University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

—Euphrosyne's Palace—Eudocia's Chamber.
Eudocia and Zillah seated on a Sofa.
Zill.
Thou art not sad?

Eud.
Nay—nay.

Zill.
O tell me why,
And not afraid? Would that I were so too.

Eud.
Did I say no? Why did you ask again?
O! 'tis because I have no hope on earth:
But, list—and nothing comes—'tis all a dream,—
The marshy fears of maidens, fed by mist
Of tears and sighs. Let's laugh together, maid.

Zill.
'Twould frighten me; but fear not over much.

Eud.
Perhaps he's wise though bloody, giving these hours
To old-eyed counsellors and nightly wisdom.

Zill.
Hark! shall we say this bitter night is past?
How go the hours?

Eud.
Hush, let them slip, lest our alarm should wake,
With breath infectious, the dread power without
That seems to slumber.

Zill.
I dare not be silent,
But I shall whisper. Why thus look, sweet mistress,
On yonder door? Go to your eastern lattice
And feel the breath of Heaven, for you are pale.
Be not afraid, it looks upon the sea.
No cruel shapes of men shall fright thine eyes.
Stay only till you count the little temples
That gleam upon the dark and woody shore:
And I'll remind you, as you told me once,
These votive temples are memorials old
Of sailors' hap by sea, when they were sav'd
In the last peril. We are in peril too;
But there's a God of power, and all the worlds
Lean on the shoulder of his attribute:
And God will save—more kind, and greater far
Than the old Grecian's fabl'd deities.

Eud.
I dare not lift mine eyes from off that door,
Lest he should enter. Is not this most fearful?
The hours shall never wade through this dread silence.

Zill.
I dare not sit. I scarcely know thy voice.

Eud.
I'll walk along the chamber once or twice.
Watch yonder door.

Zill.
Now—now—but go not far.

(Eud. after walking goes to the window, but starts back, screaming.)
Zill.
My lady, O!

Eud.
Was it you that shriek'd?

Zill.
Thyself,

Eud.
A stork came flapping to the window light;
I thought, at first, it was a fearful hand.
I'll look no more. Shut out the sickly light;
It makes my heart faint: to my aching sense
The moon is dull, and all things indistinct,
As the ribb'd shadows of old graves in churchyards.
Come, let us sit.

Zill.
You hear that noise, my lady?

Eud.
The beating of our hearts.—'Tis now the hour
When the lone matron, from her hamlet lodge,
Looks for her spouse into the moonlight ways,
But hears no foot abroad in all the night;
Then turns she in, and thinks of murder done
In former days, by the blue forest edge,
Which way her lord must pass: then tells again
The cloudy tale to her that with her mother
Watches, when younger sisters are asleep,
And kitten winks before the drowsy fire.
There comes her husband—Hark! it is the fight,
The warriors' din.
(Knocking heard at the door.)
Is that a knocker's hand?
(Knock again.)
Hold fast, now door, and all ye senseless things
Take arms for two poor maids.

(Knock again.)
Zill.
What shall we do?

Eud.
Who's there?
(Voice without.)
Thy servant, lady, until death.

Eud.
'Tis Marsas.

Zill.
You will not open?—

(Eud. opens the door, and retires slowly to her seat.
Eud.
I know his soul too well:
Good Marsas, I have ever bless'd thy words,—
Come near and speak good news,
(He retires to the further end of the chamber, and stands with his head down and his arms folded.)
Then are you envious as these evil days:
Each day brings deed that shakes the head at me.
And each event, that passes, seems to turn
Like cowardly assassin that would try
Again the undone deed. But spare no word.

Marsas.
Do you know, lady, that Murtzoufle—

Eud.
Peace!
And lock that door.

Mar.
Is Emperor of Greece?

Eud.
Ay—we are in his power. O Montmorency!

Mar.
You know all, then?
Beware Murtzoufle. Our brave knight shall live.

Eud.
Ah! you have seen him? dead? who bade thee warn?

Mar.
Not as you fear.

Eud.
Is he not captive, then?

Mar.
His friend Montferrat's on, the Italian Doge
With all their powers: the city shall be won;
At least conditions that shall save the captive.
And I was fool to frighten so my lady.

Eud.
O God! Where saw you him?

Mar.
Along the street.
But fear not lady—for he look'd so boldly:
No fear was in his heart, but rather rage
At such indignity: his eyes were bent
Like bows and shot, cramping their rings of fire;
And anger burn'd with smoke upon his brow.
Calm fell his look—for why? his life is safe,—
Till when he saw me, then his restless eye
Began to speak.

Eud.
O Heaven! and not to know
The captive's wish.

Mar.
Lady, you know that wish—
Well, on I follow'd, striving to get near,
But the guards kept me back. I followed still—
The guards retir'd—the keeper is my friend.
I saw our Montmorency in his chamber.
He has no fear but thee; and still he warn'd
Of dread Murtzoufle.

Eud.
Are not the streets beset
With armed men?

Mar.
The battle's in the west,
And there the throng.

Eud.
Then, Marsas, watch our gates
Short space until I call thee. Softly, Zillah
(Exit Mar.)
Follow my steps. Why sit you?

Zill.
Give me then,
Lady, that dagger; for last night I dreamt
With that same dagger did I dig a grave,
A little grave to put Philippa in.

Eud.
Peace, and forget our fears—come.

(Exeunt.