 | Romiero |  |
SCENE III.
Night. A grove near the walls of the castle, which is seen in the background, the moon appearing behind it. Enter Maurice.Maur.
(after listening).
No footstep near, no stirring of the boughs,
Which cast their darken'd forms, distinct and motionless,
Athwart the paly lustre of the moon!
No gentle messenger to meet my hopes!—
Ah Hope! who makest the lover still thy fool!
Do I not know that she would give her presence
To no man living at an hour like this,
In such a spot as this, yet twice already
Some birch's shiny stem or blossom'd shrub
Have been to me her very form and semblance.
She may despise my billet—tear it—burn it,
Yet my heart beats as though—Ha! here comes Jerome.
Enter Jerome.
What news?
Jer.
Good news.
Maur.
I'd smother thee with kisses,
But that thou art such an unseemly hound.
How look'd she? Was she angry? Was she pleas'd?
Will she vouchsafe to hear me plead my suit?
Jer.
She will.
Maur.
And where?
Jer.
In the long gallery,
Now unfrequented. I will be on watch
That no intruder break upon your meeting.
Maur.
Prince of Castile, go doff thy hat and plume;
I am a prouder, happier man than thou!
Jer.
Hush, hush! begone,—I hear a noise without.
Maur.
Where?
Jer.
To the right. We'll take the other path;
Though I must needs return by this again.
[Exeunt. Enter Zorada and Nurse by the opposite side.
Zor.
Stand thou aside, good nurse; I'll on some paces,
And softly call; if he be near at hand,
He'll know my voice.
[Coming forward to a thicket near the front of the stage.
Ho! art thou there? come forth;—come forth and fear not.
Perhaps he has mistaken thy direction,
I think he is in covert farther on.
I hear a rustling, yonder, to the left.
[Returns again to the bottom of the stage, and enter Sebastian. They embrace each other, while nurse stands apart.
Seb.
My child! my dear Zorada!
Zor.
Dear, dear father!
Seb.
And thou must meet me as a man proscribed:
Child of a parent, reft of name and honours,
Bann'd by the church, and by the laws condemn'd
E'en to the traitor's death of degradation:
One whom to name were pain and insult to thee;
One now despised of all, forgot, accurst.
Zor.
O not accurst! for I will bless thee, father,
Though every other tongue should blast thy fame.
O not forgotten! I'll remember thee;
Ay; nightly, daily, hourly, in my thoughts
Shalt thou have place; more cherish'd—more endear'd,
For that all hearts beside have shut thee out.
O not despised! for I will honour thee,
And in my pious thoughts, as now in act,
Kneel at thine honour'd feet in faithful duty.
Seb.
Rise, dearest, kindest, best, mine own Zorada!
Yes, child; thou shalt be all the world to me;
But it must be a faint, ideal world.
I may in dreams, in thought, in musing fancy
Behold thy face, thy form,—may hear thy voice—
But many a league of ocean and of land
Must lie between us. E'en my dying day
Will not be lighten'd with one look of thine.
Zor.
(after weeping on his neck).
We do not know what heaven appoints for us.
Seb.
Has Don Romiero spoken aught to thee
Respecting my sad fate?
Zor.
He has: 'tis true—the dreadful tale is true.
The king has bound him by the horrid oath
Which thou didst mention to me.—Base compliance!
Seb.
Nay, blame him not; he took it in the faith
That I was safe, beyond the reach of power.
But this being so, I needs must rest in hiding,
Secure and close, till thou canst find a vessel
To take me from the coast.
Zor.
There is within the precincts of this wood
An old abandon'd chapel, where the dead
Rest undisturbed. No living tenant there,
But owlet hooting on the ruin'd tower,
Or twitt'ring swallow in his eaves-screen'd nest,
Will share the dismal shelter: for a time
Thou mayst be there secure. My good old nurse
Has all things duly stored for food and rest,
And will conduct thee to it. Come, dear nurse!
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And take of him good care.
Nurse.
Yea, that I will; for unto me and mine
He hath been ever kind and bountiful.
O woe the day! that I should have occasion
To do him such a service!
Seb.
Ay, nurse; there be sad changes in men's fortunes.
The day when first I saw thee to thy breast
Lay this dear child, a little toothless infant,
Whilst o'er ye both bent with fond beaming eyes
The best and fairest lady of the land,
For so she was,—that was indeed a day—
A day of brightness. Ah! how different
From this most dismal hour!
Nurse.
She was a noble lady, fair and gentle!
This wicked world did not deserve to hold her,
And so her time was short. And for her babe—
My babe;—I call'd her mine, and still will call her,—
A very cherub, peeping from the clouds,
As our fair pictures show them, is less beautiful
Than she half-covered with her cradle-clothes,
When waking from her morning's sleep, appear'd.
Ah me! the pleasant days that I remember!
Zor.
(alarmed).
I hear a noise.
Seb.
Thou art, my dearest child, alarm'd for nothing.
Zor.
Yes; I fear every thing. But, right or wrong,
Go instantly, nor linger longer here.
Nay, go: we do not part: I'll see thee soon.
Seb.
Heaven bless thee, then! Come, nurse, I'm now thy child,
Cherish me kindly.
Nurse.
Ay, bless your honour! I will do my best.
I'd give the life-blood in this poor old heart
For you and yours.
[Exeunt Sebastian and nurse. Zorada goes by the opposite side, meeting Jerome, who enters at the same time, and hurries along, covering her face as she passes him.
Jer.
Who's that who starts aside with guilty haste?
[Following her.
Ho! damsel, mistress, whosoe'er thou be,
Let me have words of thee. I swear, good faith!
I'll take thee safely to thy rendezvous,
If thou wilt trust me.
[Following her off the stage, and then returning.
What have I done? What have I seen? No face,
For that was closely cover'd, but the figure,
The robe, the air,—if it be not Zorada,
I am a fool—a purblind, mazy fool,
And do not know my right hand from my left.
What brings her here? Were't any other woman,
It were an easy thing to guess her purpose.
Well, who lives long may see strange things, they say;
And if I needs must give my thoughts the rein,
I'll curb my tongue.
[Exit.
| Romiero | |