Julian And Agnes ; Or, The Monks of The Great St. Bernard A Tragedy, in Five Acts |
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1. | SCENE I. |
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Julian And Agnes ; Or, The Monks of The Great St. Bernard | ||
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,—
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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.
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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.
Julian And Agnes ; Or, The Monks of The Great St. Bernard | ||