on the ground—but her fears returned when she beheld the domestics of Manfred. She would again have fled, if Theodore had not made her observe that they were unarmed, and had not threatened them with instant death if they should dare to seize the princess. The stranger, opening his eyes, and beholding a woman, said, “Art thou—pray tell me truly—art thou Isabella of Vicenza?”

“I am,” said she. “Good Heaven restore thee!”

“Then thou——then thou——” said the knight, struggling for utterance, “seest—thy father. Give me one——”

“Oh, amazement! horror! what do I hear? what do I see?” cried Isabella. “My father! you my father! how came you here, sir? for Heaven’s sake speak!—Oh, run for help, or he will expire!”

“’Tis most true,” said the wounded knight, exerting all his force; “I am Frederic thy father—yes, I came to deliver thee—it will not be—give me a parting kiss, and take——”

“Sir,” said Theodore,” do not exhaust yourself: suffer us to convey you to the castle.”

“To the castle!” said Isabella; “is there no help nearer than the castle? would you expose my father to the tyrant? if he goes thither, I cannot accompany him—and yet, can I leave him?”

“My child,” said Frederic, “it matters not to me whither I am carried: a few minutes will place me beyond danger—but while I have eyes to dote on thee, forsake me not, dear Isabella! This brave knight, I know not who he is, will protect thy innocence.—Sir, you will not abandon my child, will you?”

Theodore, shedding tears over his victim, and vowing to guard the princess at the expense of his life, persuaded Frederic to suffer himself to be conducted to the castle. They placed him on a horse belonging to one of the domestics, after binding up his wounds as well as they were able. Theodore marched by his side, and the afflicted Isabella, who could not bear to quit him, followed mournfully behind.