University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Mountains, covered with Snow, surrounding the Pass on the North Side of the Convent.
Alfonso, (climbing over the rocks.)
Alfon.
What! force me back!
Roof me in cloister'd cells, where never sun
Glanc'd on the face of man! Must they explore
Which way I tread: and track me to my haunts,
Like a lone beast that makes his viewless lair
In the unfrequented wilderness!
What! am I?
A wretch, moon-stricken, to be ey'd and bound;
Unfit to bide where man makes residence?
Would that I were not what indeed I am!
Or being what I am, in form a man,
That Heav'n had cast me in the idiot mould
Of those that in the valley gasp in the sun
With disproportion'd throats, and uncouth limbs
That know not their own use!

Confessor. (without.)
Conf.
Alfonso! ho!

Alfon.
Shout on—shout on—here none will look to find me,—
Or if they chance to spy me, who will dare
Climb up this giddy edge? They nigh had seiz'd me,
But for that jutting point, on which I sprung,
While they past on beneath.

Enter Infirmier and Confessor.
Infir.
See you the track
Of his uncertain step amid the snows?

Conf.
It ceas'd on sudden.

Infir.
Long my eye pursu'd it
In mazy shiftings all irregular.

Conf.
Aye, purposely confus'd to mock pursuit.
He's fled! I fear, for ever.

Alfon.
(wildly laughing.)
Ha! ha! ha! (behind the rock.)


Infir.
Heard you that noise?

Conf.
Sure from the air it burst;
For never foot of man
E'er scal'd those cliffs.—Say, whither shall we turn?
Your counsel, brother—

Infir.
Let us once more hail him.
Alfonso!—ho!—Alfonso!— (clashing of swords without.)


Agnes. (without.)
Agnes.
Murder—Murder!

Francis (without.)
Fran.
Help!—from the Convent help.—

Conf.
What cry is that?

Infir.
I hear the tread of feet.

Enter Francis (wounded.)
Infir.
Speak, wherefore thus?
Thy looks are wild!—Ha! there is blood upon thee—

Fran.
Your limbs are fresh—Fly—to the Convent haste.
Ring out the alarum bell.—Oh, haste!—Assassins,
Disguis'd like those that on the mountains urge
The chamois chace, have seiz'd the hapless ladies.
I battled long as these sore-mangled limbs
Could stand their poinards.

Alfon.
(leaping from the rock, and snatching his sword.)
Lo! th'avenger here.
Wash off, kind heav'n! the murder on my soul
By the assassin's blood.—Come—lead the way—
I have in battle cop'd with mighty men,
And foil'd proud warriors.—

Fran.
Give me, Sir, your hand—
My wounds bleed fast.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Another Part of the Mountains.
Agnes, Ellen, and Four Assassins.
Agnes.
If 'tis my wealth you seek, I gave you all.

1st Assassin.
Dame! if your strength had match'd your fearless spirit,
Your wealth had ne'er enrich'd us.

Agnes.
(to the other Assassins who are going to bind Ellen.)
Bind her not—
She scarce has power to lift her hands in pray'r.

Ellen.
Oh, wound her not!
Here, here, good men! these stones, they say, are diamonds.—
This had escap'd you. Take it—spare her life—
'Twas once a nuptial present. (Kisses the picture.)
—So farewell—
I fondly thought to have worn thee in the grave.
Spare but her life, and I shall die content. (Swoons.)


Agnes.
Hear me, unhappy men, and when ye know
My rank and power, obey me. Mark my words—
I am Tortona's countess, and I come
To bear this sufferer, more than daughter to me,
To the lone vale below that gave her birth.
Let me pass on, and this last duty pay,
And, by yon heav'n I vow,
Whene'er you shew this ring, I will redeem it
With riches that shall free your future days
From deeds of guilt.

Assassin.
Go—plunge that peasant girl
Within yon snow-pit.

(Ellen is drag'd off.)
Agnes.
Restore her to my arms, I will repay you
With wealth, a monarch's ransom—Ye shall banquet
In golden halls, and o'er your tombs I'll raise
Convents, where holy men, by force of pray'r,
Shall save your souls from fiends.

1st Assassin.
You promise rarely.

Alfonso (without).
Alfon.
Die, wretch!—Good brethren, bear her to the Convent!

Agnes.
Heaven!
I hear the voice of succour.—Man! unhand me.—

(struggling.)
1st Assassin
(going to stab her).
Nay, if you struggle, lady, you are dead.

Alfonso, rushing in, stabs one of the Assassins, and, in struggling with the other, who flies, is himself wounded.
Alfon.
This to thy heart. Fly, murderer—thou art free.

Agnes.
Oh, what words
Can rightly praise; what earthly gifts reward thee?
Thus on thy hand, the Countess of Tortona
Prints the warm kiss of gratitude.

Alfon.
(looking up to Heaven).
O, strike me dead!

Agnes.
What! for this deed?—Let it not grieve thy soul.
Long ages past, a voice from Heaven decreed,
“Who spills man's blood, by man his blood be spilt.”

Alfon.
But, but, forgive me.

Agnes.
In what hast thou offended?

Alfon.
I have left
The path where virtue clasp'd me: I have strown
In the smooth vale of innocence and peace
Rank baleful seed: and I have pluck'd its fruit
That leaves a scar and blister on the soul,
When all of earth sinks to its native dust.
Thou know'st me now.

Agnes.
In truth, I know thee not.
Lift up thy cowl, thy features may instruct me.

Alfon.
Oh! ask not that—you'll turn away in horror.
Let me depart unknown.—Yet, oh! her pardon.
I am—How shall I dare to look on thee?—I was,
In happier years, when virtue led my steps,
Thy husband.

Agnes.
Thou my husband!—
(Recollecting him, screams.)
Julian, Julian—
And yet I knew thee not.—These arms shall hold thee,
Husband.—

Alfon.
Oh! sound—once grateful to my soul.
But do not stain thy unpolluted lip.—
Look—look not on me so.—Oh! if thine eye
Flash'd vengeful lightning, I'd not turn away.
Why dost thou weep?—I cannot shed a tear.

Agnes
(embracing him).
Weep in these arms;
And, as I clasp thee to my heart, recall
Past years of bliss scarce earthly?—Oh, recall
The nuptial vow that link'd our hearts in one;
And the fond hope, oft breath'd in prayers to Heaven,
That in each others arms, blessing and blest,
Our life at once might close.
It hath pleas'd
The Searcher of the heart, by misery's test,
To prove my soul: and here 'mid lonely wilds,
Where none but Heaven can witness, I invoke
Its minist'ring host again to grave the vow
That links my lot to thine.—O, Julian, Julian,
Come to my arms, and be at peace once more.

Alfon.
I have borne unmov'd
The shock of sternest horror—but thy kindness,—
Agnes!—I thought not ever to have known
The blessing of such tears—

Agnes.
Oh, thou hast groan'd,
In bitterness of spirit, to the storm
That smote thee, sweeping by on icy wing:
And none has listen'd to thy woe, no voice
Spake consolation.
Behold me, now,
Firm at thy side, more blest to stand the storm,
And sooth thy misery, than in thoughtless years,
When, the vain partner of thy joys alone,
I glitter'd in thy sunshine.

Alfon.
Heaven reward thee—

Agnes.
Heaven hath rewarded me.—Once more we meet.
Oh, give me all thy grief, and I will steal
Each pang away, and lull thee to repose.
These arms amid the wilderness shall stretch
Soft shelter o'er thee: here thy brow be pillow'd;
And, ever as thou wak'st, the eye of Agnes
Shall gladden thine; till, in the gradual peace
That gains upon thee, I shall taste once more
All bliss that earth can give.

Alfon.
(falling on her neck, then starts back in horror).
Peace! never, Agnes,
'Tis virtue's heritage. Guilt, guilt is on me.

Agnes.
None o'er earth
Pass without speck.

Alfon.
Mine is no common guilt.

Agnes.
Bow not beneath despair; but on the base
Of firm repentance raise th' unshaken column
Where virtue rests. Julian, I woo thee not
To luxury, and light pleasures, and the dream
Of joy departed.—No—but hand-in-hand,
Oh, let us, in affliction doubly dear,
Right onward journeying thro' the vale of woe,
Soothe and support each other. Once again
Here have we met; and never, never more,
If virtue yet has force to sway the heart,
Shall earthly power divide us.
Thou art my husband still.

Alfon.
Thy husband!—Oh! thou know'st it not—
I cannot tell it thee.

Agnes.
I know it all.
Oh, thou art wounded—let thy wife support thee!
Lean on me, Julian—let us to the Convent.
Oh, no, not there—not there—and yet thou diest
Here without succour.

Alfon.
No—Support me not.
There was a time—Let me depart, I pray thee,
While reason yet is mine.—

Agnes.
Alas! where seek
For aid?

Alfon.
(more confus'd.)
It is not here, this unfelt wound:
'Tis in my head, my heart: the fiend that tends
On evil deeds is busy with my soul.

Agnes.
Father of mercy! calm his troubled spirit!

Alfon.
(frantic.)
Woman! thou know'st me not—I know thee well.
Thou art Novara's daughter, the fair prize.
Gaily they came, brave gallants in their trim,
High-plum'd, and banners floating.—The proud steeds
Caparison'd, career'd beneath thy throne.
Thou knew'st me then, when from the vanquish'd field
I bore he blushing bride—But when he smote me,
Thou looking on, upon my nuptial day,
When the proud peasant smote me, at thy side,
Thou did'st forget me—

(Ellen screaming behind the scene.)
Ellen.
Restrain me not—
Hold me not, holy Fathers:
Now, now—they murder her—She bleeds, she bleeds,
Beneath th' assassin's blow.

(She rushes in with Provost, Prior, Infirmier, Confessor, Blanche and Laura.)
Alfon.
What voice is that?

Prov.
(to Agnes.)
Oh sooth this frantic sufferer!

Agnes.
Ellen! here.

Alfon.
Ellen—and raving—Spare me yet, ye fiends!
Oh! any sight but that—

Ellen.
I saw their poniards quivering o'er thy brow:
Art thou not wounded?

Agnes.
No, Ellen—Be at rest—

Ellen.
Then I shall die in peace. (faints away.)


Alfon.
Is she so near her end?
I pray you mock me not.—Oh! is it Ellen?
Lift me, and let me gaze upon her face:
I may once more
Look on her as she dies, and her pale lip
May breathe forgiveness o'er me.—

Agnes.
She scarce has life—Long have I sooth'd her woe.

Alfon.
Oh! Agnes, Agnes!—How had I heart to wrong thee—Oh! thou saint—
The measure is complete.
The hand of death is on me—Oh that pang!—
Father of mercy yet—a little while—
That Ellen yet may pardon me.—My Agnes!
I pray thee move that injur'd one to breathe
A last forgiveness o'er me.—If thou ask it,
Ellen will not deny thee—

Ellen.
Ha! that voice—

Agnes.
A cold dew stands
On her pale brow.

Prov.
'Tis the forerunner of approaching death.

Agnes.
Oh thou in Heav'n!
Hear my sole wish—Yet, yet awhile keep back
The stroke of death, and to herself restore her,
That one last word may breathe o'er dying Julian
Peace and forgiveness.

Prov.
Heav'n has heard thy voice—
The recompense of virtue shall not fail,
While God is judge above.

Ellen.
Oh call me not
From Heav'n's eternal rest!—Most honour'd Lady!
Art thou still near me?

Agnes.
Ellen—I have a wish—
A pray'r to thee—

Ellen.
Oh may my spirit pass
In granting it!

Agnes.
We soon shall part for ever.

Ellen.
Not so—We meet in Heaven.

Agnes.
But there is one—
Poor Julian—

Ellen.
Oh that now poor Julian heard me!—
Death, death is on me.

Agnes.
Ellen!—
Here, Julian begs forgiveness.—

Ellen.
Where, where is he?
I spoke it in my heart—Where art thou, Julian?

Alfon.
Here, Ellen, prostrate at thy feet.

Ellen.
In secret I still pray'd
That thou might'st hear my blessing.—
Give me thy hand—I cannot see thy face—
My eyes grow dim—Thy honour'd hand, thou saint!
(She joins their hands.)
Thus I unite you—Heav'n has heard my pray'r.—
Now, Julian, thou art blest—We meet in Heav'n.

(Ellen dies.)
Alfon.
Father of mercy! thanks! Support me, Agnes!
Oh that I ne'er had wrong'd thee!—
Shed not a tear for me—for, oh my Agnes!
Thus in thy arms to die, blest by thy pray'r,
That calls down mercy on me, gives my soul
The foretaste of hereafter.—Oh farewell!—
I die in peace. (dies.)


Agnes.
Oh saviour of mankind! receive his spirit.

Prov.
Rise! virtuous mourner, rise! no earthly voice
May still the pang thou feel'st—alone for thee
Religion tow'ring o'er this under world
Shall smooth the wings of time; and as the earth
Grows dim beneath their shadow, drop the dew
Of healing on thy woes—poor Peasant Girl—
Oh! if a scoffer question, why the storms
Beat on thy sinless brow, and laid thee low,
Say, from thy seat in Heav'n!
“Such fixt me here.”—So, silence thou the scoffer—
For thee, Alfonso, tell the man of guilt,
That Heaven, who purified thy soul
And chasten'd with sore wounds, may summon him,
Flush'd from the banquet where Sin ranks the guests,
At once before the presence of his God—
So shall he fly, forewarn'd the tempting fiend.—