University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

A Gallery.—At the end an armed figure bearing a mace.
Enter Confessor and Fabian.
CONFESSOR.
I warrant me thou thinkest, Master Steward,
That I was over urgent with thy dame.
There are some natures, sir, so obstinate
That mildness will not stir them, and for these
The Church enjoins a wholesome stimulant.
Such is your lady.

FABIAN.
You are learned, sir,
And doubtless know your duty. Here's the chamber.

CONFESSOR.
What mean you, fellow? There is nothing here
Except an effigy in rusted mail.
Beware of trifling with the Holy Church!

FABIAN.
That is the guardian of the treasure-room.
I see you marvel—Listen. Long ago,
Pedro, the founder of this ancient house,
Was the dear friend and comrade of the Cid.
Often together in the battle-field
Did they two charge the squadrons of the Moor,
And mow the stalwart unbelievers down.
Seldom they spared a life—yet once, by chance,
The caliph of Baldracca crossed their path,
Him they took captive, with three princes more,
And made them stand to ransom. All the East,
As I have heard—Chaldea, Araby,
Fez, Tunis, India, and the far Cathay—
Was racked for tribute. From the Persian Gulf
There came huge bags of large and lustrous pearl,
Which in the miry bottom of the sea
The breathless diver found. Then there were opals
Bright as young moons, and diamonds like stars,
Far-blazing rubies, gorgeous carbuncles,
Jacinths and sapphires. And with these there came,
Ten camel-loads of curious workmanship,
All wrought in solid gold—a greater ransom
Than ever yet was tendered for a king!

CONFESSOR.
Thy words have oped a fountain in my mouth,
And stirred its waters! Excellent Fabian—
So half this wealth accrued to D'Aguilar?

FABIAN.
Of that, anon. When all the heap was piled
Before them, then the Campeador said:—
“May not my sin lie heavy on my soul
Upon my dying day! For I have broke
A vow I made in youth before the shrine
Of San Iago, never in the field
To spare a heathen. What is done, is done—
May be atoned for, but not blotted out.
I will not touch the ransom. Be it given
Entire to thee, my brother D'Aguilar!”

CONFESSOR.
No wonder Spain still glories in the Cid!
What! are the treasures here? Speak quickly, man!

FABIAN.
Your patience for a moment! When the knight
Found no persuasion could affect the Cid,
Or sway him from his purpose, then he yielded.
One half the ransom bought the goodly lands
Which still pertain unto the D'Aguilars.
The other half lies in a secret room,
The door of which I'll show you—you've the key.
But first I'll tell you why yon effigy
Stands there to guard it.

CONFESSOR.
What is that to me?
What do I care about your effigies,
Or mumbled stories of the knights of old?
The door, I say!

FABIAN.
Yet listen—'Tis my duty
To make this clear. When Ruy Diaz died,
The knight of D'Aguilar obtained his arms;
And in remembrance of the bounteous gift
He placed them there before the treasure-room.
'Tis said the mighty spirit of Bivar
Still dwells within that corslet; and the mace,
Which once was called the hammer of the Moor,
Is swayed on high, and will descend on those
Who come to wrong the race of D'Aguilar.
I've heard my father tell, that, ere my birth,
Two reckless villains of Gitano blood,
Lured by the rumour of the treasured wealth,
Tried, over-night, to force that secret door;
And, in the morning, when the servants came,
They found a brace of battered carcasses,
The skulls beat into pulp, upon the floor;
And yonder mace—how terrible it is!
Was dropping with their blood!

CONFESSOR.
And dost thou think
With thy false legends to deter me now,
Thou paralytic slave? Reserve thy tales
For gaping crones, and idle serving-men!
Can I not make an image stare and wink,
Exhibit gesture with its painted hands,
Yea, counterfeit the action of a saint—
And dost thou hope to scare me with a lie?
Where is the door, I say?

FABIAN.
Bear witness, Saints,
That I am sackless of the consequence!
You are forewarned—

CONFESSOR.
The door—the door, I say!

FABIAN.
Insert the key beneath that panel there!

CONFESSOR.

[He attempts to open the Door, and is struck down by the Mace of the Effigy.
FABIAN.
Right little moaning need I make for one
Who died by his own sin! Poor prostrate fool,
Whom warning would not reach! Six feet of earth
Is all that even Popes can claim as theirs.
Thy span must yet be less: no funeral bell
May toll for thee—I'll drop thee in a well.

[Exit with the body.