 | Babington |  |
SCENE II.
A Street in London.Enter Ballard and Gifford, meeting.
BALLARD.
Why do I meet thee here?
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I did not know
That 'twas my cue to have avoided thee.
BALLARD.
Not so. Thou dost mistake; I sought thee rather.
Why should I walk here but in quest of thee?
Think'st thou I come to look at fools, who make
Blood pastime, but not gain? What is thy news?
What hast thou done? where hast thou been? thou'rt pale.
Say quickly.
GIFFORD.
I have been where Babington
Gave up his life.
BALLARD.
Art thou a connoisseur
In death, e'en like the rest? would'st thou enact
The lurcher wholly, and lap up the blood
Thou helpest to betray?—Fool! and for this
Darest thou neglect what I have given in charge?
If that thou hast—
GIFFORD.
I have not. She is traced,
At least I think it.
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Traced?—whither, and how?
GIFFORD.
Thither where I have been. List to me, sir;
If I am pale, 'tis that I've seen a sight
Which drove the blood back to my very heart,
That almost bled for pity. Why I went
Where Babington and his unhappy mates
Shook gory hands with death, needs not to tell.
BALLARD.
I ask'd thee not—nor do I ask thee now—
For tedious pity, however new to thee.
What did'st thou see?
GIFFORD.
I saw the noble Babington
Stand on the scaffold with his dying friends.
No man attended them. No pitying voice
Did bid, “God help them.” There they stood, alone,
With serene countenances, as't had been
Some solemn festival; until the wretches
Whose callous hands were to wring forth their breaths,
Laid bare their patient necks. They stood together
And silently join'd hands.
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Saw the young, gallant Tichbourne, his dear friend,
Submit him to the cord—for on him first
The villain hangman laid his horrid hand,—
His manly visage changed, and on his knees
He dropped aside to pray, the piteous tears
Chasing the while down his averted face,
When suddenly was kneeling by his side—
Whence she did come I know not, nor what power
Had oped her perilous road—one that might seem
A vision from the skies; so pure her beauty,
And so unseen her coming.
BALLARD.
Who was this?
Villain—who could come there?
GIFFORD.
'Twas Agnes.
BALLARD.
Caitiff,
Thou liest!
GIFFORD.
Why, then, her pure and beautiful spirit
Had left its form of clay to wander thither.
By Heaven, they were her living lineaments.
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(in a suppressed tone.)
Go on.
GIFFORD.
That vision seemed to strike around
A visible awe. It was most pitiful.
No sound broke in upon their parting prayer;
The very ruffians that did do him dead,
They seem'd to wait his time. He came to them.
Yea, when his friends had pass'd, he calmly rose
And bent him to the executioner,
Whilst she remained still praying on her knees,
Fair as the alabaster; and as fix'd
As is the marble—statue-like, all, save
Her lips, which faintly moved.
BALLARD.
Why dost thou pause?
GIFFORD.
Because my voice is choked even with the thought
Thou bid'st me to give words to.
BALLARD.
Fool! go on.
GIFFORD.
When they had snatch'd him from the fatal beam,
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She turn'd her head, and faintly moved her hand;
And they did lay the dying Babington down,
His head upon her lap.
I saw no more!—
BALLARD.
What would'st thou say, then?
GIFFORD.
When the crowd recoil'd
In horror from the scene that then was closed,
I heard one saying through his tears, that thus
He lay; and, seeming more like death than e'en
The dying, she did look into his eyes,
And whisper'd comfort to his fading senses,
And wiped the cold damps from his dying brows,
And held the crucifix before his gaze,
E'en till the speechless orbs were glazed in death;
And the last savage mandates were fulfill'd.
BALLARD.
I'll hear no more of this. Where is she now?
GIFFORD.
I know not. But Maltravers, whom you join'd
With me in this pursuit, sign'd with his hand
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That wheresoe'er she be, he follows her.
BALLARD.
Go, out of hand, and strive to join him then—
Away. No, hark! That man, that meddling jester,
Through whose contrivance she escaped away,—
Know'st thou what hath become of him? I dread
Some mischief from that fool's officiousness.
Would he were hamstrung. Thou art twice a bungler
To let him 'scape thee thus.
GIFFORD.
Remember, sir,
I have but two eyes, nor but one pair of hands.
BALLARD.
Had'st thou but used them as thou should'st have done,
We had made sure of him one way or other.
No help, this is but prattle—get thee gone,
And use thy wits, if thou would'st have my gold.
We must be quick; and, what is more, resolved;
Whilst she is here, some intervention still
May snatch her from my grasp. I've paid for her,
Ay, sold myself i'th' bargain, and, in spite
Of men or fiends, I will enjoy her—
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Why dost thou linger here?
GIFFORD.
I stay to know
Your course.
BALLARD.
That's true. I go to wait her coming,
Nor will I stir from thence. Begone, and prosper.
I, spider-like, lurk close within my web,
Until the prey be snared.
[They retire different ways.
| Babington | |