indeed we have all reason to weep; she was a mother to our house.
But this life is but a pilgrimage; we must not murmur--we shall all
follow her! May our end be like hers!"

"Good brother, thou dreamest," said Jerome. "I tell thee I come
from the castle, and left the Princess well. Where is the Lady
Isabella?"

"Poor Gentlewoman!" replied the Friar; "I told her the sad news,
and offered her spiritual comfort. I reminded her of the
transitory condition of mortality, and advised her to take the
veil: I quoted the example of the holy Princess Sanchia of
Arragon."

"Thy zeal was laudable," said Jerome, impatiently; "but at present
it was unnecessary: Hippolita is well--at least I trust in the
Lord she is; I heard nothing to the contrary--yet, methinks, the
Prince's earnestness--Well, brother, but where is the Lady
Isabella?"

"I know not," said the Friar; "she wept much, and said she would
retire to her chamber."

Jerome left his comrade abruptly, and hastened to the Princess, but
she was not in her chamber. He inquired of the domestics of the
convent, but could learn no news of her. He searched in vain
throughout the monastery and the church, and despatched messengers
round the neighbourhood, to get intelligence if she had been seen;
but to no purpose. Nothing could equal the good man's perplexity.
He judged that Isabella, suspecting Manfred of having precipitated