Osorio. Now this is excellent, and warms the blood!
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
[570]
With womanish pulls of pity. Dusky slave,
Now I will kill thee pleasantly, and count it 145
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.
Ferdinand. And all my little ones fatherless! Die thou first.
[They fight. Osorio disarms Ferdinand, and in disarming him, throws his
sword up that recess, opposite to which they were standing.
Ferdinand (springing wildly towards Osorio). Still I can strangle thee!
Osorio. Nay, fool! stand off.
I'll kill thee—but not so! Go fetch thy sword.
[Ferdinand hurries into the recess with his torch. Osorio follows him,
and in a moment returns alone.
Osorio. Now—this was luck! No bloodstains, no dead body! 150
His dream, too, is made out. Now for his friend.[570:1] [Exit.
Scene changes to the court before the Castle
of Velez.
Maria and her Foster-Mother.
Maria. And when I heard that you desired to see me,
I thought your business was to tell me of him.
Foster-Mother. I never saw the Moor, whom you describe.
Maria. 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly 155
[572]
As mine and Albert's common foster-mother.
Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet lady,
As often as I think of those dear times
When you two little ones would stand at eve, 160
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you,
'Tis more like heaven to come, that what has been!
Maria. O my dear mother! this strange man has left me 165
Wilder'd with wilder fancies than yon moon
Breeds in the love-sick maid—who gazes at it
Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye
She gazes idly! But that entrance, mother!
Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! 170
Maria. No one.
Foster-Mother. My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Leoni. Angels rest his soul!
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? 175
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost. 180
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy.
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself. 185
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A friar who gather'd simples in the wood,
A grey-hair'd man—he loved this little boy, 190
[573]
The boy loved him—and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a very learned youth.
But O! poor wretch—he read, and read, and read, 195
Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things.
And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 200
The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him,
And once as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,
The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fall'n 205
Right on their heads. My lord was sorely frighten'd;
A fever seiz'd him; and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
And cast into that hole. My husband's father 210
Sobb'd like a child—it almost broke his heart.
And once as he was working in the cellar,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah 215
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described: 220
And the young man escaped.
Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a list'ning child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?
Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers, who made discovery 225
Of golden lands; Leoni's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Leoni that the poor mad youth,
[574]
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat, 230
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight,
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more; but 'tis supposed
He liv'd and died among the savage men.
Enter Velez.
Velez. Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you. 235
Maria. O Christ! the tortures that hang o'er his head,
If ye betray him to these holy brethren!
Velez (with a kind of sneer). A portly man, and eloquent, and tender!
In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn
That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim. 240
Maria. The horror of their ghastly punishments
Doth so o'ertop the height of sympathy,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy—
Ah! far too little—if 'twere possible,
I could feel more, even tho' my child or husband 245
Were doom'd to suffer them! That such things are——
Velez. Hush! thoughtless woman!
Maria. Nay—it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.
Velez (angrily). No more of this—
I can endure no more.
Foster-Mother. My honour'd master!
Lord Albert used to talk so.
Maria. Yes! my mother! 250
These are my Albert's lessons, and I con them
With more delight than, in my fondest hour,
I bend me o'er his portrait.
Velez (to the Foster-Mother). My good woman,
You may retire.
[Exit the Foster-Mother.
Velez. We have mourn'd for Albert.
[575]
Have I no living son?
Maria. Speak not of him! 255
That low imposture—my heart sickens at it,
If it be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it!
Valdez. Is this well?
Maria. Yes! it is truth. Saw you his countenance? 260
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,
Displac'd each other with swift interchanges?
If this were all assumed, as you believe,
He must needs be a most consummate actor;
And hath so vast a power to deceive me, 265
I never could be safe. And why assume
The semblance of such execrable feelings?
Velez. Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion! Was it not enough
That thou hast made my son a restless man, 270
[576]
Banish'd his health and half-unhinged his reason,
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion,
And toil to blast his honour? I am old—
A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay
Beneath my roof!
[Francesco enters and stands listening.
Velez. Repent and marry him— 275
Or to the convent.
Francesco (muttering). Good! good! very good!
Maria. Nay, grant me some small pittance of my fortune,
And I will live a solitary woman,
Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons
May be my household.
Francesco (advancing). I abhor a listener; 280
But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you.
I pray, my lord! will you embolden me
To ask you why this lady doth prefer
To live in lonely sort, without a friend
Or fit companion?
Velez. Bid her answer you. 285
Maria. Nature will be my friend and fit companion.
[Turns off from them.
[577]
O Albert! Albert! that they could return,
Those blessed days, that imitated heaven!
When we two wont to walk at evening-tide;
When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard 290
The voice of that Almighty One, who lov'd us,
In every gale that breath'd, and wave that murmur'd!
O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief,
And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight 295
Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.
Francesco. But in the convent, lady, you would have
Such aids as might preserve you from perdition.
There you might dwell.
Maria. With tame and credulous faith,
Mad melancholy, antic merriment, 300
Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs!
O God! it is a horrid thing to know
That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
Such as the angels wear!
Francesco (stifling his rage). Where is your son, my lord? 305
Velez. I have not seen him, father, since he left you.
Francesco. His lordship's generous nature hath deceiv'd him!
That Ferdinand (or if not he his wife)
I have fresh evidence—are infidels.
We are not safe until they are rooted out. 310
Maria. Thou man, who call'st thyself the minister
Of Him whose law was love unutterable!
Why is thy soul so parch'd with cruelty,
That still thou thirstest for thy brother's blood?
Velez (rapidly). Father! I have long suspected it—her brain— 315
Heed it not, father!
Francesco. Nay—but I must heed it.
Maria. Thou miserable man! I fear thee not,
Nor prize a life which soon may weary me.
Bear witness, Heav'n! I neither scorn nor hate him— 320
But O! 'tis wearisome to mourn for evils,
Still mourn, and have no power to remedy! [Exit Maria.
Francesco. My lord! I shall presume to wait on you
To-morrow early.
Velez. Be it so, good father! [Exit Francesco.
Velez (alone). I do want solace, but not such as thine! 325
The moon is high in heaven, and my eyes ache,
But not with sleep. Well—it is ever so.
A child, a child is born! and the fond heart
Dances! and yet the childless are most happy.
[Scene changes to the mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a
Moorish dress, her eyes fixed on the earth. Then drop in one after
another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of
Morescoes, all in their Moorish garments. They form a circle at a
distance round Alhadra. After a pause one of the Morescoes to the man
who stands next to him.
First Moresco. The law which forced these Christian dresses on us, 330
'Twere pleasant to cleave down the wretch who framed it.
Second. Yet 'tis not well to trample on it idly.
First. Our country robes are dear.
Second. And like dear friends,
May chance to prove most perilous informers.
[A third Moresco, Naomi, advances from out the circle.
Naomi. Woman! may Alla and the prophet bless thee! 335
We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin the Moorish garments?
Alhadra (lifting up [raising Remorse] her eyes, and looking round on the circle).
Warriors of Mahomet, faithful in the battle,
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it 340
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted; and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften!
Naomi. Where is Ferdinand?
Alhadra (in a deep low voice). This night I went from forth my house, and left 345
His children all asleep; and he was living!
And I return'd, and found them still asleep—
But he had perish'd.
All. Perished?
Alhadra. He had perish'd!
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless, a desolate orphan! 350
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
[580]
Revenge his murder?
One to Another. Did she say his murder?
Naomi. Murder'd? Not murder'd?
Alhadra. Murder'd by a Christian!
[They all, at once, draw their sabres.
Alhadra (to Naomi, who on being addressed again advances from the circle). Brother of Zagri! fling away thy sword:
This is thy chieftain's!
[He steps forward to take it.
Dost thou dare receive it? 355
For I have sworn by Alia and the prophet,
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
Wet with the blood of all the house of Velez!
Enter Maurice.
All. A spy! a spy! [They seize him.
Maurice. Off! off! unhand me, slaves! 360
[After much struggling he disengages himself and draws his sword.
Naomi (to Alhadra). Speak! shall we kill him?
Maurice. Yes! ye can kill a man,
Some twenty of you! But ye are Spanish slaves!
And slaves are always cruel, always cowards.
Alhadra. That man has spoken truth. Whence and who art thou?
Maurice. I seek a dear friend, whom for aught I know 365
The son of Velez hath hired one of you
To murder! Say, do ye know aught of Albert?
Alhadra (starting). Albert?—three years ago I heard that name
Murmur'd in sleep! High-minded foreigner!
Mix thy revenge with mine, and stand among us. 370
[Maurice stands among the Morescoes.
Alhadra. Was not Osorio my husband's friend?
Old Man. He kill'd my son in battle; yet our chieftain
Forced me to sheathe my dagger. See—the point
Is bright, unrusted with the villain's blood!
Alhadra. He is your chieftain's murderer!
Naomi. He dies by Alla!
All (dropping on one knee). By Alla! 375
Alhadra. This night a reeking slave came with loud pant,
Gave Ferdinand a letter, and departed,
Swift as he came. Pale, with unquiet looks,
He read the scroll.
Maurice. Its purport?
Alhadra. Yes, I ask'd it.
He answer'd me, 'Alhadra! thou art worthy 380
A nobler secret; but I have been faithful
To this bad man, and faithful I will be.'
He said, and arm'd himself, and lit a torch;
Then kiss'd his children, each one on its pillow,
And hurried from me. But I follow'd him 385
At distance, till I saw him enter there.
Naomi. The cavern?
Alhadra. Yes—the mouth of yonder cavern.
After a pause I saw the son of Velez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise enter'd—
There was another and a longer pause— 390
And once, methought, I heard the clash of swords,
And soon the son of Velez reappear'd.
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seem'd as he were mirthful! I stood listening
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband! 395
Maurice. Thou called'st him?
Alhadra. I crept into the cavern:
[582]
'Twas dark and very silent. [Then wildly.
What said'st thou?
No, no! I did not dare call, Ferdinand!
Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while,
Belike, I lost all thought and memory 400
Of that for which I came! After that pause,
O God! I heard a groan!—and follow'd it.
And yet another groan—which guided me
Into a strange recess—and there was light,
A hideous light! his torch lay on the ground— 405
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink.
I spake—and while I spake, a feeble groan
Came from that chasm! It was his last! his death groan!
Maurice. Comfort her, comfort her, Almighty Father!
Alhadra. I stood in unimaginable trance 410
And agony, that cannot be remember'd,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
But I had heard his last—my husband's death-groan!
Naomi. Haste! let us go!
Alhadra. I look'd far down the pit.
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment, 415
And it was stain'd with blood! Then first I shriek'd!
My eyeballs burnt! my brain grew hot as fire!
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turn'd into blood. I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm 420
When on the further brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance! Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Ferdinand!
Spirit of Ferdinand! thy murderer lives! 425
Away! away! [She rushes off, all following.
END OF THE FOURTH ACT
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
[1-3] Erased MS. III.: om. Remorse.
| This ceaseless dreary sound of |
|
water drops
dropping water— |
| I would they had not fallen upon my Torch! |
Corr. in MS. III.
[5-6] In inverted commas. Remorse.
[8] cannot] can not Remorse. cranny] crevice Remorse.
Between 11 and 13
| (a) |
Any thing but this crash of water drops! |
| |
These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence |
| |
With puny thwartings and mock opposition! |
| |
So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear |
Remorse.
| (b) |
Anything but this |
|
crash of water-drops
noise |
| |
At broken measure |
|
scoffing
mocking intervals— |
| |
Their discontinuous, interruptive sound |
|
|
These
With dull abortive &c. |
MS. III erased.
Affixed to variant (a) of l. 12 '—this at all events is the final
result of this correction.' S. T. C.
[13] A hellish pit! O God—'tis that I dreamt of! Corr. in MS.
III: A hellish pit! The very same I dreamt of! Remorse.
Affixed to 13 'You mean like the dream presented to my mind
when under the influence of the night-mare. This is most ludicrously
expressed.' C. Ll[oyd]
[16] I swear that I saw something Remorse.
[18] In the stage-direction the last four words are omitted
Remorse.
[19] Drips] Drops Remorse.
Between 19 and 31.
Isidore. A jest to laugh at!
It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord.
Ordonio. What scar'd you, then?
Isidore. You see that little rift?
But first permit me!
[Lights his torch at Ordonio's, and while lighting it.
(A lighted torch in the hand
Is no unpleasant object here—one's breath
Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours
As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.)
You see that crevice there?
My torch extinguished by these water drops,
And marking that the moonlight came from thence,
I stept in to it, meaning to sit there;
But scarcely had I measured twenty paces—
My body bending forward, yea, o'erbalanced
Almost beyond recoil, on the dim brink
Of a hugh chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine
Filling the void so counterfeited substance,
That my foot hung aslant adown the edge.
Was it my own fear?
Fear too hath its instincts!
(And yet such dens as these are wildly told of,
And there are beings that live, yet not for the eye)
An arm of frost above and from behind me
Pluck'd up and snatched me backward. Merciful Heaven!
You smile! alas, even smiles look ghastly here!
My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it.
Remorse.