University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The Country just without the Gates of Messina. A hilly back Ground.
Melfi, lying on the Stage, Julian.
Jul.
He wakes! He is not deat! I am not yet
A parricide. I dare not look on him;
I dare not speak.

Melfi.
Water! My throat is scorched.
(Exit Julian.
My tongue cleaves to my mouth. Water! Will none
Go fetch me water? Am I here alone?
Here on the bloody ground, as on that night—
Am I there still? No! I remember now.
Yesterday I was King; to-day I'm nothing;
Cast down by my own son; stabbed in my fame;
Branded and done to death; an outlaw where
I ruled! He, whom I loved with such a pride,
With such a fondness, hath done this; and I,
I have not strength to drag me to his presence
That I might rain down curses on his head,
Might blast him with a look.

Enter Julian.
Jul.
Here's water. Drink!

Melfi.
What voice is that? Why dost thou shroud thy face?
Dost shame to shew thyself? Who art thou?

Jul.
Drink.
I pray thee drink.

Melfi.
Is't poison?

Jul.
'Tis the pure
And limpid gushing of a natural spring
Close by yon olive ground. A little child,
Who stood beside the fount, watching the bright
And many-coloured pebbles, as they seemed
To dance in the bubbling water, filled for me
Her beechen cup, with her small innocent hand,
And bade our Lady bless the draught! Oh drink!
Have faith in such a blessing!

Melfi.
Thou should'st bring
Nothing but poison. Hence, accursed cup!
I'll perish in my thirst. I know thee, Sir.

Jul.
Father!

Melfi.
I have no son. I had one once,
A gallant gentleman; but he—What, Sir,
Didst thou never hear of that Sicilian Prince,
Who made the fabulous tale of Greece a truth,
And slew his father? The old Laius fell
At once, unknowing and unknown; but this
New Œdipus, he stabbed and stabbed and stabbed,
And the poor wretch cannot die.

Jul.
I think my heart
Is iron that it breaks not.

Melfi.
I should curse him—
And yet—Dost thou not know that I'm an outlaw,
Under the ban? They stand in danger, Sir,
That talk to me.

Jul.
I am an outlaw too.
Thy fate is mine. Our sentence is alike.

Melfi.
What! have they banished thee?

Jul.
I should have gone,
In very truth, I should have gone with thee,
Aye to the end of the world.

Melfi.
What banish thee!
Oh, foul ingratitude! Weak changeling boy!

Jul.
He knows it not. Father, this banishment
Came as a comfort to me, set me free
From warring duties and fatiguing cares,
And left me wholly thine. We shall be happy;
For she goes with us, who will prop thy steps,
As once the maid of Thebes, Antigone,
In that old tale. Chuse thou whatever land,—
All are alike to us. But pardon me!
Say thou hast pardoned me!

Melfi.
My virtuous son!

Jul.
Oh thanks to thee and Heaven! He sinks; he's faint;
His lips wax pale. I'll seek the spring once more:
'Tis thirst.

Melfi.
What music's that?

Jul.
I hear none.

Melfi.
Hark!

Jul.
Thou art weak and dizzy.

Melfi.
Angels of the air,
Cherub and Seraph sometimes watch around
The dying, and the mortal sense, at pause
'Twixt life and death, doth drink in a faint echo
Of heavenly harpings?

Jul.
I have heard so.

Melfi.
Aye;
But they were just men, Julian! They were holy.
They were not traitors.

Jul.
Strive against these thoughts—
Thou wast a brave man, Father!—fight against them,
As 'gainst the Paynims thy old foes. He grows
Paler and paler. Water from the spring;
Or generous wine;—I saw a cottage near.
Rest thee, dear Father, till I come.
[Exit Julian.

Melfi.
Again
That music! It is mortal; it draws nearer.
No. But if men should pass must I lie here
Like a crushed adder? Here in the highway
Trampled beneath their feet?—So! So! I'll crawl
To yonder bank. Oh that it were the deck
Of some great Admiral, and I alone
Boarding amidst a hundred swords! the breach
Of some strong citadel, and I the first
To mount in the cannon's mouth! I was brave once.
Oh for the common undistinguished death
Of battle, pressed by horse's heels, or crushed
By falling towers! Any thing but to lie
Here like a leper!

Enter Alfonso, Valore, and Calvi.
Alf.
'Tis the spot where Julian—
And yet I see him not. I'll pause awhile;
'Tis likely he'll return. I'll wait.

Calvi.
My liege,
You're sad to day.

Alf.
I have good cause to be so.

Val.
Nay, nay, cheer up.

Alf.
Didst thou not tell me, Sir,
That my poor Uncle's banished, outlawed, laid
Under the church's ban?

Calvi.
He would have slain
His Sovereign.

Alf.
I ne'er said it. Yesterday
I found you at his feet. Oh, would to Heaven
That crown were on his head, and I—What's that?

Val.
The moaning wind.

Calvi.
He was a traitor, Sire,

Alf.
He was my kinsman still. And Julian! Julian!
My Cousin Julian! he who saved my life,
Whose only crime it was to be too good,
Too great, too well beloved,—to banish him!
To tear him from my arms!

Calvi.
Sire, he confessed—

Alf.
Ye should have questioned me. Sirs, I'm a boy,
A powerless, friendless boy, whose name is used
To cover foul oppression. If I live
To grasp a sword—but ye will break my heart
Before that hour. Whence come those groans? [Seeing Melfi.
My Uncle
Stretched on the ground, and none to tend thee! Rest
Thy head upon my arm. Where's Julian? Sure
I thought to find him with thee. Nay, be still;
Strive not to move.

Melfi.
I fain would kneel to thee
For pardon.

Calvi.
Listen not, my liege. The States
Sentenced the Duke of Melfi; thou hast not
The power to pardon. Leave him to his fate.

Val.
'Twere best your Highness came with us.

Alf.
Avoid
The place! Leave us, cold, courtly lords! Avoid
My sight! Leave us, I say. Send instant succour,
Food, water, wine, and men with hearts, if courts
May breed such. Leave us.

[Exeunt Calvi and Valore.
Melfi.
Gallant boy!

Alf.
Alas!
I have no power.

Melfi.
For all I need thou hast.
Give me but six feet of Sicilian earth,
And thy sweet pardon.

Alf.
Talk not thus. I'll grow
At once into a man, into a king,
And they shall tremble, and turn pale with fear.
Who now have dared—
Enter Julian.
Julian!

Jul.
Here's water! Ha!
Alfonso! I thought Pity had been dead.
I craved a little wine, for the dear love
Of Heaven, for a poor dying man; and all
Turned from my prayer. Drink, Father.

Alf.
I have sent
For succour.

Jul.
Gentle heart!

Melfi.
The time is past.
Music again.

Alf.
Aye; 'tis the shepherd's pipe
From yonder craggy mountain. How it swings
Upon the wind, now pausing, now renewed,
Regular as a bell.

Melfi.
A passing bell.

Alf.
Cast off these heavy thoughts.

Melfi.
Turn me.

Alf.
He bleeds!
The blood wells out.

Melfi.
It eases me.

Jul.
He sinks!
He dies! Off! he's my father. Rest on me.

Melfi.
Bless thee.

Jul.
Oh, no! no! no! I cannot bear
Thy blessing. Twice to stab, and twice forgiven—
Oh curse me rather!

Melfi.
Bless ye both.

[Dies.
Alf.
He's dead,
And surely he died penitent. That thought
Hath in it a deep comfort. The freed spirit
Gushed out in a full tide of pardoning love.
He blest us both, my Julian; even me
As I had been his son. We'll pray for him
Together, and thy Annabel shall join
Her purest orisons. I left her stretched
In a deep slumber. All night long she watched
And wept for him and thee; but now she sleeps.
Shall I go fetch her? She, better than I,
Would soothe thee. Dost thou hear? He writhes as though
The struggling grief would choke him. Rouse thee. Julian,
Calm thee. Thou frighten'st me.

Jul.
Am I not calm?
There is my sword. Go.

Alf.
I'll not leave thee.

Jul.
King!
Dost thou not see we've killed him? Thou had'st cause;
But I, that was his Son.—Home to thy Palace!
Home!

Alf.
Let me stay beside thee; I'll not speak,
Nor look, nor move. Let me but sit and drop
Tear for tear with thee.

Jul.
Go.

Alf.
My Cousin Julian—

Jul.
Madden me not. I'm excommunicate,
An exile, and an outlaw, but a man.
Grant me the human privilege to weep
Alone o'er my dead father. King, I saved
Thy life. Repay me now a thousand-fold,—
Go.

Alf.
Aye; for a sweet comforter.

Enter Paolo.
Paolo.
My liege,
The lady Annabel—

Jul.
What? is she dead?
Have I killed her?

Alf.
Speak, Paolo. In thy charge
I left her.

Jul.
Is she dead?

Paolo.
No. Heaven forefend!
But she hath left the Palace.

Jul.
'Tis the curse
Of blood that's on my head; on all I love.
She's lost.

Alf.
Did she go forth alone?

Paolo.
My liege,
Prince Julian's aged Huntsman, Renzi, came,
Sent, as he said, by thee, to bear her where
Her Lord was sheltered.

Jul.
Hoary traitor!

Paolo.
She
Followed him nothing fearing; and I too
Had gone, but D'Alba's servants closed the gates,
And then my heart misgave me.

Jui.
Where's my sword?
I'll rescue her! I'll save her!

Alf.
Hast thou traced
Thy lady?

Paolo.
No, my liege. But much I fear—
Certain a closed and guarded litter took
The way to the western suburb.

Jul.
There, where lies
The palace of Count D'Alba! Stained—defiled—
He hath thee now, my lovely one! There's still
A way—Let me but reach thee! One asylum—
One bridal bed—One resting place. All griefs
Are lost in this. Oh would I lay as thou,
My Father! Leave him not in the high-way
For dogs to mangle. He was once a Prince.
Farewell!

Alf.
Let me go with thee.

Jul.
No. This deed
Is mine.
[Exit Julian.

Alf.
Paolo stay by the corse. I'll after,
He shall not on this desperate quest alone.

Paolo.
Rather, my liege, seek D'Alba:—As I deem
He still is at thy Palace. Watch him well.
Stay by him closely. So may the sweet lady
Be rescued, and Prince Julian saved.

Alf.
Thou'rt right.

[Exeunt.