University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An outer garden-room or portico in the house where
Zaterloo is concealed. Enter Countess and a confessor, with two attendants bearing Zaterloo on a small couch, which they set down on the middle of the stage; the attendants retire.
Countess.
The air revives him: look, I pray thee, father,
How the fresh air revives him: say not then
All hope is banish'd quite.—Thou shak'st thy head:
But whilst I see upon his moving breast
One heave of breath, betok'ning life within,
I'll grasp at hope, and will not let it go.
(Bending over the couch.)
My son, my son! hearst thou my voice, my son?

Zat.
Yes, mother: I have had a fearful struggle.
'Tis a strong enemy that grapples with me,
And I must yield to him.—O pious father!
Pray thou for mercy on me.

Countess.
Yes, my son,
This holy man shall pray for thee; the shrines
Of holiest saints be gifted for thee; masses
And sacred hymns be chanted for thy peace:—
And thou thyself, even 'midst thine agony,
Hast spoken precious words of heav'nly grace;
Therefore be comforted.

Zat.
(shaking his head).
There is no comfort here: dark, veil'd, and terrible,
That which abides me; and how short a space—

Countess.
O thou mayst yet recover!

Con.
Lady, forbear! this is no time to soothe
With flatt'ring hopes: his term is near its close;
Therefore, I do again entreat it of you,
Sond off the messenger with his confession,
Lest it should be too late to save the innocent,
And he be sent unto his long account
With a most heavy charge upon his head.

Countess.
Thou mak'st me tremble.—Ho! There, you without!
Send here the messenger.
(Calling off the stage.)
—His steed is ready:
He shall forthwith depart.

Enter Messenger.
Con.
(to messenger).
Take thou this packet, and with full-bent speed
Go to the city to the governor,
And see that into his own hand thou give it,
With charges that he read it instantly.
It is of precious moment to his life
Who on the scaffold should this morning suffer.
Quick mount thy horse: few minutes' goaded speed
Will take thee to the gates.

Mes.
Few minutes' goaded speed, five leagues to master!

Con.
Five leagues! thou'rt mad.

Mes.
No, marry! know ye not
The flooded river hath last night broken down
The nearer bridge?

Con.
What, art thou sure of this?

Mes.
I am now come from gazing on the sight.
From bank to bank the red swoln river roars;
And on the deep and slowly-rolling mass
Of its strong centre-tide, grumly and dark,
The wrecks of cottages, whole ricks of grain,
Trunks of huge trees, torn by the roots,—ay, save us!
And floating carcases of perish'd things,
Bloated and black, are borne along; whilst currents
Cross-set and furious, meeting adverse streams
On rude uneven surface, far beyond
The water's natural bed, do loudly war
And terrible contest hold; and swelt'ring eddies
With dizzy whirling fury, toss aloft
Their surgy waves i' the air, and scatter round
Their ceaseless bick'ring gleams of jagged foam,
All fiercely whit'ning in the morning light.
Crowds now are standing upon either shore
In awful silence; not a sound is heard
But the flood's awful voice, and from the city
A dismal bell heard through the air by starts,
Already tolling for the execution.

Con.
What's to be done? fate seems to war against us.
No, no! we'll not despair! Mount thy fleet horse,
Life and death's in thy speed:—
Let nought one moment stop thee on thy way:
All things are possible to vig'rous zeal:
Life and death's in thy speed: depart! depart!
And heaven be with thine efforts.

[Exit messenger, after receiving the packet.
Zat.
Is he gone? is it done?

Con.
Yes, he is gone: God grant he be in time,
For unto human reck'ning 'tis impossible!
[To countess, with an upbraiding look.
Half an hour sooner—

Countess.
Oh, torment me not!
Who could foresee this hind'rance?—O, good father!
Look to thy penitent. Upon his count'nance
There's something new and terrible. Speak to him:
Go close to him, good father. O my son!

Zat.
I feel within me now—this is the feeling:
I am upon the brink, the dreadful brink:
It is a fearful gulf I have to shoot.
O yet support me! in this racking pain
I still may hold a space the grasp of life,
And keep back from the dark and horrid—Oh!
(Uttering a deep groan.)
It is upon me!

[Struggles and expires with a faint groan. Countess, wringing her hands in agony of grief, is hurried off the stage by the Confessor and attendants, who rush in and take hold of her.