University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—Another Part of the Rampart.
Count Beltran
—alone.
I have oft dream'd that I o'ertrod this rampart;
But not in guise like this. The thought was idle,
Perhaps; and yet it was a thought, not dream;
For it would grow and struggle in my bosom,
As if 'twere pregnant with some life of truth,
Which time and fortune must one day bring forth
Into substantial consequence and effect.
No matter—'tis an idle retrospect.
I little thought, once, to have paced me here,
Giving a dull eye to the morning air,
And a parch'd lip, to dissipate those revels,
Where every mounting laugh and joyous shout
Lanced to my heart's core, like the feather'd shaft,
Deeper, for being plumed.
Well, well; we'll see.
I'll dice it out. Though the first cast be lost,
The game's not play'd. Play'd! no; am I not school'd
In that controuling pastime, which can wait
With steady eye the passage of the herd,
And hear the eager din on every side,
Till 'tis the time to shoot?—I loved her not;
Or, say I did; how did I?—Not as fools do—
Not for a flower of some miraculous hue,
That must be ever fed with amorous sighs,
And water'd with fresh tears. None such for me;
But as a splendid guide, to hand me up
The glassy steep to fortune. As a lover,
She knows me not; or else, but knows me as
One who is haply proud enough to sue—
Too proud to be denied. My birth's obscured,
'Tis true; and yet part of her blood is mine.
The chaste star that o'erhung my sire's nativity,
Might blush when he was moulded—not the more
Averse for that. She still hath call'd me “Cousin;”
Then why not “Husband?”—How, now, gentlemen.

Enter Frankendall and Pablo.
FRANKENDALL.
Good morrow to your highness.

BELTRAN.
Gentlemen,
Good-morrow both. Why, Frankendall, how haps it
Thou meet'st the laughing morn with such a pale
And most unwonted seriousness?—Has Florence
Exhausted even thy store of sweet behaviours,
Which was, methought, exhaustless?

FRANKENDALL.
Faith, my lord,
I know not how it is. Yet, by your leave,
Your brow, methinks, keeps mine in countenance.

BELTRAN.
Perchance it may.—Well, I'll have no more revels—
No parchment cheeks, pursed brows, and eyes of lead.
By Heaven, a man had better be a scrivener
Than earn them thus in tedious junkettings!—
We'll tender our farewell in this night's feast,
And so set forth to-morrow. Pablo, you
Shall not forget.

PABLO.
Trust me, my lord.

BELTRAN.
Call all
My train together by the dawn of morning.
In the meantime, confer with Jacomo;
Let him mature that which I spoke about;
And look that nought's forgot. Now, Frankendall,
What is't o'clock?

[Exit Pablo.
FRANKENDALL.
Upon the step of seven,
Unless the dial lies. We had been here
Some half an hour ago, but that we met
An officer of the Duke's, whose courtesy
Somewhat delay'd us. Faith, a sound, shrewd wit,
And one that hath the true divining rod,
That points which way gold lies—a marvellous touch
Of what we call the keen; but wise withal,
And by my troth, a thorough-bred court lurcher,
For all his honest outside—one that tracks
And mouths not. But I trench upon your highness.

BELTRAN.
Did I not ask thee what it was o'clock?

FRANKENDALL.
Some minutes short of seven.

BELTRAN.
I had forgotten.
Your pardon.

FRANKENDALL.
Nay, it is not needed yet;
Or, if it be, I shall be even with you,
And soon, perchance, my lord. But seriously—
Take what I say in the same strain 'tis meant,
And the board's clear enough,—I have observed,
Since we came here, to solder up this match
Between two metals, none o' the likeliest,
A weight upon your brow; and that I did
E'en now perceive it heavy, I made bold
To say your looks kept mine in countenance;
Which, if they wore some gravity, in sooth,
It was because I could not shut my eyes
And blink your heaviness. I have said, my lord—
But if there's aught that Frankendall can do—

BELTRAN.
I know't. Thou need'st not trumpet thy affection,
For thou art ill at that. I'll trust thee, Frankendall—
Why should I not? for thou hast been to me
An elder brother; nay, a very father.
And what is there to trust? thou'lt say't.

FRANKENDALL.
My lord,
This will I say—I am your friend. If all
Had said as little, and had done as much,
You had been saved some grief.

BELTRAN.
Ay, my poor sister;
Well, she is dead.

FRANKENDALL.
Nay, nay; that follows not.
The hag who fled with her, 'mid the confusion
Of that fell night, had itch enough for gold,
But none for blood. Why, she saw ghosts, and durst not,
No, durst not, for a ducat, and that's much,
Have cross'd a churchyard at the gloomy hour,
E'en with a saint for convoy.

BELTRAN.
Frankendall,
Thou triflest. But take this with thee, my friend;
Thou hast the very cypher of my brow,
And truly read'st what's written. This same marriage
Which thou, I know not why, call'st ill assorted,
Sticks in my bosom, Frankendall.

FRANKENDALL.
Why, the vengeance!
Kept you this hid till now?

BELTRAN.
I never dream'd,
When Cosmo died, that she, thus out of hand,
Would wed his chalk-faced brother.

FRANKENDALL.
Had you only
Declared your love, we had found means to further't.

BELTRAN.
Love! thou mistak'st; thou mean'st to say ambition.
I'll ne'er pass muster in the sighing regiment.
But, if I did, the marble of that brow,
Though it outvie the stainless alabaster,
Were not the charm for me. I tell thee, Frankendall,
I have more sympathy with a pair of eyes
And a soft tongue—though seen and heard but once—
That pointed me my way, twelve hours ago,
Than aught Ignatio's blest with.

FRANKENDALL.
Why, my lord,
Methinks your fancy's ta'en a wayward fit.
Where was this wonder?

BELTRAN.
By the river's side,
Cross from the city, where the drooping thickets
Invade the stream, and many a laughing blossom
Sports with the loitering waters—a slight wicket
Oped, and within there stood, retiringly,
Oh! such a shape, with such soft sunny locks,
Match'd with two heavenly eyes, which seem'd akin
E'en to the stars they rivall'd. In brief accents
She told me of my way; but never feet
Felt less alacrity than mine did then
To obey such sweet directress.

FRANKENDALL.
Nay, my lord,
Florence improves you. Stay another month,
And you shall warble canzonets and madrigals.

BELTRAN.
Thou jestest, Frankendall. Yet thine experience
Must know that there are looks, and tones, and features,
Will find their way through the most stubborn breast,
And print them on the heart, though it were iron,
Felt, and forgotten never.—Wherefore this,
Heaven only knows! But let us not mock, Frankendall,
Intents so free from any taint o' the earth—
So spiritual and pure from smack of grossness—
Because they're fancy-bred—Creations delicate
Of the clear soul, which roves where it will rove,
And makes and unmakes at its liking, still
Baffling our proudest wisdoms. These are promptings
We cannot fathom, but we should not scorn.

FRANKENDALL.
I've done, my lord. This only let me say—
Go not to-morrow. Let these tangling fancies
Enmesh your purpose for a day or two;
So, at the least, they're profitable. In
The interim, pay your duty to the Princess;
There's policy in't. If this same lukewarm wedlock
Do not grow cold; and that upon the sudden,
Never trust bachelor more.

BELTRAN.
Thou talkest strangely.
I understand thee not.

FRANKENDALL.
Nor I, my lord;
So far, I have but hints, and vague ones; yet
There is a way to ripen them to facts.

BELTRAN.
Ay, now thou speak'st. Here, take this purse of ducats,
And by to-morrow morning—

FRANKENDALL.
No; no gold.

BELTRAN.
No gold?

FRANKENDALL.
No gold!—We start at filthy lucre.
Praiseworthy emulation, good my lord,
No more.—'Tis true, an honourable post
Sometimes brings gold, but how can we help that?
'Tis pity, for the world's censorious!

BELTRAN.
Begone! 'Tis time we hied us to the palace.
To-morrow I shall look to hear more news.

FRANKENDALL.
To-day, or I shall never be a prophet.

[Exeunt.