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himself upon a bench against the wall, and bad Isabella sit by him. She obeyed trembling. I sent for you, Lady, said he,—and then stopped under great appearance of confusion. My Lord!—Yes, I sent for you on a matter of great moment, resumed he,—dry your tears, young Lady—you have lost your bridegroom.—Yes, cruel fate! and I have lost the hopes of my race!—but Conrad was not worthy of your beauty—how! my Lord, said Isabella; sure you do not suspect me of not feeling the concern I ought: My duty and affection would have always—think no more of him, interrupted Manfred; he was a sickly puny child, and heaven has perhaps taken him away, that I might not trust the honours of my house on so frail a foundation. The line of Manfred calls for numerous supports. My foolish fondness for that boy blinded the eyes of my prudence—but it is better as it is. I hope, in a few years, to have reason to rejoice at the death of Conrad.
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