lost in wonder—let me at last do justice on

myself! To heap shame on my own head is all the satisfaction I have left

to offer to offended heaven. My story has drawn down these judgments:

Let my confession atone—but, ah! what can atone for usurpation and a

murdered child? a child murdered in a consecrated place? List, sirs, and

may this bloody record be a warning to future tyrants!”

“Alfonso, ye all know, died in the Holy Land—ye would interrupt me; ye

would say he came not fairly to his end—it is most true—why else this

bitter cup which Manfred must drink to the dregs. Ricardo, my

grandfather, was his chamberlain—I would draw a veil over my ancestor’s

crimes—but it is in vain! Alfonso died by poison. A fictitious will

declared Ricardo his heir. His crimes pursued him—yet he lost no Conrad,

no Matilda! I pay the price of usurpation for all! A storm overtook

him. Haunted by his guilt he vowed to St. Nicholas to found a church and

two convents, if he lived to reach Otranto. The sacrifice was accepted:

the saint appeared to him in a dream, and promised that Ricardo’s

posterity should reign in Otranto until the rightful owner should be

grown too large to inhabit the castle, and as long as issue male from

Ricardo’s loins should remain to enjoy it—alas! alas! nor male nor

female, except myself, remains of all his wretched race! I have done—the

woes of these three days speak the rest. How this young man can be

Alfonso’s heir I know not—yet I do not doubt it. His are these

dominions; I resign them—yet I knew not Alfonso had an heir—I question

not the will of heaven—poverty and prayer must fill up the woeful space,

until Manfred shall be summoned to Ricardo.”