"My dearest, gracious Lord," cried Hippolita, clasping him in her
arms, "what is it you see! Why do you fix your eye-balls thus?"

"What!" cried Manfred breathless; "dost thou see nothing,
Hippolita? Is this ghastly phantom sent to me alone--to rue, who
did not--"

"For mercy's sweetest self, my Lord," said Hippolita, "resume your
soul, command your reason. There is none here, but us, your
friends."

"What, is not that Alfonso?" cried Manfred. "Dost thou not see
him? can it be my brain's delirium?"

"This! my Lord," said Hippolita; "this is Theodore, the youth who
has been so unfortunate."

"Theodore!" said Manfred mournfully, and striking his forehead;
"Theodore or a phantom, he has unhinged the soul of Manfred. But
how comes he here? and how comes he in armour?"

"I believe he went in search of Isabella," said Hippolita.

"Of Isabella!" said Manfred, relapsing into rage; "yes, yes, that
is not doubtful -. But how did he escape from durance in which I
left him? Was it Isabella, or this hypocritical old Friar, that
procured his enlargement?"

"And would a parent be criminal, my Lord," said Theodore, "if he
meditated the deliverance of his child?"