University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

Scene I.

—Gardens of Ubaldo's Palace.—Rosalba and Fiordeliza.
Fiordeliza.

Rosalba,—nay, Rosalba.

Rosalba.

Am I not patient?

Fiordeliza.

Well, I think you are: but I would have
you cheerful; look at me; has not my lover vanished
too?

Rosalba.

True, Fiordeliza; sorrow is wont to be vilely
selfish and I am forgetting your trouble in mine own.
Yet if I were not driven to marry another, methinks I
also could be cheerful.

Fiordeliza.

I will pity you for the driving; but you
shall not pity me for the vanishing. I tell you that that
sunshine and these flowers are more to me than love.
They make me happy.

Rosalba.

If that were so, your happiness should be
but the happiness of a butterfly, and should last but a
summer's season. I think it is not so; but be it or be
it not, you are so bright a thing in mine eyes that I
cannot desire you to be other than you are.

Fiordeliza.

I am not a butterfly. But I wish in my
heart that we were like the birds, which are in love only

once a year. I will sing you a song and shall not that do
you good?

(Sings.)

Rosalba.

It is a new song I think, but in an old sense,
and one that will live as long as the world lives, unless
the world should live to be better than it is.

Fiordeliza.

Yes, or than it ever has been since the
birds sang to Adam in the golden prime. They sang to
him out of the tree of life, and knew better than to build
their nests in the tree of the knowledge of good and evil;
and though death comes to them, it comes unknown, and
though love leaves them, they sigh not.

Rosalba.

Is yon my father? Alas! I fear the very
sight of him now.

Fiordeliza.

Were I a nursing mother I should fear it,
lest it should sour my milk.

Rosalba.

He is always in the same story—that Silisco
never will be seen again and Count Ugo cannot wait.

Fiordeliza.

Well, as to the story, there is this truth in
it—that the rich Silisco will not be seen, and that Ugo
will never again be as young as he is now. Indeed your
father may have some cause to fear lest his purpose to
marry be crossed by that hasty humour which happens
to men at his time of life, of going to the grave at one
jump.

Rosalba.

Fie! Fiordeliza; it makes me sad, not merry,
to hear you talk so lightly. Count Ugo, though he has
not, nor has had, the gifts and faculties which you set
store by, was ever a just, courteous, and bountiful man,
of good life and conversation, with a gentle and generous
heart, and peradventure as much understanding as
innocence has occasion for.

Fiordeliza.

Oh! I grant him that; but nevertheless
the good old golden pippin is ripe and may drop while
the gardener is getting the ladder. There is the
gardener,—and who besides? Gerbetto, the doctor,
I think. They are deep in council, and are going to
take another turn; so let me sing another song the
while.

(Sings).

Enter Ubaldo and Gerbetto.
Ubaldo.

I bring you, daughter, a kind friend and a
skilful physician, who can cure, I think, more maladies
than are mentioned in Hippocrates or Galen; and he
would have a few words with you,—a few words with
you, good lady, a few.

Rosalba.

Master Gerbetto is a good friend to me and
ever welcome, and though I have given him but little
opportunity for the exercise of his art, yet I have many
times found comfort in his kindness.

Gerbetto.

Indeed, sweet lady, I would fain be
comfortable to you if I might.

Fiordeliza.

Well, if you may not, at least show us a less
discomfortable countenance; for with that you have on
now you look more like adversity itself than a consolation
in adversity.

Ubaldo.
He brings, though not a comfort, yet a cure,
A cure for blindness and besotted dreams,
A cure for feminine credulity.
This swain, enamour'd as he seem'd of you,
Was all the while enamour'd of another;
And by that guilty passion's power impell'd
To deeper guilt, he stain'd his hands in blood,
And stands accountant for a rival's death.

Fiordeliza.
Nay, sweet Rosalba, keep your courage yet;
This cannot be believed. Reach her yon seat.
Silisco never was impeach'd before
Of dissolute courses.

Rosalba.
And he said himself
His life, or ever it had found its law
From love and me, had still been pure.

Ubaldo.
Oh dupe!
He told you, he! No doubt of it he did;
An unthrift was a liar from all time;
Never was debtor that was not deceiver.
Hold up thy head, poor child; poor monkey, nay,
'Tis a brief anguish that discards the vile,
The false, the faithless. Doctor, tell your tale.

Gerbetto.
'Tis a sad task, that tale to tell, for me;
But I am bound to speak. Two months ago,—
That day it was the marquis disappear'd—
Coming from vespers, in my house I found
A wounded man, swooning from loss of blood.
With sedulous care and what small skill is mine
I tended him, though deeming from the first
His hurt was mortal. Slowly day by day
He languish'd and declined, till yesternight,
Knowing his hour was come, he bade me hear
What brought him to that pass; which till that hour,
Wherefore I know not, he was loth to tell.
He said that in the caverns near the beach,
Not far from my abode, the self-same night
That I first found him wounded on the floor,
A damsel that affianced was to him
By him was caught in passages of love
With a young lordling of the court; they fought;
He fell; and instantaneously bereft
Of sense, he knew no more, nor by what means
He reach'd my house. I ask'd him, did he know
Who slew him; he replied, he knew him well,
The Lord of Malespina; at that word
He bounded from his bed, fell back, and died.

Rosalba.
Alas! alas!

Ubaldo.
Here is a terrible tale!
And this is he that would have wed my child!
I thank him that he puts me forth his foot
And shows the cleft on't; truly, yes, I thank him.
Now, daughter, I beseech you, prate no more
Of promises and questions and delays.
What day you please next week! 'Tis yours to choose.

Rosalba.
Oh, father, father, give me time to think;
My brain is weak; I cannot understand
What's said to me nor what I say myself.
Ere long this dimness will be clear'd away
And I shall know my course; but, father, now
The waters have gone over me.

Ubaldo.
Nay, nay,
So long as thou'rt unsettled, mutinous thoughts
Will vex thy heart; I know the ways of women;
But when what should be must, contentment comes;
Compassion goes to work the shortest way;
Despatch is mercy: yet yourself shall choose;
Say Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, which you will;
Thursday or—no, not Friday—at your pleasure
Thursday or Saturday. Go, go your ways;
Order whate'er shall please you; a brave day
We'll make on't; get you gone. Good cause had he
To fly the Court! The truculent villain! Ho!

Scene II.

—A Farmstead on the Lands of Malespina, in the Neighbourhood of the Castle.
Enter Silisco and Ruggiero.
Ruggiero.

We chased them that night and the next
day, gaining on them by little and little; but as evening
fell, there came into the horizon a cloud no bigger than
your hand, and in an instant the storm swooped upon
them like a bird of prey and they went to destruction
before our eyes, thief and booty together.

Silisco.

Best friend and boldest, how fared you I pray?

Ruggiero.

The storm spared us, but we were sorely
tormented by hunger and thirst that night; and when
we landed next morning at Vetri in Calabria, my strength

was clean spent and a fever was upon me that laid me
low for many a day. When that left me, I found my
way back with all speed, and learning from Monna the
direction of your flight, I sped hither. Such is my
history.

Silisco.
Of mine remains
But little to recount. Spadone, or,
If he was dead, Spadone's corpse, I left
In old Gerbetto's cottage on the beach;
Nor waiting his return (for he was forth),
Back to the Catacombs I sped, and search'd
Each cranny, but could nowhere find my friend,
The luckless Aretina. In the caves
I dwelt by day; the night I chiefly spent
In my own gardens.

Ruggiero.
In your gardens?

Silisco.
Yes;
Behind the statue of Proserpina
There is a cavern fringed with pensile plants,
By which, well-known to me in boyhood, opes
A passage to the Catacombs; through this,
When first it reached me that the writs were out
I, like a land-crab, into earth had dropp'd,
And afterwards through this I issued thence
When darkness and the owls possess'd the world.
Ere long, impatient of my dreary life,
I meditated flight; and strange you'll deem
The choice I made of whither to betake me;
But having not since childhood seen my lands
A humour seized me to revisit them;
And seeing I was here as little known
As elsewhere I could be, and peradventure
Should be less look'd for, hither did I come.
I found Count Ugo's people in possession,
The sometime mortgagee, the owner now.

Ruggiero.
Why hither? it can bring you little joy
To look upon the lands that you have lost.

Silisco.
To look upon the days that I have lost,
Ruggiero, brings me less; and here I thought
To get behind them; for my childhood here
Lies round me. But it may not be. By Heavens!
That very childhood bitterly upbraids
The manhood vain that did but travesty,
With empty and unseasonable mirth,
Its joys and lightness. From each brake and bower
Where thoughtless sports had lawful time and place
The manly child rebukes the childish man;
And more reproof and bitterer do I read
In many a peasant's face whose leaden looks
My host the farmer construes to my shame.
Injustice, rural tyranny, more dark
Than that of courts, have laid their brutal hands
On those that claim'd my tendance; want and vice
And injury and outrage fill'd my lands,
Whilst I, who saw it not, my substance threw
To feed the fraudulent and tempt the weak.
Ruggiero, with what glittering words soe'er
We smear the selfishness of waste, and count
Our careless tossings bounties, this is sure,
Man sinks not by a more unmanly vice
Than is that vice of prodigality—
Man finds not more dishonour than in debt.

Ruggiero.
Farewell my function! I perceive that now
You need no more a monitor. To me,
Who, when the past was present, sigh'd to see it,
The present brings its joy; one work is wrought;
Adversity hath borne its best of fruits;
And, issuing from this gorge, the tract you tread,
Though it be ne'er so beggarly and bare,
Shall lie, I augur, in the sunshine.

Silisco.
No;
Not in the sunshine; that may never be;
Upon my path the sun shall shine no more.
It is not poverty will darken it—
In many another point I err'd, but not
In deeming wealth to me was little worth;
Nor self-reproach—for this, though sharp, will work
Its own purgation; nor the world's contempt,
Which with a light and friendly disregard
I soon could conquer. But one hope there was
That in the darkness and the frosty air
Burnt brighter still and brighter, which is now
Set, not to rise again. In this I own
Needful severity; for this apart
My joyfulness of nature had escaped
The hands of justice and all worldly ills
Had left me unchastised.

Ruggiero.
Rosalba false!

Silisco.
No, say not so—she means not to be false;
No—falseness could no more have place in her
Than could the cankerworm in Paradise.
She promised, it is true, till All-Saints' Eve
To hold herself in freedom unbetroth'd;
'Tis likewise true, or publicly proclaim'd,
Count Ugo is to marry her to-morrow.
But doubtless she has deem'd herself released
By my desertion. Since that fatal night
She knows of me no more than that I vanish'd;
For how could I, a beggar, plead to her,
An heiress, her past promise? With what aim?
Since should she wait the term, the issue still
Must be obedience to her sire's behest;
And what can now move him?

Ruggiero.
I know not what;
But what we know not of may haply be:
And this I know,—what rules the true of heart
Is plighted faith, not circumstance. To-morrow?
I think it may be done—Ronzino's legs
Will carry me if legs of mortal steed
Can span the distance in the time—and so
My presence and my protest shall precede
This woeful wedding: yes, ere noon to-morrow
Before Rosalba face to face I'll stand,
And, be it at the altar's foot, oppose
Her prior promise to her marriage vow.
Leandro, ho! my horse.

Silisco.
At least there's truth
In friendship. But be gentle to Rosalba.

Scene III.

—A Street in Palermo.—A Festal Procession is seen issuing from the Church in the distance and advancing.
Enter a Chorus of Maidens with baskets of flowers, followed by a Chorus of Youths, and Tribolo, the King's Fool.
Chorus of Maidens.
Who shall lack a lover? Lo!
She held a hundred in her chains;
They must break them now and go
Where new loves shall pay their pains;
But who shall hail
Their cast-off faces pale?
Who yield her charms
To their dejected eyes and nerveless arms?
Not I, nor I,
Nor none of us;
And should they try,
We'd pelt them thus.

[Flinging flowers at the other chorus.
Tribolo.

Well said, Virgins! Look at me if you
would see a colour;—and there's an arm for you! “Let
me alone, villain, I cannot draw my breath,” said the
she-rhinoceros when I put it round her waist. But is there
no answer?

Chorus of Youths.
We bent the knee before her
With a worship nigh to sin,
Predestined to adore her
Without a hope to win:
But having known the dear delight
Of living in her sunny sight,
'Twere vain
That we should strain
Against the pressure of that golden chain;
For we are prisoners in Despair's despite:
And as for trying what our eyes could do
Or what our arms, with you,
We could not, scornful maidens, if we might.

Tribolo.

Hapless Bachelors! But I like you well;
for though you counterfeit a love-sickness, yet you are
clad in all the colours of the rainbow, and you sing like
peacocks. Come along! You must perform this at the
Palace. Come, musical maidens and men of many
colours. Sing in time and you shall be rewarded in
eternity,—not to mention a puncheon of strong ale which
stands abroach for you at the buttery.

[Exeunt.
Enter Ruggiero with an Innkeeper.
Ruggiero.

Brought fairly to the ground! I prithee
give the poor beast a can of wine, and when his courage
shall come back take him to the stable of the Palazzo
Arona; do thy best for him and take this for thy pains.

[Exit Innkeeper.

Poor Ronzino! thou sufferest for the sins of others.
What festal troop is this? Ha! my mind misgives me!

[The Procession crosses the stage; two Citizens detach themselves from it and stand beside Ruggiero.
1st Citizen.

Enough of this! I'll follow no further.
Foh! 'Tis a filthy crowd!

2nd Citizen.

The sun is hot, and the garlick, which
yesterday was like a flower of the field, is to-day the
least of a little unsavoury. At night there is to be a
masked ball at the palace in honour of the wedding.

1st Citizen.

If I were a nobleman and bidden, I would
not dance at it.

2nd Citizen.

Why so?

1st Citizen.

It is such a wedding as no man that dances
with consideration would dance at.

2nd Citizen.

Wherefore? It is magnificently managed
and no cost spared.

1st Citizen.

It is a wicked wedding: the bride is the
sweetest incomparable lady that ever the sun shined upon,
and the bridegroom—

2nd Citizen.

Well?

1st Citizen.

Is a pink-headed, white-haired old
gentleman; very corpulent; with one foot in the grave and the
other in a velvet shoe. Did you mark him as he stood
at the altar, leaning upon his staff? He was three
minutes groping in his pouch for the ring, and at last he
fished up—what? a pair of spectacles!

2nd Citizen.

He is a simple-hearted, kindly gentleman
—meek and mild—but as you say, very old and not
strong in the legs. Let us to the royal gardens and make
sure of places to see the fireworks.

Ruggiero.
What marriage is it that you speak of, friends?
Count Ugo's?

1st Citizen.
Yes.

Ruggiero.
And did ye say the King
Gives a mask'd ball to-night?

2nd Citizen.
Sir, so we hear.

[Exeunt Citizens.
Ruggiero.
Too late—too late! Yet shall the truth be heard!
Though what is irremediable be done,
Let what is just be spoken. To that ball
Shall come a dreary and unwelcome guest.

Scene IV.

—An Antechamber with folding doors, opening upon a Ball-Room in the Royal Palace at Palermo.—The King, masked as a Knight of St. John, and Lisana, as a Minstrel.
The King.
Young minstrel, had thy ditty been less sweet
I should have bid thee sing me one less sad,
But thou hast so subdued me to thy strain
I crave another like it.

Lisana.
Sooth, my Lord,
It is but such that I can sing; I'm young,
Untaught, and have but a few natural notes:
I sing but as the birds do, from my heart.

The King.
Well, sing from that again. Thy voice awakes
A tenderness that might be troublesome
And shame to show itself by day; but tears
That come at twilight like a summer dew
May trickle unrestrain'd; sing once again.

Lisana.
(sings).

The King.
That voice had won me were I blind; that face,
Though I were deaf, had spoken to my heart!
I am ashamed to say what love is mine
For thee, and of what temper. Jesu Mary!
That I, a King, God help me! should so waste
The night, the dawn, the noon, the dewy eve
In this sweet serious idleness of love.
The masquers thicken, and such songs as these
Are not for every ear. See! through this door
There is a private chamber. Come with me.

[Exeunt the King and Lisana.
Enter Ruggiero, masked as Conscience, with a lamp and scourge.
Ruggiero.

Surely I know that voice! Lisana's, if I

err not. And that Knight of St. John was the King.
Poor girl! she is in the toils, and they glisten in her eyes
like a cobweb dew-bespangled. A word of warning in
her father's ear were not ill bestowed, and doubtless he
will be here anon.

Enter divers Maskers, passing through to the Ball-Room, and others passing out.
1st Mask.

Marco, I think? Yes, I know you by the
wave of your feather. What, have you danced?

2nd Mask.

Ay; but methinks these festivities are
somewhat sadly carried. Seest thou the bride yonder?
By my faith she stands more like a marble statue in a
mist than a bride of flesh and blood. There—have you
seen her, Sir? (to Ruggiero).
Ah, now she slinks behind
the crowd.

Ruggiero.
In truth a pitiable spectacle!
I marvel, Sir, what pleasure age can take
So airily to deck its dim decline.
A chaplet of forced flowers on winter's brow
Seems not less inharmonious to me
Than the untimely snow on the green leaf.

2nd Mask.

Why, Sir, it is a common error of age to
think that it can get back the enjoyment of youth by
getting what youth only can enjoy.

1st Mask.

Nay, but this was a match of Ubaldo's

making, not of Ugo's. We are here to dance; so pass
on, I pray you.

[All pass into the ball-room except Ruggiero and one Mask.
Ruggiero.

Gerbetto, no?

Gerbetto.

The same, Sir; and can I mistake the voice
of the Count of Arona?

Ruggiero.

Make me not known, Gerbetto; but when
we pass in, do thy endeavour to draw the Countess out
of the crowd to where I shall stand apart. Know you,
Gerbetto, that your daughter hath secret conference with
the King?

Gerbetto.

You say not so, my Lord?

Ruggiero.

I do; and though the maiden be as modest
as the rosebud's inmost leaf, yet I like not the sun and
the south-west wind to play with her.

Gerbetto.

You are right, my Lord; and I shall beseech
you to give me your counsel. But lo! the crowd divides
and if we take the occasion ....

Ruggiero.

Pass in, I pray.

Scene V.

—The Ball-Room, with various groups of Masks. —In front Ugo and Rosalba as bridegroom and bride, with Ubaldo and Fiordeliza. After a while Gerbetto joins them, with Ruggiero, who remains a little apart. Tribolo the King's Fool appears in his usual habit.
Ubaldo.

More lights, I tell you! If a canary bird were
here she would hardly sing. Strike up, musicians! We
suffer more in the tuning of your fiddles than the music's
worth. If the King be taken up into heaven, 'tis well;
but as we see him neither here nor there, 'tis no wonder
if our guests shall not disport themselves as merrily as
they are wont.

Ugo.

If an old man can do aught to make them merry,
I would fain be assisting.

Ubaldo.

Old! why the day makes us all young.

Fiordeliza.

If your good Lordship would assist me, I
pray you to find me a discreet and nimble gentleman to
dance with.

Ugo.

I will, sweet Lady.

Rosalba.

My friend, my Fiordeliza, leave me not.

Fiordeliza.

Come hither, Fool. How is it that thou
comest to the King's masked ball without a mask?

Tribolo.

Please your sweet Ladyship, my sister told

me the solemnity was of that nature that I should show it
my countenance and not my mask.

Fiordeliza.

Thy sister? I knew not thou hadst a
sister. Who is she?

Tribolo.

The world calls her Wisdom. The wisdom
of the world, my Lady, was ever born-sister to a fool.

Fiordeliza.

The fool were no fool that should hold that
faith.

Tribolo.

Then there is my mask and the fool is no fool
for the occasion.

Gerbetto.
(to Ruggiero in the side scene).

She says she
must know who you are before she shall speak with you
apart.

Ruggiero.

Then be it openly and not apart.

Fiordeliza.

Fool, thou art melancholy.

Tribolo.

No wonder, Lady, if you consider my dreams
last night.

Fiordeliza.

What didst thou dream?

Tribolo.

I dreamt I was a tailor going to be married,
and that I went to church sitting cross-legged a-top of
a hearse and stitching at my shroud.

Fiordeliza.

Was that all?

Tribolo.

No, I dreamt that I was a thousand miles out
at sea, sitting astride of an empty cask, and a beauteous
sea-nymph bobbing before me; but I could not come
at her.

Ubaldo.

The King, doubtless, hath his own
amusements and we will wait no longer. Ho! gallants,

gallants, match ye for the dance! strike up, musicians!
Serve a bumper round. Ho! gallants, follow me; this
way, this way.

Ruggiero.
(advancing)

Pass ye no further till my voice
be heard.

Ubaldo.
What voice is that? a merry mask I trow;
Well, speak; I like the humour of thy mask,
Though it be dismal; whom dost thou present?

Ruggiero.
Sirs, I am Conscience; with this lamp I search
The hearts of sinners, with this scourge chastise;
Men feast, men dance, men revel,—but I come;
The shouts of jollity and riot rise,
But what though jollity and riot shout,
My knock is heard and let me in they must;
For wheresoever Evil enters, there
I follow with my lamp, and Evil thus
Is palpable, or by his substance seen
Or by his shadow; then my lamp I lift
As now I lift it—yea, I lift my lamp
And lift my scourge—for therefore am I here:
Musicians, cease; ye dancers, cease to dance,
Trampling ye know not what beneath your feet;
What ye with noise and dancing celebrate
Are vows by prior vows made perfidy—
A heartless, faithless show of plighted faith.

Ubaldo.
What masking call ye this? A mask indeed
That masks a railer and a villain. Ho!
Tear off this caitiff's mask—tear off his mask.

Gerbetto.
(supporting Rosalba)
Sirs, she wants air—I pray you stand aside.

Fiordeliza.
Cheerly, my sweet Rosalba! Villain!

Ugo.
Run,
Fetch that elixir ....

Ubaldo.
Tear me off his mask,
Tear off the villain's mask.

Ruggiero.
Ye shall not need.

[Unmasking.
Fiordeliza.
Ruggiero!

1st Mask.
What! the Count?

2nd Mask.
'Tis he indeed!

3rd Mask.
As strangely found as lost!

4th Mask.
Most wonderful!

Ugo.
Who is it, Sirs? who is it? for mine eyes ....

Ubaldo.
I would that mine were dimmer than they are.
My Lord, or e'er you ask me to unsay
The name I gave you in your mask, say you
Wherefore you trouble thus our marriage feast.

Ruggiero.
Say what you please and unsay what you will.
Silisco loved your daughter; she loved him
And pledged her faith that this side All-Saints' Eve
She would not wed another. I demand
Why walks she here a bride?

Ubaldo.
This outrage grows!
Who says she loved?

Rosalba.
Father, I did, I did.

Ubaldo.
Or pledged her faith?

Rosalba.
I did, but he was false.

Fiordeliza.
Gerbetto knows it—and he slew the espoused
Of her with whom he traffick'd.

Gerbetto.
Sir, 'tis true;
He slew him in the caverns.

Ruggiero.
Oh, sad chance!
Disastrous error! Was it this betray'd
The maiden's faith! Why then shall pity plead
Against all anger. Whom he slew I know,—
A wretch who, for the plunder of his ship,
Sent to the bottom her and all her crew,
By name Spadone; in the Catacombs,
Silisco, hiding from his creditors,
Met—innocently met, by accident—
Spadone's paramour; by him assail'd,
He, certes, slew him.

Ubaldo.
At the point of death
Spadone said ....

Ruggiero.
What like enough he thought;
For with a hundred murders did he reek
And foulest thoughts were uppermost. But lo!
If any here shall say Silisco's soul
Was not as pure as infant's at the breast,
True as confessing Saint's, there is my glove—
I'll prove upon his body that he lies.

Three Knights come forward.
1st Knight.
There be three here will take this quarrel up
Upon the bride's behalf.

Rosalba.
Oh, not on mine!
My cause is bad—I brake my promise—oh!
Silisco, ever, evermore beloved!
Forgive me! oh forgive me! I was false,
And thou wert faithfuller than the constant fire
That burns the centre!

Ubaldo.
Daughter! art thou mad?

Fiordeliza.
She faints, she falls.

Gerbetto.
Make room—to the air—to the air!

[Rosalba is taken out by Gerbetto and Fiordeliza.
Ubaldo.
See, Sir, your mischief prospers. But the King
Shall know of this, and instantly. My friends,
Ye see how this, which should have been a feast,
By this man's meddling insolence is marr'd.
This shall the King redress; and some time hence
We'll have our pastime; for this present, Sirs,
Your further aid I ask not. Fare you well!

[Exit.
Ugo.
Before you go, Sirs, pray you hear me speak;
For I am sorely troubled, yea, my heart
Is full of grief: I knew not, Sirs, till now
Of this sweet lady's love, nor of her pledge
Given, as this Lord avouches, to his friend,
That worthy Knight, my Lord of Malespina:
Sirs, had I known it, not for worlds and worlds
Would I have done her that discourtesy
To force myself upon her to her wrong:
Sirs what I can I will for her relief;
I call you all to witness, I renounce
All rights from this day's injury derived;
I'll never more approach her.

Ruggiero.
Noble Sir,
Your pardon if I wrong'd you.

Ugo.
Nay, not so;
The sorrows of this day are born of sin;
A secret sin, whereof to cleanse my soul
I hasten now. I pray you help me hence.
Forth on a perilous pilgrimage I go,
Sorely to suffer for my sore offence.

Ruggiero.
Count, think not I accuse you ...

Ugo.
No, Sir, no;
My sin is other than against this maid,
Whom, verily, I married for her good,
Her sire protesting 'twas her will—no less
For her own good than that exceeding love
I bore her and shall ever bear—and now
There's nothing I can suffer that my soul
Shall not rejoice to suffer, even to death,
If haply so appeasing God, He shower
A blessing on that lady and her love.

[Exit, followed by all except Ruggiero.
Ruggiero.
A gallant and magnanimous old man!
Much injury have I done him, God forgive me!
In thinking slightly of his slender wit
By greatness of his heart so glorified.
Till now I knew not he had utterance;
But generous sorrows and high purposes
Make the dumb speak. Ye orators, note that,
That in the workshop of your head weave words.

Enter Gerbetto.
Gerbetto.
Strange day is this! My Lord, the aged Count
Prepares, in sackcloth clad, to issue forth
The city gates, afoot and unattended,
To seek the Holy Sepulchre. A vow
Made this day three years, when his former wife
Lay sick to death, did bind him, as he says,
Within three years in such wise to perform
This pilgrimage, the disregard whereof
He deems to be the cause of this day's griefs;
And therefore, ere the stroke of twelve foreclose
Upon his pledge, he needs will take his way
Alone, on foot, toward Jerusalem.

Ruggiero.
A brave resolve! but which to execute
His body is unequal. Ere he reach
A three days' journey, he shall fall by the way;
He must be follow'd though he know it not,
And tended at his need. Wilt thou do this?

Gerbetto.
I will, my Lord; nor shall it hold me long;
I know the nature of his maladies;
Scarce for one week can they sustain the toil
Of journeying afoot. But, good my Lord,
I pray you, whether it be days or months,
Be careful, in my absence, of my child;
Fulfil her father's duties and defeat
The King's designs if evil.

Ruggiero.
Ah, the King!
I know that dangerous softness of the King
And how it works in issue. Lovingly,
Like a tame tiger, that long licks the hand
Till he draw blood, then maddens, doth he now
Fondle Lisana. He shall not draw blood
Whilst blood of mine is living in my veins.