Isabella, not less restless, had better foundation for her
suspicions. Both Theodore's tongue and eyes had told her his heart
was engaged; it was true--yet, perhaps, Matilda might not
correspond to his passion; she had ever appeared insensible to
love: all her thoughts were set on heaven.

"Why did I dissuade her?" said Isabella to herself; "I am punished
for my generosity; but when did they meet? where? It cannot be; I
have deceived myself; perhaps last night was the first time they
ever beheld each other; it must be some other object that has
prepossessed his affections--if it is, I am not so unhappy as I
thought; if it is not my friend Matilda--how! Can I stoop to wish
for the affection of a man, who rudely and unnecessarily acquainted
me with his indifference? and that at the very moment in which
common courtesy demanded at least expressions of civility. I will
go to my dear Matilda, who will confirm me in this becoming pride.
Man is false--I will advise with her on taking the veil: she will
rejoice to find me in this disposition; and I will acquaint her
that I no longer oppose her inclination for the cloister."

In this frame of mind, and determined to open her heart entirely to
Matilda, she went to that Princess's chamber, whom she found
already dressed, and leaning pensively on her arm. This attitude,
so correspondent to what she felt herself, revived Isabella's
suspicions, and destroyed the confidence she had purposed to place
in her friend. They blushed at meeting, and were too much novices
to disguise their sensations with address. After some unmeaning
questions and replies, Matilda demanded of Isabella the cause of
her flight? The latter, who had almost forgotten Manfred's
passion, so entirely was she occupied by her own, concluding that