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 and you are virtuous, you are guiltless!—Oh! must not I, must not I complain? You must not: Said Hippolita—come, all will yet be well. Manfred, in the agony for the loss of thy brother, knew not what he said: perhaps Isabella misunderstood him: His heart is good—and, my child, thou knowest not all! There is a destiny hangs over us; the hand of Providence is stretched out—Oh! could I but save thee from the wreck!—yes, continued she in a firmer tone; perhaps the sacrifice of myself may atone for all—I will go and offer myself to this divorce—it boots not what becomes of me. I will withdraw into the neighbouring monastery, and waste the remainder of life in prayers and tears for my child and—the Prince! Thou art as much too good for this world, said Isabella, as Manfred is execrable—but think not, Lady, that thy weakness shall determine for me. I swear, hear me all ye angels—stop, I adjure thee; cried Hippolita: Remember thou dost not depend on thyself; thou hast a father