The Legendary and Poetical Remains of John Roby / author of 'Traditions of Lancashire', with a sketch of his literary life and character

zorayda.
But if disclosed, there now
Be other ears to listen, lady.

hermione.
Blanch,
Awhile thou may'st withdraw.

blanch.
How fierce her eye scowls! I marvel that her brows
should escape a singeing.—I would not leave you, gentle
mistress, until——

zorayda.
Begone!—— [Hermione smiles, and motions Blanch to depart. Exit Blanch.

hermione.
Now to thy task.

zorayda.
What bearest thou, with such o'er-vigilant watch,
In that fair bosom?

hermione.
Marry, my heart; what more?

zorayda.
'Tis then but late return'd: the truant once
Had left its home—what served thee in its place,
Knowest thou yet, gentle dame?

hermione.
I note thy craft:
Thou busiest me with questions, hoping thus
To catch unheeded words for thine advantage—
I answer nothing.

zorayda.
None I crave, fair maiden.
An empty billet is but poor exchange
For the heart's losing!

hermione.
How—a billet! Where?

zorayda.
In that bright bosom, lady. Search it well—
And yet a thing of nought: 'tis but a form,
An every-day express of custom'd greeting,
But as a precious relic thou dost wear it;
And 'tis to thee a coveted possession
Of more esteem than the sun-ripen'd gems
Golconda bears!

hermione.
Is this my unveil'd thought?
Not thus I'm fool'd. Perchance thy cunning eye,
For ever on the watch, hath spied this billet.
'Tis here. What more knowest thou?

zorayda.
Reserve thy scorn,
'Twill soon give place——Hark! [Distant music.
Ah! start not thus.—Why that frail shudder?
Yon guest within the chamber of thine ear
Ere this hath had sweet audience. But come,
My pretty spirit, hither speed, and frame
Thine uncorporeal organ to the sound
Of bodily voice.—[Music approaches.]—Hark, lady!—ever knew
Your ear aforetime yon wild melody?

SONG.

hermione.
Mysterious being, say from whence that voice!
But once—and on such feverish perception,
The sound did strike, I thought some air-form'd vision,
Some fantasy, hot from the teeming brain,
Imposed unreal conceptions on mine ear,
To which sense held no cognizance. Say where,
Thou awful visitor!

zorayda.
'Twas on the terrace, when the charmed moon
Hung o'er the trembling stream. And thinkest thou
Spirits have not such utterance?—Oft unseen,
Upon the viewless air, strange visions float,
And voices people the unfetter'd blast,
Vouchsafed not save to those who reverence
And bow to their high bidding. Now—they speak!

hermione.
And to what import?

zorayda.
Thus the mystic chant.

hermione.
The eagle?—Mantua's crest!—But who the dove?

zorayda.
Tempt not yet further to thine harm: we rue
If thou break silence!
The spirit sings, but mine imperfect hearing
Shapes not its voice to aught articulate
That human utterance owns. Again—speak not—
'Twas thus he sang:

Some dire event breaks from the womb of time:
To thee the spirit speaks. Hermione,
If yet three days on this forbidden air
Thou breathest, Mantua and her lord
May dearly rue thy longer stay. 'Tis past.
I heed not further question. Well I know
The winds I counsel, and the turbulent flood
To soothe its rage. On, if some power prevent not,
Madly ye rush to your undoing; then,
Fair city, thy glad voice to woe shall turn;
The loud lament, the chill and desolate wail
Of thy bereavement shall ascend, piercing,
Unpitied, the dun pall of heaven!
Follow me not——
Once more I meet thee:—if too soon, beware!
Thine hours are number'd. [Exit.

hermione.
Three days!—Where shall I fly?—To what lone spot
Can I escape? Has this wide earth no room?—
Measureless woe!—too vast for mortal limit!—
Yon wild enthusiast, her impostor's craft
Hath here some secret consequence to which
These bodings tend—cheat! Nay, thou didst affix
Fearful credentials to thy testimony;
They wore the impress of truth. None but that gaze
Which scans the soul, may the unvisited depths
Of mind reveal, its untold subtilties
Unto the eye disclosing. But three days!
Yet once—one sad farewell! [Exit.

SCENE IV.

A Chamber in the Inn.

Carlos on a couch, attended by Giulio.

carlos.
I thank thee, Giulio.
The couch feels easier from thine hand. 'Tis now
But as a troublesome scratch, scarce worth the pains
To work its cure. Another strain—thy lute
Strange chords doth waken, long untuned, forgot,
Slumbering untouch'd within my breast, the sound
Breathes on them sweetly; at its marvellous bidding,
Startled they wake, quivering once more to life.
I love these ancient ballads, they do savour
O' the olden time.

giulio.
Good signor, my poor music
Suits not this garnish'd age:—a simple air
That lives in the heart, and floats o'er the still depths
Of long-lapsed recollections, freshening
Their stagnant surface with soft impulse—this,
Brief skill!—'tis all I claim.
[Touches the chords to a slight prelude.
They are but snatches of old songs, signor;
Broken as fragments of the imperishing columns
Whitening some arid desert; but they are hallow'd
By the same hand that spoil'd them!

carlos.
They are bonds
That with the past yet link our purer thoughts,
Our most unsullied affections. Still
The voice of other years breathes through them,
As the low breeze, while creeping timorously
Around some ancient ruin, wailing there
Sad echoes of departed greatness.

giulio sings.

carlos.
Woman loves not her true lover,
A treacherous lewdster best o'ersteps her grace!—
Another, Giulio: I could live in them—
They feed the soul, as doth ambrosia
The mighty gods.

giulio sings.

carlos.
Cease!—I do remember me the ballad
Thou gavest yesterday. Upon my brain
So loud the music rings, this chaunt I hear not.—
Prithee again thy strings touch to the carol.

giulio.
Yet by your preference I know it not.
How name you the ballad?

carlos.
'Twas of the pilgrim, and his goodly benison.

giulio.
Thus? (Plays.)

carlos.
The same.

giulio sings.

Enter Bertrand.

carlos.
Welcome. I grew oppress'd from thy long absence—
But why that heavy, that disquieted brow?
Some choler, scarce dismiss'd, hath moved thee!

bertrand.
The Duke—

carlos.
Didst thou complain to him
Touching my wrong?

bertrand.
I did.

carlos.
Yet I have heard
This prince o'er all his peers hereto extoll'd,
The mirror of true courtesy; embodying
The proud and chivalrous spirit of his time.—
How spake he?

bertrand.
Few his words;—but this good sword—
Bitter degradement!——Yon proud Duke, he gave—
When from this recreant hand the traitor fell!
He had disarm'd me, Carlos!

carlos.
He!—You fought?

bertrand.
Ay, with the Duke—thy mistress' paramour!

carlos.
The Duke!—Her paramour!—
'Tis fuel to my hate.

bertrand.
How fares thy wound?

carlos.
This?—where?—'tis well.—These garments I shake off,
And put on my revenge—its panoply
Shall case my bosom.—Henceforth unto all
Compunction dead, and steel'd to every touch
Of natural sympathy, mine o'ercharged hate,
As the veil'd fire, pent in yon gathering cloud,
Deep-brooding waits, in fearful silence crouching,
Or ere it strike——'Twas for this minion
She spurn'd me!

bertrand.
Such my hate to Andrea.
Together and in secret we devise—
Yet not with such precipitate haste, our counsel,
As shall defeat its own resolve—some plan
To furnish our revenge. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

A Chamber in the Palace.

Enter the Duke.

duke.
Arouse thee!—fly.
Ere yet the fetters closer to thine heart
Are riveted—immoved for ever!
Thou counsellest well—these are ignoble trammels.
And I do rid me of them. Once—'tis fix'd—
A short, sad hour we meet, and then farewell!
Duty, remorseless, bids me.—There I'll pour
Into her wondering ear a hapless tale
Of thwarted love—hearts broken, severed
By obdurate fate—and in that feign'd lament,
Bewail mine own.—I must my story tell;
None other cause could I with honour urge
Why thus we part—for ever!

Enter Fabian.

fabian.
My lord, a woman of strange aspect,
And habited in Eastern garb, sits now
Within the western porch, waiting your presence.
She would not tell to me her errand.

duke.
How—
A stranger, and from whence?—Knowest thou her name?

fabian.
She holds most resolute silence—I forebore
To question her.

duke.
Describe this sullen guest.

fabian.
A turban girds her brow, white as the sea-foam,
Whence, all untrammelled, her dark thin hair
Streams fitfully upon her storm-beat front;
Her eye at rest, pale fire in its black orb
Innocuous sleeps—but roused, Jove's thunder-cloud
Enkindles not so fiercely! Once it shot
Full on mine eye:—in dazzling terror yet
It haunts my brain!

duke.
How eloquent the tongue
When the soul stirs it!—I would see, unharm'd,
This quickenéd volcano! [Exit Fabian.
Some moon-struck wanderer
Craving redress for her wrong'd fancies.

Enter Fabian followed by Zorayda; she stands in silence gazing at the Duke.

Woman, what seekest thou?—Doth silence best
Declare thine errand?

zorayda.
Silence best, my lord,
Should tell thy destiny—Heaven hath commanded
To speak no evil.

duke.
A rare conceit.—What more?—Is this thy message?
Haste,—we command not back the passing time:—
To thy request.

zorayda.
Much need hast thou to note
These priceless minutes;—let no fragment slip
Ungathered.—Yet my boon thou wilt not grant!
Seest thou yon shadow?— [She beckons him to the window.

duke.
Nought this ungifted eye beholds
But the dark battlement upon the stream,
Spread by the tranquil moon.

zorayda.
Seest thou yon pennon
Furl'd from the turret, floating on the verge
Of that still, sedgy shore?—

duke.
Its shadow falls
Where thou dost point;—but how may this befit
With thy request?

zorayda.
At thy far-echoing birth,
When hoarse artillery told to Mantua,
Thy wailing entrance to a troublous life,
Yon trembling shadow fell, as now it meets,
Just on the rippled bank,—uniting each—
The calm wave and the shore.—

duke.
Thy meaning, stranger.

zorayda.
Ere yet the bubbling life crept through thy veins,
'Twas thus decreed: thine hour of danger comes,
And sudden death, when that dim shadow passes
Where at thy birth it brooded.—

duke.
(Aside to Fabian.) Watch this woman;
Suspicion wakes at her discourse.—(To Zorayda.)—
That shadow
Hath oft-time pass'd, no danger thence betiding.

zorayda.
Thy death can happen not, save when, as now,
The pale moon flings yon omen from her beam;
But ever it bodes danger.

duke.
For this purpose
Enterest thou my chamber?

zorayda.
I have sought thee
To give rejected counsel.—What! some treachery
From me thou fearest!—Bind me—gird my chains
To the unhewn rock beneath the unvisited depths
Of these abhorr'd foundations—I would wear them
Without a murmur could'st thou listen!—Hark!
Thus runs the record of thy house:

Duke, beware——that shaft shall come!
Let it not find thee in that perilous hour,
Prescience forebodes thee, at some lady's ear
Sighing unhallowed love.—Its malice then
Harms not thy breast, another bears the stroke!
Remember—once again I meet thee. [Exit Zorayda.

fabian.
My lord, the guard shall rid you of the witch.

duke.
Let her depart, she harms me not.

fabian.
You seem
O'erspent with watching, and forget your couch.—
Betake you now to your accustom'd rest?

duke.
My rest?—'Tis well;—but will the couch give rest?
Ay, to the wearied limb—but not the weary breast!
Follow me, boy, unto my chamber. [Exeunt.

ACT IV.—SCENE I.

A Church.

Enter two Citizens.

first citizen.
Strange omens these!

second citizen.
They bode disaster, else
Hath Nature changed, and her accustom'd course
No longer holds.—See, from the ducal vault
The stone—o'er which its mailed warrior rests
In such grim pomp—is roll'd, as if that mouth
Expectant yawn'd for prey.—How comes it thus?

third citizen.
Some swarth attendant, late within the tomb,
Hath left unclosed its yet insatiate gulf;
And he returns ere long.—His task complete,
This stone, oft visited, regains its place;—
Would it were closed for ever!

second citizen.
Ne'er to his country's weal a truer prince
Shall rise in Mantua—all proper tongues
To his just praise are eloquent;—no voice
But gathers blessing, when it speaks of Andrea.
I'll peep o'er the dark wall of this huge grave.
Fresh wonders still!—Here lie funeral trappings
Covering the entrance;—an inscription too
Upon the pall—[Reads]—"Andrea, the fifth Duke
Of Mantua"—a goodly list of honours,
Names and illustrious acts, now follow—"Died"—
I cannot tell those mystic characters—
Canst thou assign their import?

first citizen.
I am not skill'd
To interpret mysteries; but they are form'd
By cabalistic art. Elsewhere I've seen
The conjuror, Aldenbert, those uncouth shapes
Upon his tablets tracing. 'Tis not language
Akin to mortal tongue.

second citizen.
Treason, I wot, with bold and impious front,
Stalks forth uncheck'd:—it skulks not now abroad,
But in the open day roams unabash'd,
Nor shuns the sunbeam. Some unform'd event
Is yet in ripening—it bursts ere long
The shell of this dread mystery.

Enter Grave-digger and Priest.

grave-digger.
None, father, save the Egyptian woman, who so troubles the church. She slept in the porch yesternight, and I sent her away this morning betimes.

priest.
Thou hast sent a message to the Duke?

grave-digger.
Some half-hour agone.—I expect his highness in person will take special note of this matter.

priest.
I fear me they be foes, enemies to the Duke, who have done this.—Treachery puts on bold aspects, when such foretokenings as these go before her, with loud admonishing of her approach. Here comes the Duke.

Enter Duke with Attendants.

duke.
Good morrow, friends. I am something curious to behold this device.—Some trick of intimidation, your petty wonder-monger breeds to set our citizens agape.—You have not disturbed this masked frolic?

grave-digger.
My lord, it rests in such shape as when it scared me dismally ere the light was well out, about cock-crowing.

duke.
Knowest thou any skulking vagrant of late loitering near the church?

grave-digger.
None, your grace, save the tall gipsy—she slept in the porch yesternight.

duke.
The gipsy woman?

grave-digger.
She, with the linen turban, that walks the city with her arms folded—thus.

duke.
She was in the porch?

grave-digger.
I waked her there, but roughly, an hour agone.

duke.
Here hangs some clue to guide us.—I'll have the beldame seized.—Raise that unseemly pall from the tomb, and close its mouth.—This inscription I'll keep as a brief chronicle of the event.—[Takes off the inscription: a billet falls from beneath it.]—What counsels us here? One wonder treads fast upon another's heels, and o'ertops its neighbour.—[Reads.]—"I have garnished thy tomb, and it waiteth not for its prey. Depart!—When thou goest forth, but once shalt thou return hither!"—Guard, search the city—every chink and avenue.—To your utmost speed.—This hag shall not escape.—Hence!—[Exit Guard.]—My friends, let not this matter trouble you; some mischievous spirit hath malice at our peace, and hopes to work confusion within the city.—Soon we unravel the flimsy web of this strange craft. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Enter Duchess and Hermione.

hermione.
Laura hath not yet
Put off her sorrow.—Still doth fancy cherish
The darling form of yon misguided youth
Your lord encounter'd on the terrace.—
With long entreaty I have learnt his name;
And, as my yet unquestion'd word befits,
'Tis but a cast-off suitor of mine own!

duchess
I fear me this adventure still broods mischief.
The Duke somehow had strange intelligence
Of danger threatened to Hermione.—
On that same night he watch'd, and foil'd the ruffian,
But he forebore to afflict him farther.

hermione.
Strange—
This brief-told tale—

Enter Duke.

Welcome—thrice welcome now.
By what good chance, my lord, sought you the terrace
Few nights agone?—Some stray intelligence,
The Duchess tells, crept to your ear of danger
To me denounced!

duke.
Some secret whisper met me of the matter.
Know you this billet?

hermione.
Forsooth its fair outside
Small import gives of such unworthy deed.—
I know not, save at once you dare commit
Its contents to my ken.

duke.
Well spoken, lady.—
What read you?

hermione.
Carlos!—(Reads.)
Some strange mistake rests here. As my good word
Earns your belief—till now, I ne'er beheld
This love-lorn billet.

duke.
Ah, woman, pleasant still,
But full of subtlety;—perverse, untoward—
Thy ways mark'd deep by unabash'd deceit:
Well thou mayst laugh at thine imposture.

hermione.
The riddle solves:—this billet by mistake
Hath found its way to yon same helpless virgin.
Laura hath dropp'd it—some officious friend
Unto your eye the unoffending page
Hath straight convey'd.

duke.
Thou answerest plausibly;—
I would believe thy honied tongue.

hermione.
I did repulse him, sore amazed
At his approach.—He threaten'd with his hate,
Which I do love more than his unprized favour!

duke.
I well remember thy reproof.

duchess.
Our rebel cousin hither comes with word
Of her departure from our city.—Hence,
To-morrow, by the saffron-breaking dawn,
To Venice she returns. I urge in vain
Some further hindrance.—Wilt thou again make suit
To lady's ear, and win her stay?

duke.
To-morrow!
"Let then to-morrow come if e'er it may;
But when to-morrow comes, 'tis still to-day—
To-morrow go, and thou art never gone,
Till yon to-morrow and to-day are one!"

hermione.
I must hence:
Urge me not further.

duke.
Nay, I urge thee not.
My will in Mantua e'er was held injunction.
I'll be thy tyrant, lady—thy stern keeper.
This day, within our palace, thou shalt be,
If willing and obedient, our guest:
If stubborn and self-will'd, our prisoner!
I'll compass thee with such delicious chains,
Thou shalt not wish e'en thine own thought were free!

hermione.
Your guest this day, the last I spend in Mantua.
The night I give to Laura.

duchess.
This proud night
Shall so out-mimic day, thou shalt not guess
When night hath drawn the twilight to his bosom.

Enter Sylvio.

sylvio (aside to the duke).
The guard hath yet no tidings;
The woman hides her warily.

duke.
Not yet!
I would, ere night, this mumming witch were found.
Without the walls perchance she lurks. Command
Their search unto the outskirts: large reward
Will follow their success. [Exit Sylvio.

duchess.
At this inviting hour, we taste
The fragrance from our incense-breathing flowers:
My lord, attend you us?
The roses are fresh sprinkled,—the soft breeze
Comes heavily from their odour-blushing heads,
Faint and oppress'd with its delicious burden.

duke.
My spouse hath set her love on some tall poppy,
Some velvet-cheek'd, young tulip; drinking nectar
From his soft, balmy lip. I must be jealous
Of these same gentle favours.

duchess.
You shall attend
Our fragrant courtship—the unwitting pander
To my stolen pleasures. Ah, my lord! what mean you?
Comes that dark frown to me, or to my lovers?

duke.
Nothing, Beatrice,—a passing jest,—'tis gone,—
I needs must frown when I am jealous. Now,
Fair dames, I would attend you. [Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A Wood.

Zorayda, sitting at the foot of an oak.

zorayda.
An outcast from an outcast race,—spurn'd, chid,
From the churl's threshold. Shunn'd, unbless'd by all:
Nor home nor heritance—I live, alone,
Without associate, tie, or fellowship
E'en to my kin. I might from these consist
Of other nature; other substance might
Enfold my spirit,—other shape
Envelope me, than wraps the affrighted herd
Who stand aloof and gaze! Th' inanimate forms,
Nature's unchisel'd workmanship—unsullied
By man's rude contact—'tis with these I hold
Converse and high communion;
And from the spirit that lives in them, free
And uncommunicable intercourse
My soul receives. In all things there exists
Distinct peculiar essence, like the soul
Our being animates; at seasons oft,
In presence, though unseen, yet to the mind
Internal, manifest, imparting there
Miraculous influence. In secret, too—
The bodily eye, from grosser matter freed,—
In shape as palpable they come, as doth
Each outward image rise to corporeal sense.
I am not mad. The heated brain creates not
These uncall'd phantoms: yet men say I'm crazed.
They know not, dream not, of the mighty world
That lives around them. Other orbs might hold us!
—By mine art, with potent spell,
And wily stratagem, the Duke I've warn'd.
Hermione—proud victim! Love unhallow'd
Yet lingers in their breasts, and they must sever,
Though one heart break in that most cruel parting!
There's a foul taint of murder in the wind—
I do suspect her lover—yon Venetian,
Her suitor once—rejected. Such revenge
Will ofttimes rouse the spirit up to mischief,
Loathing, it would abhor e'en if beheld
But as a guilty dream. If this fond Duke
Seek not again her presence I have hope.
To-morrow she departs from Mantua—
No power can harm thee, save in that brief space
Appointed with thy birth. Here comes my spy:
The urchin loves me for the good he owes.

Enter Giulio.

Welcome, boy!
Thine errand?

giulio.
Some whisperings I've caught,
Yet know not to what purpose they should tend.
I heard "to-night," twice to each listener told,
And oft a cautious glance where I but stood,
Tuning my simple lute. As thou hast bid me,
With careful eye, note well their secret converse,
I hasten'd with the news: and now, good mother,
Say me farewell.

zorayda.
A toward child;
Great largess thou mayest earn for thy discourse:
Hence! lest this absence tell what thine excuse
May not conceal. [Exit Giulio.
To-night!—I'll watch. This hour of danger past,
I'll pledge me to thy safety. Noble Mantua,
In that dread day, my parent's forfeit life
When thou didst spare, I vow'd to seek thy welfare;
And my good power, for thee and for thine house,
Hath not its use in vain. Yet, I do fear
The issue of this night: the vision told
Mortal conclusion nigh—"They will not hear
"Warning oft utter'd, but impetuous rush,
"Unheeding, to their doom."
Perchance some hidden meaning lurks beneath
This fearful message; an ambiguous sense,
Its proper import framing, when the event
From which it springs, like day-betokening morn,
Is past. His death it may not show. I'll save thee,
Or my destruction——soft!—the tramp of men:
Scouts, peradventure, on my track. Go, follow
The wild bee to its nest!—or to yon cliff
Climb with the eagle!—then ye mark my course! [Exit.

Enter Carlos and Bertrand, meeting.

bertrand.
My messenger brings welcome news: to-day
Hermione again visits the palace.
Till this dim light shall fade, her promised stay—
But the first watch of night, perchance, may find
This cuckoo harbour'd yet in others' nest!

carlos.
'Tis well:—our friends with the opportunity
Alone are arm'd; and as the time may note
Their several parts. From the west turret
The accomplice issue signal, if to-night
The Duke refreshes in the mountain-breeze,
As 'tis his wont, around the platform. When
Upon its staff the turret pennon sinks
(The moon to this good signal will suffice),
We climb the unguarded stair, and it conducts
To our dark enterprise. [Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Part of the Platform, sloping to the Palace Walls.

Enter Duke, Duchess, Hermione, Ridolfi.

duke.
We love these moon-lit walks, Hermione,
Whilst in her wane: you like her visage best,
Perchance, increasing. More I love to mark
Her gradual decay—retreating coy,
And half aside, as if ashamed to meet
The full gaze of the sun.

hermione.
I love the waxing
Yet rather than the wane of yon pale light:
Like timid maid, when first her opening charms
Meet love's warm beam. Scarce on the wanton boy
She dares to gaze, till, bolder grown, her eye
Averted still, or half withdrawn, drinks in,
With silent ecstacy, love's treacherous glance.
Now his fond smile, full orb'd, the embolden'd sight
Enamour'd meets: her very being, essence,
And every faculty absorb—each thought
Rising impregn'd with love's fierce fire; anon
There comes a change—shy gleams succeed, her brow
Hath one slight shade, scarce seen, but on its light
The darkness grows—love's brightest dream is o'er,
And his pale taper quench'd in utter gloom!

ridolfi.
Ay, till another change. Yon fickle goddess
Her fond, fool'd swain entices, till enamour'd
E'en to his heart's last core; she then averts
Her love-impassion'd glance, and, scorning, shuns him!

duchess.
If from deserted maid, Hermione,
Whose charms were withering in the fallow wane
Of an unprofited life, this speech forlorn
Had seem'd to ring the knell of her young hopes.
But when from rosy lips, and ardent youth,
It comes unlook'd for as a wintry chill
Beneath a summer sun.—This air blows keenly,
My locks fall with the dew—I think the night
Hath not its wonted soothness: thrice I shudder'd
As the cold breeze methought sigh'd on my bosom.
I must begone—Hermione, you go not.
'Tis the last moonlight you behold, mayhap,
In this brief stay; take a long parting, ere
Ye bid adieu—the Duke himself attends you;
With me, our brother his good presence grants,
Till your return.

ridolfi.
With such proud gallantry
I bow to your decree. [Exeunt Duchess and Ridolfi.

duke.
Beneath the western turret
I love to walk—to watch the huge dim battlements
On the smooth river sleeping, when the moon,
Low in the brightening east, their shadow throws
Upon its calm, cold bosom.

hermione.
Awhile I loiter with you there, my lord. [Exeunt.

SCENE V.

The Battlements.

Enter Duke and Hermione.

hermione.
A pleasant tale, you say?

duke.
A story
At which the sad might laugh, the merry weep!

hermione.
Strange modes of pleasantry—the sad might laugh?

duke.
That his own woes were lighter.

hermione.
And yet, withal,
The merry weep?

duke.
So sad the tale—

hermione.
In troth,
Most dolorously pleasant!

duke.
I've been in love.

hermione.
A strange propensity—a punishment
Man suffers for his sins. You've been in love?
Most melancholy! How! I wot the Duchess
Believed you not?

duke.
Beatrice yet—mark me—
Most tenderly I love. Her long affection
Won my regard: but—late, another power—
It is not love, 'tis witchery, false glamour
Chaining the sense, unwilling to be held
In such deep thrall—I've seen a basilisk,
And it hath holden me within the circuit
Of its charmed eye. How counsel you? how break
From its bright glance?

hermione.
I know not where, my lord,
You're held, or how enchain'd. Knows she your love?

duke.
I sought her, and the truth unto her ear
I utter'd. Was it well?

hermione.
'Twere answer'd best
In the concealed purpose unto which
Truth's outward semblance serv'd. What meaning else
Behind it crouch'd?

duke.
That we might part for ever.

hermione.
For ever!—Yes—'twas well!
What answer gave she?

duke.
Answer?—Oh—'twas well!
Then we must part, Hermione?

hermione.
We part!
Wherefore for ever?

duke.
I would not again
Cringe in thy burning glance,—and yet—I might—
This foolish heart its vanish'd dream forgot—
Unmoved endure thy presence! Bitter the pang!
I could not say for ever! I should cling
As the doom'd wretch to life, loosing his hold
But with the heart's last throb!

hermione.
I cannot counsel thus!
Alas! more need some power above our own
To tear us hence—to sever. You will forget
This idle thought—'tis but a vagrant breath,
Stirring your past affections—they respond
Untouch'd, when memory wakes the soft still voice
Of other years. Their echoes o'er, again
Peace, haply frighted thence, your bosom visits.
I would not now for ever part!

duke.
Then for a time—when absence
The torn heart heals, we meet again. Hermione,
For thee, in this night's converse, have I risk'd
My happiness, my hope, and every comfort
Which most I prize—my peace, my honour—all
Committed to thy trust—true confidence
If not in mutual charge—nor interchange
Of strict communion held. If one alone
The precious load entrusts, it is o'erbalanced
Without due counterpoise, reciprocal faith,
And it endures not. Tell me—nay, but listen—
This heart unfetter'd, offer'd thee, unplighted,
Would'st thou have ta'en?

hermione.
Indeed, I cannot now
Such wild words answer. Spare me but this trial—

duke.
Nay, answer me—what—silent?—why 'tis well.
And so we part—but I repent me now
Thou hast my trust. No answer?—then 'tis well!
We part for ever! On that treacherous face
I would not gaze again.

hermione.
My lord, you must—
If this suffice—I answer—Yes!

duke.
Angel
Of soul visiting light! the storm hath still'd
At thy omnipotent word! I would not——

Enter Zorayda hastily, before the Duke; she points to the stream.

What notest thou, dun sorceress?—speak!

zorayda.
Yon shadow!

duke.
Yet two full hours unspent, ere on the stream
Yon pennon flits: and now we part. But who
Sent thee with such authority—with power
To question, and to watch, with daring eye,
Mine every movement? I have sought thee, fiend!
If thine hell-vomited sire protect thee not,
Again thou shalt not 'scape. I charge thee, witch!
Confederate with foul treachery.

zorayda.
There's treason in the air!
Meet not the wind, it blows incontinently—
The maid hath other lovers.

hermione.
Hag! thy meaning?
We study not ambiguous phrase.

duke.
I'll crush thy treason,
Ere it be ripe for hatching.
[As the Duke raises the silver call to his lips, Zorayda seizes his arm.

zorayda.
'Tis for thy rescue—stay! one moment stay
Thy rash resolve. If I depart, undone,
Destroy'd this night!
[The Duke makes the signal.
Rash prince! it shriek'd thy doom!

Enter Guard.

duke.
Seize that bold traitress!—stop her hated croak!
Lest each ensnared accomplice, if such be
Within her call, gain tidings of her seizure.
To-morrow, and in private, mark me, Hugo,
We hear her further.

zorayda.
To-morrow!—nay, to-night, proud Duke.
To-morrow is not thine. Beware! [They lead her away.

duke.
Of thee!
Thou fearful wonder. 'Tis not idle terror
O'ermasters me, but yon foul-plotting witch
Quails me unwarily. Our country's welfare,
Perchance, brings o'erused caution; yet the wise
No proffer'd warning slights. Within the palace
We may defy an ambush'd foe.

hermione.
To this,
Ere mischief burst abroad, I would entreat.
Yon being hath intelligence not breathed
From mortal lips!

duke.
I dare not say
The last farewell: the coming word, when summon'd,
So galls my tongue, it hath no utterance
When it might pass. The breath that from it issues
Parches my palate; like the hot simoom,
It scorches, though it sweep as stilly o'er
Some blasted, bladeless desert!—
I dream!—or I am fool'd!—unbind me, dæmon!
Unseal mine eyeballs!—they are possess'd—again!
Glazed with thy mockeries! I see not: hark!
'Tis but the mental image to the brain
Recoiling: yet as palpable it comes!
What seest thou?—yon shadow?—where?

hermione.
Yon shadow?

duke.
It cannot be: a brief told moment past,
I marked beyond the brink, on the dim wood,
The shadow waving. Now 'tis strange. There!—there!
How keen this air creeps curdling to my vitals!—
The shadow yet hangs dark and motionless
On shore and wave!

hermione.
Whence comes this wondering terror?
The flag hath on its staff but newly dropp'd—
Look to the turret, why that spell-bound gaze
So wildly on the stream!

duke.
Fell hag! thy boding screech
Too surely sped. They come! Protect me, Heaven!

Enter four Assassins, masked. Three of them attack the Duke, ere he can make signals for the Guard; whilst their leader seizes on Hermione.

hermione.
Help!—murderers! Unhand me, wretch. [He stops her mouth.

carlos.
Wretch! 'tis thy Carlos come to woo—not now
To kiss thy very footprints, and the earth
Whereon they fell! I'll bear thee hence, my mistress;
And thou shalt live my menial slave. Rage not—
I'll tame thy spirit, lady. Thou shalt crouch,
My gentle captive, as thy Carlos once,
To lick the dust, and I will spurn thee. Nay,
Content thee, dame, our friends will do thee service.
[The Duke defends himself against his assailants. One of the Assassins falls.

duke.
There, villain! my good brand hath served thee.
[Hermione, whilst struggling with Carlos, frees herself by a sudden effort, and seizes the sword of the dying ruffian.

hermione.
I'll bury this, deep, to thy heart, monster,
If thou approach. Help, guards!

carlos.
Thy tongue I fear
More than thy weapon. [Attempts to cover her mouth.

hermione.
Then to thy doom, hell-destined spirit! [Stabs him.

carlos.
Oh—fly!—save ye, my friends—escape whilst yet—
The guards—this fiend hath summon'd—— [Falls.

hermione (rushes towards the Duke).
Cowards! ye cannot escape. They come!

bertrand (tearing off his mask).
Then swifter come
Insatiate vengeance. To thy place, proud Mantua!
[Makes a desperate lunge at the Duke, who falls.

duke.
A mortal thrust! Hermione, now—now—
Farewell—'tis past!

bertrand.
Thou leavest not thy paramour.
[Stabs Hermione.
Hence! to the pale ghosts howl in company.

hermione.
I'd bless thee——for this—— [Dies.

Enter Guard, Soldiers; they seize the Conspirators.

duke.
Too late ye come—
Life ebbs fast from my veins—mine eyes are dim;
But there's a voice—or death unreins my fancy—
Comes o'er mine ear, I do remember, mingling
Ere now 'mid mortal strife.

bertrand.
'Tis I: mine hate is quench'd but with the blood
That nourish'd thee! Now to your dungeons lead me:
Your rarest tortures—haste. This blest revenge
Will slake your hottest fires, heal the hurt flesh,
Make the unpitying rack a gentle pillow.
Softer than cygnet down, or thy death-couch,
Unsceptred Duke. Guards, do your office.

duke.
Unhappy man! thy fierce, untamed spirit,
In its own fiery nature, hath to endure
What bodily tortures reach not. I forgive thee.
But this good city, thy most unjust hate
This night bereaves of her protector, seeks
Her just atonement! Bear me hence—Beatrice,
To thy loved arms. Would that I ne'er had left thee—
A fearful meeting now—Hermione!
What—dead! My cup is drain'd e'en to the dregs,
The vessel shiver'd, dash'd erewhile to earth!—
Just Heaven!
I bow to thee! Thou hast not sent my spirit
Unshriven to thy bar—brief space on earth
My span of time, but unto thee I turn,
Abused mercy; grant with my last last hour
Repentance, and thy promised pardon!
[Exeunt Attendants with the Duke.