A third equally beautiful Masker approaches from behind and speaks in a loud voice.
The Third Masker. Lorenzo, my dear, did you send for me? Ecco said that you wished to see me. Who is this lady with you? And what is the meaning of this unseemly familiarity, Lorenzo?
Lorenzo. [Stepping back with a laugh in which is heard a note of insanity] What a capital joke, madam, what a delicious farce! Now it is my wife who is lost. Laugh, my dear guests. I had a wife. They called her Donna Francesca, and I have lost her. What a strange jest!
The Three Maskers. [Together] Lorenzo, my beloved!
Lorenzo. [Laughing] Do you hear, gentlemen?
General unrestrained laughter.
Voices. Lorenzo has lost his wife. Weep, gentlemen. Lorenzo has lost his wife. Give Lorenzo another wife.
On all sides are heard plaintive female voices: “Here I am, Lorenzo. Here I am, Lorenzo. Take your Francesca.” From somewhere comes a single terrified voice: “Save me, Lorenzo, I am here.” Loud laughter. The seven old women, with the air of coy and embarrassed brides, seem about to throw themselves on Lorenzo’s neck.
Voice. We will give Lorenzo a wife. Gentlemen, Duke Lorenzo is now contracting a new marriage. The wedding march, musicians!
The Musicians play wild strains remotely resembling wedding music, but the music is that which is played in hell at the masquerade wedding of Satan. The Red Masker with the serpent approaches Lorenzo.
The Red Masker. Do you recognise your heart now, Lorenzo? [Plaintively] Caress the poor serpent, caress the poor serpent. It has drunk all my blood.
The Spider. Now do you recognise your heart, Lorenzo? Let us go up into the tower, my friend. Something is entangled in the spider-web there and waits for you. But is your sword sharp, Lorenzo? Is your sword sharp?
Lorenzo. Hence, hence! Brood of darkness, I know you not. [Running a few steps up the staircase, and raised thus alone above the throng of Maskers, he tries to cry out, but suddenly presses his hand to his heart, and, smiling sadly, comes down again, the same winning, candid, noble, and handsome figure as before] Pardon me, my dear friends, for my touch of ill-humour. These choice jests, these adroit tricks of yours have just a little dashed my spirits— And I have lost my wife— Her name was Donna Francesca. Permit me now—since the hour of departure draws nigh—permit me to call your attention to some real music—not the hideous discords with which this disguised brigand of a Luigi has, in his desire to contribute to the general gaiety, so tortured our ears, but some music of my own. I am a very poor composer, gentlemen. It is rare that these earthly ears of mine are ravished by celestial melodies. But you will not criticise me too harshly. In the virgin purity of the tones you will find a restful calmness and the reflection of some one’s heavenly vision— And I have lost my wife, gentlemen, I have lost my wife. Her name was Donna Francesca.
The Maskers. We are waiting for your music, Lorenzo. All the world knows the enchanting music of Duke Lorenzo. But the hour of departure is still remote.
Lorenzo. I am at your service, my dear guests. [He confers with the Musicians.
A little before this the first of the Black Maskers has appeared in the hall—a strange, deformed creature like a living fragment of darkness. Glancing about timidly and suspiciously, wondering at everything new, strange, and unfamiliar, the Black Masker steals guiltily along the wall and awkwardly conceals itself behind the other Maskers. Every one whom it approaches starts back perplexed and alarmed.
A Voice. Who is this? This is not a masker.
Second Voice. I don’t know. Who invited you, sir?
The Black Masker makes no answer, but, shrinking into itself, quietly hides behind the others. Two Maskers converse.
First Masker. [To the other in a low voice] How many of us were there?
Second Masker. A hundred.
First Masker. But now there are more. Who is this? Don’t you know?
Second Masker. Not I. But I am afraid to speak of it. It seems that they fly toward the light.
First Masker. Crazy Lorenzo! He lighted up his castle too brilliantly.
Second Masker. Lights are dangerous in the night.
First Masker. To those who are abroad?
Second Masker. No, to him who lights them.
Lorenzo. My friends, I beg your attention. You see this masked gentleman. His name is Romualdo and he is an admirable singer. He will now render for you a little ballad which I made bold to compose. Have you your notes, Romualdo?
The Masked Singer. I have, sir.
Lorenzo. And the words? Consult your notes frequently. In one place, my friend, you often go wrong.
The Masked Singer. I have the words also, sir.
Lorenzo. Luigi, you villain, if you make a mistake in a single note I will have you hanged from the castle wall to-morrow.
A Masker in the Orchestra. You will have no occasion to waste rope on me, sir.
Lorenzo. Attention, ladies and gentlemen, attention. [Much excited] Now, Romualdo, do your best, my friend. Do not disgrace me, and to-morrow I will give you a costly belt.
The accompaniment begins with a beautiful, soft, and tender harmony, pure and clear as a cloudless sky or as the eyes of a child; but with each successive measure which the masked artist sings the music becomes more fragmentary and more restless and soon passes over into wild cries and laughter, expressive of tragical but incoherent emotion. It closes with a solemn and melancholy hymn.
The Masked Singer. [Singing] “My soul is an enchanted castle. When the sun shines into the lofty windows, with its golden rays it weaves golden dreams. When the sad moon looks into the misty windows, in its silvery beams are silvery dreams. Who laughs? Who laughs so tenderly at the mournful dirge?”
Lorenzo. Right, right, Romualdo.
The Masked Singer. [Singing] “And I lighted up my castle with lights. What has happened to my soul? The black shadows fled to the hills and returned yet blacker. Who sobs? Who groans so heavily in the black shadows of the cypresses? Who came at my call?”
Lorenzo. [In perplexity] That is not there, Romualdo. What kind of music is that?
The Masked Singer. [Singing] “And terror entered my shining castle. What has happened to my soul? The lights go out at the breath of the darkness. Who laughs? Who laughs so horribly at insane Lorenzo? Have pity on me, O Monarch. My soul is filled with terror. O Monarch—O Lord of the World—O Satan!”
The Maskers. [Laughing] Have pity on him, Satan.
Lorenzo. That is false, singer. I, Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, Knight of the Holy Ghost, could never have called Satan the monarch of the world. Give me the notes. My sword shall teach you how to read. [Snatches the notes and reads with growing horror] “And my soul is filled with terror, O Lord of the World—O Satan.” That is false. Some one has imitated my handwriting, gentlemen. I never wrote this. I swear by almighty heaven, sirs, I swear by the sacred memory of my mother, I swear by my word of honour as a knight. There is some base deceit here. The words have been altered, gentlemen.
The Maskers. We have no need of your oaths, Lorenzo. Go to the church if you want to repent. We are the masters here. Continue, singer.
Lorenzo. [Smiling feebly] Pardon me, gentlemen, I had for the moment forgotten that for me everything is changed—faces, tones, even words. But who would have thought, my dear guests, that words could assume such revolting masks. Go on with your jest, singer.
The Masked Singer. [Singing] “In the black depths of my heart I shall erect a throne to you, O Satan. In the black depths of my thought I shall erect a throne to you, O Satan. Divine, immortal, almighty, from now on and for ever hold sway over the soul of Lorenzo, happy, insane Lorenzo.”
Applause. Laughter.
Voices:
—Bravo, Lorenzo! Bravo, bravo!
—Lorenzo is the vassal of Satan.
—We kneel to you, Lorenzo.
—Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro, is a vassal of Satan.
—Bravo! Bravo!
Lorenzo. [Crying out] In God’s name, gentlemen, we are all deceived. This is not my singer. This is not Romualdo but some impostor. Satan has sent him here. Something frightful has happened, gentlemen.
A Voice. He sang your own song, Lorenzo.
Second Voice. Out of your own mouth he confessed to Satan.
Lorenzo. [Pressing his hand to his heart] This is a horrible falsehood, gentlemen. Just imagine, my dear guests—how could I, Duke Lorenzo, Knight of the Holy Ghost, son of a crusader——
A Voice. But did your mother tell you whose son you are, Duke Lorenzo?
Laughter. Lorenzo, extending his arms, tries to say something, but his words are inaudible. Pressing his hands to his head, he runs swiftly up the staircase. Cries: “Way for the queen’s son!” Two Black Maskers appear, one after the other.
A Voice. Who is this? Our numbers increase.
A Frightened Voice. Uninvited guests are coming. Uninvited guests are coming.
Third Voice. They fly to the light. Off with your mask, sir. [He tries to pull the black mask from the face of the stranger and springs back in terror, crying] They are not masked, gentlemen.
General confusion. Everything is enveloped in darkness. The wild music, however, continues, gradually receding.
Curtain.
SCENE II
From somewhere in the distance come sounds of music, which, mingling with the howling and whistling of the wind that rages about the castle, fill the air with a wild, tremulous melody.
An ancient library in the castle tower. A low, massive oak door, partly open, through which steps are seen leading down and a little beyond other steps leading upward. The heavy ceiling is vaulted and there are small windows in deep stone recesses. Here and there on the walls and hanging from the ceiling are spider-webs. Everywhere are large old books—on the floor, in heavy, iron-bound chests, and on small wooden stands. A portion of the wall, hollowed out in niches, is also used to hold books. Some of the niches are draped with heavy curtains.
Beside one of the open chests, which is full of papers yellowed with age, Lorenzo is seated on a low stool. Near him, on a support, stands a wrought-iron lantern which, by reason of its cross-bars, throws here dark shadows and there bright lines of light. For some time there is profound silence. All that can be heard is the far-off music and the rustling of the sheets of paper as Lorenzo turns them over. Lorenzo is dressed as at the ball.
Lorenzo. [Raising his head] What a frightful wind there is to-day! For three nights now it has been raging and grows steadily more violent. How horribly like the music of my thoughts! These poor thoughts of mine! How like frightened creatures they beat about within this tight box of bone! Once Lorenzo was young, but now, though only a little time has passed—though the sun has encircled the earth but twice—lo, he is old, and the weight of terrible experience, the horrible truth of things human and divine, has bowed his youthful back. Poor Lorenzo! Poor Lorenzo! [He reads. Breaking off for a moment] If all that is in these yellowed papers is true, who then is ruler of the world, God or Satan? And who am I that call myself Lorenzo, Duke of Spadaro? Oh, the horrible reality of human life! My young soul is smitten with sorrow. [He reads, then carefully lays aside the sheets and speaks] So it is true, mother; it is true. I thought, my mother, that you were a saint. I swore by your memory, and my oath was as solemn as if I had sworn upon my knightly sword; and yet you, my saintly mother, were the paramour of a drunken, thieving groom. And my noble father, returning from Palestine to die in his ancestral home, learned of this and pardoned you, and bore the terrible secret with him to his grave. Whose son am I, O my saintly mother—the son of a knight, who gave his life’s blood to the Lord, or the son of a filthy groom, an abominable traitor and thief, who robbed his master at his orisons? Poor Lorenzo! Poor Lorenzo!
He falls into deep thought. Swift footsteps are heard along the staircase, and Lorenzo rushes into the room, his head between his hands, in the same attitude in which he left the hall. He takes his hands from his face, sees the Lorenzo who is seated, and cries out in a frightened voice.
The Second Lorenzo. Who is this?
The First Lorenzo. [Rising in alarm] Who is this?
The Second Lorenzo throws himself upon the other and hurls the lantern to the floor. The room is now faintly illuminated by the light from the open door. There is a brief, muffled struggle and then the two figures separate.
The Second Lorenzo. Your jest is overbold, sir. Remove your mask, I command you, else I will remove it for you by force. I gave you my castle but not myself, and by assuming my mask you insult me. There is but one Lorenzo, but one Duke of Spadaro, and that is I. Off with your mask, sir! [He advances toward the other.
The First Lorenzo. [In a trembling voice] If you are only a frightful apparition, I conjure you, in the name of God, vanish. There is but one Lorenzo, but one Duke of Spadaro, and that is I.
The Second Lorenzo. [Wildly] Off with your mask, sir! I have borne too long with your unseemly jests. My patience is at an end. Either remove your mask or draw your sword. Duke Lorenzo knows how to punish insolence.
The First Lorenzo. In God’s name!
The Second Lorenzo. In the devil’s name, you mean, unhappy man. Your sword, sir, your sword, else I shall run you through on the spot like a guilty dog.
The First Lorenzo. In God’s name!
The Second Lorenzo. [Furiously] Your sword, sir, your sword!
From the dimly lighted stage comes the whistling and the clash of meeting rapiers. The two Lorenzos engage each other savagely, though the First Lorenzo is obviously the inferior. There are brief, muffled exclamations:
“In God’s name!”
“Off with your mask!”
“You have killed me, Lorenzo.”
He falls and dies. Lorenzo sets his foot upon the corpse and, wiping his sword, speaks with unexpected sadness and tenderness.
Lorenzo. I am sorry for you, Sir Impostor. Your strength of wrist, your deep breathing, showed me that you were young like myself. But your misfortune, unhappy sir, lay in this, that Duke Lorenzo wearied of laughing at the amiable quips of his guests. You went to an obscure death, young man, the hapless victim of a masquerading joke; but still I pity you, and if I knew where your mother is I would bear to her your parting words. Farewell, Signor.
He goes out. For some time there is silence. Then all is veiled in darkness, and the sounds of wild music grow louder and draw nearer.
Curtain.
SCENE III
The ball continues. There seem to be more Maskers. The hall is more crowded, and the Maskers are restless as if the strange, mysteriously altered wine were having its effect upon the guests. The music, though it has grown a little languorous, is as wild as before. A mournful and lovely melody springs up, as it were accidentally, in the chaos of wild and turbulent cries, but is immediately overwhelmed and swept away upon the wind like a withered leaf which, torn from its branch, flutters in circles before it sinks to rest. Part of the Maskers continue to dance, but the greater number, perplexed and restless, move to and fro, gathering for a moment in groups to interchange brief, excited remarks. The Black Maskers wander about singly in the throng. Hairy and black from foot to crown, some resembling orang-outangs and others those uncouth hairy insects which in the night-time fly toward the light, they move along the walls with a guilty, embarrassed, and somewhat absent air and hide in the corners. But curiosity overcomes their shyness, and, creeping cautiously about, they examine various objects, holding them close to their eyes. They touch the white marble columns with their hairy black fingers. They take in their hands the costly goblets, only to drop them again, as it were, helplessly. The Maskers who arrived before them are manifestly afraid of them.
Voices: Where is Lorenzo?
—Where is Lorenzo? We must find Lorenzo. Did no one notice where the Duke went? We must tell him now or it will be too late.
—They fly toward the light.
—It is plain that they are here for the first time. See how they look at everything, with what curiosity they touch things. Who invited them?
—They were not invited. They came of their own accord along the lighted road.
—But perhaps they are some of our friends.
—No, no, they are strangers.
—It is all due to the light in the tower. How dreadful!
—Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo!
—The drawbridge should be raised. Then they cannot enter.
—Call Lorenzo.
A Black Masker touches, out of curiosity, the sleeve of one of the other Maskers, who springs back affrighted.
The Masker. What do you wish, sir? I do not know you. Who are you? Who invited you here?
The Black Masker. I do not know who I am. Some one lighted up the tower, and we came. It’s dark out there and very cold. But who are you? I do not know you, either.
He tries to embrace the Masker, but the latter shrinks from him.
The Masker. Keep your hands from me, sir, or I will hew off your fingers.
The Black Masker moves unsteadily toward the fire burning on the hearth and sits cross-legged to warm himself. His fellows join him and in a black ring encircle the fire, which immediately begins to die out.
First Black Masker. It’s cold, it’s cold.
Second Black Masker. It’s cold.
Third Black Masker. Is this what they call fire? How beautiful it is! Whose house is this? Why didn’t we come here before?
First Black Masker. Because we were then unborn. The light begat us.
Second Black Masker. Why does the fire go out? I love it so, and yet it goes out. Why does the fire go out?
A Masker. Duke Lorenzo is a traitor. He has played us false. He said the castle was ours. Why, then, did he invite these creatures?
Second Masker. He did not invite them. They came of themselves. But this castle is ours, and we will have the drawbridge raised. Ho! Servants! Servants of the Duke Lorenzo! This way!
No one comes.
Third Masker. The servants have run away. Call Lorenzo. Call Lorenzo.
The Old Women. [Running up with castanets] The bridegroom is coming. The bridegroom is coming. The bridegroom is coming.
Voices. Lorenzo! Lorenzo! Lorenzo!
Lorenzo appears, smiling, on the staircase. His clothes are torn. On his bared breast is a large blood-red spot, but he seems not to be aware of it and bears himself with his former dignity and with the refinement and reserve of a prince regent.
Lorenzo. Kindly pardon me, my friends, for presuming to leave you for a moment. You can’t imagine, my dear guests, what an amusing and diverting trick has been played upon me. I have just met a very clever gentleman who had donned the mask of Duke Lorenzo. You would have been amazed at the striking resemblance. This skilful artist had stolen not only my dress but even my voice and my features. Really, it’s amusing. [He laughs.
A Masker. There is blood on you, Lorenzo.
Lorenzo. [Glancing at himself indifferently] It is not my blood. I think [rubbing his forehead thoughtfully], I think I killed that jester. Did you not hear falling bodies, gentlemen?
A Masker. Duke Lorenzo is a murderer! Whom did you kill, Lorenzo?
Lorenzo. Pardon me, gentlemen, but really I do not know whom I did kill. He lies in the tower, and if you like you may take a look at him. He is lying there. But why has the music ceased? And why, my dear guests, are you not dancing?
A Masker. The music has not ceased, Lorenzo.
Lorenzo. Oh, really? I thought it was the wind, merely a violent wind. Dance, my friends. Your unbounded joy delights me. Petruccio! Cristoforo! More wine for my dear guests. [Sadly] Ah, to be sure [he laughs], I have lost them all—Petruccio, Cristoforo, and Donna Francesca. So my wife was called—Donna Francesca. A charming name, isn’t it? Donna Francesca——
The number of the Black Maskers increases. One of them mounts the stairs and addresses himself to the Duke.
The Black Masker. Did you kindle the light?
Lorenzo. Who are you, sir? You have a strange, coarse voice, and I think I did not invite you. How did you gain admittance?
The Black Masker. Did you kindle the light?
Lorenzo. Yes, my charming stranger. I had my castle lighted up. The lights shine far, do they not?
The Black Masker. You roused the whole night. Everything is astir there, and now the night is coming hither. No harm in our coming, was there? Is your name Lorenzo? Is this your house? Is this your light?
He seeks to embrace Lorenzo, who violently thrusts him away.
The Maskers. [From below] Be on your guard, Lorenzo. Lorenzo, your castle is in danger. They have come uninvited. Have the drawbridge raised and all the doors tightly barred.
A Voice. The drawbridge is already raised, but they are clambering over the walls.
Another Voice. All the darkness of the night is transformed into living creatures, and from every side they are coming hither. Bar the doors.
A Masker. [From below] Lorenzo, you invited us, and we are your guests. You must protect us. Summon your armed guards and kill these creatures. Otherwise they will kill both you and us.
A Third Voice. Look! For every one of them a light goes out. They devour the light. They put the light out with their black bodies.
First Voice. Who are they? They love the light and yet they put it out. They fly to the light and the light goes out. Who are they?
Lorenzo. What a delightful jest, Signors! It’s very clever of you. But the lights are actually going out, and it is becoming strangely cold here. May I trouble some of you to call my servants? They will bring fresh lights. I really do not know where they are.
The closed doors burst open, as if suddenly yielding to a strong pressure, and let in a throng of Black Maskers, and at the same instant the light grows markedly fainter. The Black Maskers, roaming about the hall with the same embarrassed but persistent curiosity, gather in a black throng around the fireplace, completely extinguishing the already enfeebled blaze.
The Black Maskers. It’s cold, cold, cold.
Voices. Relight the candles. They are going out. Who opened the doors? Bring torches. Torches!
In the confusion that ensues several of the guests try to close the doors, but give back before the pressure of the continually increasing throng of Black Maskers. Others, with no greater success, attempt to light the extinguished chandeliers, which flare up but immediately go out again. Now and then a Masker appears with a blazing torch, the red, flickering light filling the hall with a fantastic dance of shadows.
Lorenzo. [Watching the scene with pleasure] A charming sight. A more interesting conflict between light and darkness it has never been my good fortune to witness. A thousand thanks to him who devised it. I am his devoted, life-long servant.
Voices. The torches are going out. Bring torches.
A Masker. We must put out the lights in the tower. This insane Lorenzo will ruin us all.
Second Masker. Some one has already gone to the tower.
The Spider. [Speaking to a Black Masker toward whom he has for some time been making his way] Are you from Satan?
The Black Masker. Who is Satan?
The Spider. [Incredulously] Why, don’t you know Satan? Who sent you here?
The Black Masker. I don’t know. We came of our own accord.
He tries to embrace The Spider. The latter, frightened, runs away on wobbling legs.
Lorenzo. Luigi, you villain, why are you and your orchestra silent? Play, I beg of you, that song of mine— Do you remember it? Pardon my weak voice, gentlemen; I must refresh the memory of this forgetful singer. Listen, Luigi.
He runs over the opening bars of a simple, touching air, such as mothers sing when they lull their children, and strangely, with low and tender harmonies, the strains of the orchestra answer to the song. All else is silent.
The Black Maskers, in awkward and ungainly attitudes, listen to the music, gaping with vacant curiosity. Only at the door, which the Maskers hold shut by the main strength of their shoulders, there is a knocking and scratching and a low, plaintive moaning. Lorenzo, closing his eyes and swaying slightly, sings in a low voice. Suddenly, behind him, along the stairway, echoes the trampling of many feet, distinctly audible in the silence. Several Maskers run down the staircase past Lorenzo, jostling him.
Lorenzo. [Gently reproaching them] Gentlemen, you put me out.
One of the Maskers. [Panting] Murder! Murder! There has been a murder in the tower.
Voices. Who is murdered?
First Masker. Lorenzo himself—Lorenzo, the Duke of Spadaro, lord of this castle—is murdered.
Second Masker. We saw his corpse. The unhappy Duke lies in the library, pierced by a rapier thrust from behind. His slayer is not only a murderer but a traitor.
Lorenzo. That is false, gentlemen. I struck him in the heart. I slew him in honourable combat. He defended himself savagely, but the Lord God strengthened my hand, and I slew him.
Voices. Vengeance, gentlemen! To arms, to arms! The Duke of Spadaro is treacherously slain.
First Masker. [Pointing to Lorenzo] And there is his murderer. Off with your mask, sir!
Lorenzo. My mask? [With dignity] It is true, gentlemen, that I killed some one in the tower—some brazen jester—but it was not the Duke Lorenzo. I am Duke Lorenzo.
Voices. [Shouting] Off with your mask, murderer!
Meanwhile the influx of the Black Maskers and the quenching of the lights continue. Now and then another torch replaces one that has gone out. The ensuing words of Lorenzo and the Maskers are interrupted by frequent cries of “Bring torches, the lights are going out.”
Lorenzo. Why do you think that I am masked, gentlemen? [Feeling of his face] This is no mask. I assure you gentlemen, this is my own face.
Voices. Off with your mask, murderer!
Lorenzo. [Flaring up] I beg you to give over this unbecoming jest. I swear on my honour that this is the face that God gave me when I was born, and not one of those repulsive masks that I see on you, gentlemen. A mask cannot smile as I smile in answer to your daring jests.
He tries to smile, but his lips only twitch convulsively. For a moment, with teeth bared, he presents the appearance of a frightful, laughing mask, but instantly his face becomes motionless, turns pale, and stiffens.
Lorenzo. [Horrified] What is this? What has happened to my face? It does not obey me. It will not smile, but grows rigid. [Piteously] Perhaps I am going insane. Just look at me, gentlemen. This is surely not a mask. It is a face—a living, human face.
Laughter and shouts: “Off with your mask, murderer! Look, look! Lorenzo is turning to stone.”
Lorenzo. [His face turned to stone] All is lost, gentlemen. I tried to smile and could not. I tried to weep and could not weep. I wear a mask of stone. [He grasps his face in a fury, trying to tear it off] I’ll tear you off, accursed mask, I’ll tear you off together with the flesh and blood. Help me, Donna Francesca. Cut the edge here a bit with your dagger and it will at once fall away and let you see the face of your Lorenzo. Bring your consecrated sword, Cristoforo. Save your master, whom God has abandoned. One moment, gentlemen, one moment—I will——
He utters a wild cry and falls. At the same instant there is a crash of breaking window-frames, the windows are burst open, and through them pour in the Black Maskers. The hall is dark save for the tremulous light of two remaining torches, and presently one of these goes out. A commotion arises on the darkened stage. There are wild cries of terror and despair and vain efforts to escape. Several of the Black Maskers mount the musicians’ balcony, seize the horns, and trumpet wildly.
A Voice. Do you hear? They are blowing the trumpets. They are summoning their kin.
Second Voice. That is their music.
Third Voice. Save yourselves, they are coming through the windows!
First Voice. The tower is full of them. They are pouring down from it like a black torrent. Bring torches.
Fourth Voice. There are no more torches. This is the last.
Many Voices. Save yourselves, save yourselves!
Third Voice. They hold all the exits.
A Female Voice. He is embracing me. I am stifling. I shall die. Save me! Among so many knights is there none to protect me?
A Voice. To arms!
Third Voice. Swords are powerless against them.
Fourth Voice. There is no way of escape. We are lost! Crazy Lorenzo! He has ruined us all!
The Black Maskers. [Roaming about, one by one] It’s cold, cold. Where’s the light? Where’s the fire? They have deceived us!
A Voice. [In rage and despair] You have devoured the light, you brood of darkness!
The Black Maskers. It’s cold, cold. Where is the light? Where is the fire?
They crowd around the last torch, which one of the Maskers holds high in his uplifted hand, seeking to keep it alight. The torch goes out. Darkness.
Voices. Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo! Crazy Lorenzo!
Curtain.