University of Virginia Library

SCENE VI.

King René, Almerik, Tristan in complete armour, with his train. Afterwards Geoffrey, with his train.
(During the progress of this scene, the evening red spreads over the valley and the distant hills, and remains so till the close of the piece.)
Tris.
Give back! The force, that sought to keep the pass,
Has yielded to our arms. Do you surrender?

René.
How now! What man art thou, whose ruffian hands
With shock of arms doth desecrate this ground?
Stand, or my wrath shall strike thee to the dust!

Tris.
Husband thy words, old man. I have no fears.
I do believe, this place is in the thrall
Of some unholy and malignant power,
Which keeps thee trembling, but gives nerve to me.
If that thou be'st a sorcerer, and dost hope
For aid from magic spells, despair thy charm.
For know, the Pope did consecrate this sword;
This scarf was woven, too, by holy hands
Within the Mary Convent at Avignon,
And, 'neath this mail of proof, abides the will
To quell thee, as Saint George the dragon quelled.

René.
Deluded man, what motive brings thee here?

Tris.
Reply to me! Art thou this valley's lord?

René.
Truly I am this valley's lord, I own—
Nor ends my title there. But who art thou?

Enter Geoffrey, with his train.
Geof.
What do I see? King René!— (kneels)
—Noble king!

Tris.
What's here? King René!

René.
Geoffrey, thou in league
With one that is thy monarch's foe?

Geof.
Your pardon!
He posted on before. I came too late.

René
(to Tristan).
Yet tell me, who art thou?

Tris.
My name is Tristan
Of Vaudemont; a name you well do know.

René.
How, Tristan? (To Geoffrey.)
Is this true?

Geof.
'Tis as he says.

René.
(musing).
And so 'twas you belike, as I conclude,
Were here to-day already?

Tris.
Yes, my liege,
Chance, not presumption, led me to this place.
I did not dream that you were ruler here.

René.
But say, what motive brings you back again?

Tris.
You know it.

René.
Nay, I know it not. Explain.

Tris.
Can this be so? Within this blooming vale,
Where all is marvellous, there lives concealed,
And its most foremost wonder, a fair girl,
Whose praise not all Provence's troubadours
Could chant in measures equal to her worth.

René.
And this fair girl, you say? Continue, sir!

Tris.
Upon my soul such impress deep hath wrought,
That I am bound her slave for evermore.

René.
And know you who she is?

Tris.
No. Yet there's proof
Upon her countenance, and in her words,
Of high degree, and inborn nobleness.

René.
And have you noted not, that nature, who
In all things else hath been so bountiful,
Left her one flaw?

Tris.
Ah yes, alas! she's blind!
Yet there doth flow within her soul a light,
That makes all luminous, which else were dark!

René.
And though you are aware that she is blind—

Tris.
Yet at her feet with rapture would I lay
The golden circle of my earldom down.

René.
Now by the holy image in Clairvaux,
You are the rarest marvel of our vale!
You press in here, with weapons in your hand,
To bear off that, which hath for years been yours,
Yet which you now insultingly contemn.

Tris.
How so, my liege?

René.
Know then, that this fair girl,
Who took your heart a prisoner, is my daughter.

Tris.
Your daughter, she?

René.
My daughter, my young count:
The same whom you, as this your letter bears,
Can in no wise consent to take for bride;
The same who raised in you dislike so strong,
That, but to 'scape from her, you were content
To quit your claims for ever to Lorraine!
The same, moreover, whom you so have charmed,
That I might almost doubt, if the poor girl
So lightly would abandon you.

Tris.
My liege,
Thou wilt not mock me with so wild a joy.

René.
'Tis e'en as I have said.

Tris.
But why was she—

René.
Shut up within this vale? Of that anon.
You little deem, my lord, that you are come
At a momentous crisis. Iolanthe,
My darling child, perchance, e'en while we talk,
Sinks into darkest night for evermore,
Or wakes to taste the glorious light of day.

Tris.
What sayest thou, my liege?

René.
This very hour
Has the physician, Ebn Jahia, chosen
To see, if possibly— (approaches the house)
—But hush! methinks
There is a stir within. Keep silence, all!
She speaks. Oh, Tristan, hear! Iolanthe speaks!
Ah, are these sounds of pleasure or of wail,
That murmur o'er my darling angel's lips?
—But some one comes.