University of Virginia Library

THE SEPARATION:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Garcio, an Italian count.
• Rovani, his friend.
• Gonzalos, an old officer.
• The Marquis of Tortona.
• Ludovico, seneschal of the castle.
• Gauvino, chamberlain.
• Pietro, servant.
• Gomez, servant.
• Hermit, &c. &c.

WOMEN

• Margaret, wife to Garcio.
• Sophera, her attendant and friend.
• Nurse, &c.

Scene, a small state in Italy.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A chamber, with a great screen at the bottom of the stage, behind which part of a bed is seen, and voices heard as the curtain draws up, while Pietro and Gomez are discovered on the front, looking from a half-opened door, as if listening.
Gomez.
What said he last? the word died on his tongue.

Pie.
So much the better.

Gomez.
Makes he confession? Hast thou listen'd long?
He ever wore, e'en in his days of health,
The scowling eye of an unquiet mind,
And some black deed disturbs his end. E'en so;
Thy face confirms it.

Pie.
We shall be discover'd.

[Exeunt, shutting the door softly, while Ludovico and Gauvino come forward from behind the screen.
Gau.
(looking earnestly at Ludovico, before he speaks).
What thinkst thou of it?

Lud.
It is very strange.

Gau.
'Tis but the fever'd ravings of disease:
Hast thou more serious thoughts?

Lud.
I would our good confessor were arrived,
Whate'er my thoughts may be.

Gau.
Ay; then I can divine them. To my judgment,
He speaks like one more forced to utterance
By agony of mind than the brain's sickness.
The circumstances of the horrid deed;
The wondrous fleetness of his gallant steed
Which bore Count Garcio through the forest paths—

Lud.
Cease, cease! I would the father were arrived.

Gau.
It was his fav'rite steed, and yet he ne'er
Made mention of its name or of its end,
But, when we praised its fleetness, frown'd in silence.
I've wonder'd oft at this, but thought no ill.

Lud.
Nor think it now. It is not credible,—
Making, as then he did, a lover's suit
To the fair Margaret, Ulrico's sister,—
That he should murder him.

Gau.
He was the heir of all Ulrico's lands.

Lud.
True; so he was.

Gau.
Ulrico loved him not, and oft opposed
His suit as most presumptuous. But for this,
Her brother's sudden end, the lovely maid
Had ne'er been Garcio's wife.

Lud.
All this is true; and yet, perhaps, those facts
Have on the mind of this poor dying wretch
Impress'd dark fancies, which the fever'd brain
Shapes into actual deed. Oh, it is horrible!
Canst thou believe one of his noble race
Could do a deed befitting ruffian hands,
And only such? Had he thus wickedly
Devised Ulrico's death, some hired assassin
Had done the bloody work, not his own hands.

Gau.
Well, but what thinkst thou of his strange aversion
To this, the goodliest seat our country boasts?
Although his countess oft hath urged him to it,
He hath not since his marriage here resided,—
Nay, hath not pass'd a night within these walls:
And, but that he is absent at the wars,
E'en though the recent earthquake has in ruins
His other castle laid, and forced us thence,
This mansion had remain'd untenanted.

Lud.
I would the ghostly father were arrived!
(Voice heard behind the screen.)
Blood will accuse:
—am I not cursed for this?

Lud.
He speaks again: I thought that for the while
He had been sunk into a state of stupor.
Go thou and watch by him, Gauvino; haste!
For steps approach, and none must be admitted.
[Gauvino retires behind the screen; and Ludovico, running to the door, meets Sophera, and endeavours to prevent her entering.
Thou mayst not come: he's still; he is asleep:
Thou canst not see him.

[Voice heard again.
Soph.
Asleep, sayst thou? do I not hear his voice?
Nay, let me pass; I will not be withheld.
My lady follows me with some good drug
To chafe his brow, poor wretch! and give him comfort.

Lud.
Return, and tell the countess to forbear:
She must not see him; foul unwholesome air
Has made the chambers noxious. Hie thee back,
And say she must not come.

Soph.
And dost thou think this will prevent her? Never,
E'en from the sick-bed of her meanest servant,
Hath she stood fearfully aloof, when comfort
Could be administer'd.
I've seen the pain-rack'd wretch smile in his pain
To see his lady's sweetly pitying face
Peep past his ragged curtain, like a gleam
Of kindly sunshine, bidding him good morrow.
And thinkst thou now, from this poor dying man,
The oldest faithful follower of her lord,
To keep her back with such a plea as this?

Lud.
Cease! urge no more. Return; she must not come:
The sick man is distorted-grown, and changed,
Fearful to look upon: a lady's gentleness
May not such sight abide.

Soph.
A poor excuse!
Hast thou forgotten when those wounded soldiers
Lay near our walls, after a bloody skirmish
Left on the field from which their comrades fled,
How she did stand with steady master'd pity,
'Midst horrid sights from which her women fled
With looks averted, till each bleeding wretch
Was bound and comforted? Distorted, sayst thou!
Who goes to chambers of discase and death
To look on pleasant sights?
(Voice again.)
I did not murder him.

Soph.
He spoke of murder!

[Ludovico pressing her back as she advances eagerly towards the screen, whilst Gauvino comes forward to assist him.
Lud.
Thou shalt as soon pass through my body, fool!
Such cursed obstinacy! art thou mad?
If thou regardst thy lady's peace of mind,
Fly, I conjure thee, and prevent her coming.

Enter Countess behind them.
Countess.
And why, good Ludovico?

Lud.
(who starts on seeing her).
Gracious heaven!

Countess.
Why lookst thou so aghast! Is Baldwin dead?

Lud.
He is; and therefore go not.

[She still endeavours to pass. No, no! he is not; be entreated, madam!
Countess.
What cause so strangely moves thee?

Lud.
A powerful cause, that must not be reveal'd.
O, be entreated then!
(Voice again.)
Ulrico's blood was shed by Garcio's hand,
Yet I must share the curse.

Lud.
Run to him quickly! wherefore didst thou leave him?

[Gauvino again retires as before.
Countess.
What words were those he utter'd?

Lud.
Words of despair and frenzy; heed them not,
But quit the chamber. O, for heaven's sake, go!

[Exeunt; Ludovico hurrying off the Countess and Sophera.

SCENE II.

A small ante-room or passage.
Enter Pietro and Gomez by opposite sides.
Gomez.
Is the confessor with poor Baldwin still?

Pie.
He is; but, as I guess, will leave him presently;
I heard, just now, the chamber-door unlock'd.
I'll keep my station here, and see him pass.

Gomez.
And so will I. Ha! yonder, see, he
comes.

Pietro.
His head bends to the ground, and o'er his eyes
His hood is drawn: would I could see his face!
He is the cousin of our seneschal,—
I'll speak to him. Enter a Friar, walking hastily across the stage.

Good father! give your blessing:
How is your penitent?

[Friar waves him off with his hand, and exil.
Gomez.
He motions with his hand and will not speak.

Pie.
In so much haste to go! this is not well.
[Shaking his head.
No, no! it hath a dark and rueful look.
Well; God be praised! these hands are free from blood.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The apartment of the Countess; she is discovered pacing to and fro with slow, thoughtful steps, then stops short, and stands in a musing posture some time before she speaks aloud.
Countess.
'Tis often thus; so are we framed by nature.
How oft the fitful wind or sullen bell
Will utter to the ear distinctive words,
According with the fancy's wild conceptions!
So are the brains of sick and frenzied men
Stored with unreal and strange imaginations.
(After a short pause.)
Am I become a maniac?
Oh! have words,
To which the firm conviction of my mind
So strongly stands opposed, the baleful power
To fix this misery on me? This is madness! Enter Sophera behind.

Is't thou, Sophera?

Soph.
Yes, 'tis only I.

Countess.
Is every decent office of respect
Done to the corse?

Soph.
Yes, nought has been omitted.

Countess.
'Tis well; but what detains the good confessor?
I wish'd to see him.

Soph.
He stay'd but till his wretched penitent
Had breathed his last, and quickly left the castle.

Countess.
He is in haste, methinks; 'tis somewhat strange.
Why lookst thou on me with that fearful eye?
Thinkst thou the ravings of a frenzied mind
Have power to move me?

Soph.
I only thought—I fear'd—you wisely judge;
Why should they move you? Well, the dismal story
Of that most dismal murder, here committed
By hands unknown, might to a sickly brain
Such thoughts create of nothing.

Countess.
What sayst thou? here committed!

Soph.
Did not your hapless brother in this castle
Come to his end?

Countess.
Yes, but a natural end.

Soph.
So grant it were! it is not so reported.

Countess.
Ha! what is else reported?

Soph.
The peasants round all idle stories credit;
And say that in his castle, by his servants,
He was discover'd in the eastern tower
Murder'd. But, doubtless, 'tis a tale of falschood,
Since 'tis to thee unknown.

Countess
(sinking back into a chair).
It was to me unknown.
(After a long pause.)
Dear, dear! the friend, the brother of my heart,
The playmate of my early, happy days,
Could such a fate be thine!
It makes me weep to think it possible,
Yet I believe it not.

Soph.
You tremble much.

Countess.
I'm cold and chill: 'tis weariness of body;
Do not regard it; I shall soon be better.
[Trumpet sounds without.
A trumpet! then some martial guest approaches.
O most unwelcome!

Soph.
'Tis Tortona's Marquis.

Countess.
He is not in these parts; it cannot be.

Soph.
He is upon his march with some gay troops
To join the army, and hath made a halt
Here in our nearest town to rest his men.
So said his servant, whom I found this morning
Lurking within the castle; and I guess
His warlike lord is come.

Countess.
I cannot see him.
Go thou; plead my excuse: I am unwell;
Say what thou wilt, but let me be excused. Enter Rovani.

Rovani here!—O, how is this? My lord?

Rov.
He is not far behind. I am, fair lady,
The vanguard of his band; and, as I trust,
Bearing no dismal tidings.

Countess.
O no! they should, indeed, be joyful, if—
And, as in truth I trust—my lord is well!

Rov.
Yes; from the wars, unhurt and strong in health,
Garcio returns! where he has done the service
Of an undaunted powerful combatant,
To that of a right skilful leader join'd.
He is not one of your reserved chiefs,
Who, pointing with their dainty fingers, thus,
Say, “Go, my friends, attack yon frowning ranks.”
No, by my faith! with heavy scimitar
He closes to the bloody work himself,
And to the carnage of each grizly field
Brings his full tale of death.

Countess
(shrinking back).
Is he so ruthless, then?

Rov.
Ay, in the field.
But in your hall or bower, where ladies smile,
Who is more gentle? Thus it often is:
A lady feels not on her soldier's hand,
That softly presses her more gentle palm,
The deaths which it has dealt.

Soph.
I'm sure, were but thy rapier like thy tongue,
The count must have in thee an able second.

Rov.
I may not boast; but doth my circled finger
More rudely press thy snowy arm, fair maid,
Because this graven jewel was the gift
Of a great Moorish princess, whose rude foe
I slew before her eyes?

Soph.
Some angry puppy that with snarling mouth
Snapp'd at her robe or sandal'd heels, belike.

Rov.
Nay, by my faith! a foe in worth mine equal.

Soph.
That I will grant thee readily. But say,
How far behind thee is the noble count?

Countess.
Ay, is he near?

Rov.
Within a few short miles.
The war has ended sooner than we guess'd,
And we have made good speed.

Countess.
So near!

Rov.
How is it? This affects you strangely.

Countess.
Such unexpected news! I should be glad,
But gladness comes with pain. I will retire,
And for a moment strive to calm this tremor.
To Sophera.)
Follow me not.

[Exit.
Rov.
(looking after her as she goes off).
I have, ere now, beheld the sudden news
Of a good lord's return from foreign lands
By wedded dame received; but so received,
Never till now. How's this? What is the matter?
How shall a simple bachelor, as I am,
Have thoughts of this bless'd state, if such as she
Cold and capricious prove?

Soph.
Blame her not hastily; she is depress'd:
Old Baldwin, whom his master left behind,
That faithful servant, died with us this morning.

Rov.
Alas, poor soul! and he is gone at last!
Well, we have brought you thirsty throats enow
To drink his fun'ral wassails. Ay, poor Baldwin!
A hardy knave thou wast in better days.
If I had known of this, heav'n rest his soul!
I had not sounded my approach so cheerly.

Soph.
To tell the truth, that martial sound deceived us.
We took you for Tortona's warlike lord,
Who, to refresh his passing troops, we hear,
Has made a halt:—I thought—

Rov.
Out with thy thought!
Why dost thou hesitate?—I will explain it.
I've brought you disappointment.

Soph.
You mistake me.

Rov.
Nay, pardon me; I linger here too long:
But,—ere I go,—how does the infant heir?
I must tell Garcio I have seen his boy,

Soph.
With pleasure I'll conduct thee. 'Tis an urchin
Provoking smiles of love from every face
That looks upon him, be it e'er so stern.

Rov.
How then will a fond father feel!—How oft—
How oft and fondly hath he talk'd of him!
Though but a little grasp of shapeless life,
With puling whine, just winking to the light,
As I remember well, when Garcio left him.

Soph.
Is Garcio, then, so tender?

Rov.
Dost thou doubt it?
The bear doth love his cub, bear though he be:
But Garcio is a man of strong affections.
Come, pray thee, lead.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A wild alley with a grove behind. Martial music heard without.
Then enter Garcio with his soldiers on march, and Gonzalos.
Gar.
Halt, my brave comrades; here we'll rest awhile
Till sultry noon be past. Those spreading trees
Will give you shade.
To Gonzalos.)
Seest thou Rovani coming?

Gon.
No, good my lord; but through the trees I see
Your castle's turrets brighten'd with the sun.
Look there! it is a fair, enliv'ning sight.

Gar.
turning away, after a hasty look).
I see, I see.—But wherefore stays Rovani!
To soldiers.)
Go, choose, each as he lists, his spot of rest;
I'll keep me here. [Gonzalos and the soldiers retire to the bottom of the stage, but still appear partially through the trees.
After musing some time.)

An infant's life!
What is an infant's life? the chilly blast,
That nips the blossom, o'er the cradle breathes,
And child and dam like blighted sweetness fade.
If this should be! O, dear, uncertain bliss!
Shame on his tardy steps!—Ha! here he comes! Enter Rovani, while Garcio runs up to him eagerly.

They are alive? they're well? And thou hast seen them?

Rov.
Your lady and your son?

Gar.
impatiently).
Ay, ay!

Rov.
They're well.

Gar.
Thank heav'n, they are!—But yet thy words are slow:
Does she not follow thee? Waits she my coming?

Rov.
She surely does expect it.

Gar.
What voice, what looks are these? O speak more freely!
If there be merey in thee, speak more freely!
[Pauses and looks earnestly at him.
Something is wrong—I have nor wife nor child!

Rov.
They are both well: have I not spoken plain words?

Gar.
Plain words! yes, baldly plain; reserved and heartless.
Thou dost not use me like a fellow soldier,
In the same warfare worn.—What hast thou seen?
Thou sayst my lady's well: did she receive,
With a wife's joy, the news of my return?

Rov.
I am not skill'd to say; for dispositions
Of various hues are variously affected.
The news were sudden and unlook'd for: oft
The joy of such is clouded and disturb'd.
She did withdraw in secrecy to hide
Her strong emotions.

Gar.
She was strongly moved?

Rov.
I know not how it was. The servants, too,
Whisper'd together as I pass'd, and look'd
With a strange staring gravity upon me.
Dull clowns! who should have cast their caps in air
For joy of your return. Baldwin is dead;
And if for him they wear those sombre looks,
Good piteous souls they are. A courtly damsel,
Attending on the countess, did, forsooth!
Mistake my trumpet for the glad arrival
Of some gay visitor, who was expected;
Whose buxom train, no doubt, contains some youth
More grateful to her sight than war-worn knight,
Such as my paltry self.

Gar.
What visitor?

Rov.
That very martial lord,
The Marquis of Tortona, save his worth!
For he conducts his soldiers through these parts,
And makes a halt in this fair neighbourhood,
Some days or so, for needful recreation.
[A pause.
What! stay we here to ruminate upon it?
Will that avail?—Come, onward to the castle!
And, be our welcome there or cold or kind,
'Tis what heav'n sends us.

Gar.
Off; disturb me not!
Thy heart is light.

Rov.
No, Garcio; 'tis not light
If thine be heavy. I have told my tale
Too well I see it now—but foolishly:
Yet their cold looks provoked me.—Brood not on it:
There is one face, at least, within your walls
Will smile on you with sweet and guileless smiles:
A noble boy,—might call a monarch father,
Ay, by my faith! and do him honour, too.

Gar.
Does he lisp sounds already?—And so lovely?
I've found tears now, press'd being that I am!
Come then; I'll summon strength: whate'er betide,
Or good or ill, I'll meet it.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Countess and Sophera.
Countess.
He is within the gates; here will I stop,
Nor wander further: I'll receive him here.
Listening.)
Heaven give me strength! his well known steps so near me!

Enter Garcio; he runs eagerly to embrace the Countess, who faints.
Gar.
So moved! Can this be joy?
[Sophera chafes her hands and temples, while Garcio gazes on her with keen observation: she recovers.
My gentle love,
Who wast my gentle love, come I upon thee
Like some unlook'd for,—some unwelcome thing?

Countess.
Is it thy voice, my Garcio, in mine cars
Sounding, as it was wont, the voice of love?

Gar.
How should it sound to thee? The wars have spared me:
The bullet and the sabre's stroke have err'd,
To spare this head, where thousands fell around me;
For I believed thy saintly prayers did mar
Their death-commission'd power. Yes; I believed it.

Countess.
And still believe it. Yes, my prayers were raised
Most fervently to heav'n: and I will bless it,
That thou art safe.

[Takes his hand in hers tenderly, and is about to press it to her breast, when a shuddering seizes her, and she lets it drop.
Gar.
What is the matter? Thou art strangely seized.
Does sudden illness chill thee?

Soph.
The countess, good my lord, is much o'ercome.
Her health is weak at present: agitation
Strongly affects her. But she'll soon recover.

Gar.
Thou answ'rest for her readily, young lady,
And wisely too.

Enter Rovani, followed by Nurse, carrying a sleeping infant.
Rov.
Come on, good nurse; thou needst not be ashamed
To show thy bantling, sleeping or awake.
A nobler, comelier, curly-pated urchin
Ne'er changed the face of stern and warlike sire
To tearful tenderness. Look here, my lord.

Gar.
turning eagerly round).
The child! my child!

[Lifting the mantle that covers it, and gazing on the infant.
Rov.
Ay, there are cheeks and lips like roses glowing;
And, see, half-open'd eyelids show within
The dewy azure of his sleeping eyes,
Like loopholes in a cloud. Awake, sweet imp!

Gar.
Nay, wake him not; his sleep is beautiful.
Let me support—Come to my stirring heart,
And here be cradled, thing of wondrous joy!
[Taking the child.
Here, in the inmost core of beating life,
I'd lodge thee. Mine thou art! yes, thou art mine!
Here is my treasured being: thou wilt love me.
[Laying his face close to the child's.
Bless'd softness! little hand and little cheek!
This is a touch so sweet! a blessed touch!
There is love in it; love that will not change!

[Bursting into tears, while the nurse takes the child again.
Countess
(aside, observing his emotion).
O heaven, he weeps!—the tears of strong affection!
Away, base doubts!
[Running to him, and clasping her arms round him.
Garcio, dear Garcio! husband of my heart,
And father of my boy! is there within thee
Such soft and strong affection? O, there is!
And with it every good and generous feeling.
Forgive me, O forgive me!

Gar.
How, my love?
How wakes this sudden burst of tenderness?
Dost thou at last feel for thy wretched husband
The love of other days?—I've thought of thee—
I've thought of this our meeting, but, alas!
Not so my fancy shaped it.

Countess.
O, forgive me!
My mind was weak and brooded on dark thoughts.
We'll cast them from us.—Yes, thy child, thy boy!
Look on him still: they say that in his face
There are some traits of thine. Observe his mouth;
That smile—

Gar.
Nay, that sweet smile I could not give him;
No, nor those lips. He much resembles thee.

Countess.
Thinkest thou so? Then haply thou perceiv'st
Another likeness some have sadly traced;
Dost thou perceive it?

Gar.
No: another likeness?

Countess.
In my sad lonely hours, I have imagined,
And sooth'd me with the pleasing, mournful thought,
He bears some faint resemblance to my brother,
My poor Ulrico.
[Garcio 's countenance becomes stern, and looking again steadfastly on the child, he turns away in silence.
It does not strike thee, then?

Gar.
(motioning the nurse to retire).
We shall disturb his slumbers.

Countess
(to him reproachfully).
Sent off without a kiss of kind endearment?

Gar.
We should disturb him.

[Looking after the child as he is carried off.
Countess.
Thine eye pursues him with a mournful look:
Thou fearst, perhaps, an early fate may snap
His thread of life, like his lamented uncle's.

Gar.
No; past and future are but shadowy visions;
Dark cumbrous things which we must cast aside
To make the present hour endurable.
Who waits without?—A cup of wine, I pray;
I'm tired and faint.

Countess.
Indeed, thou seemst unwell:
I fear thou bringst not back thy wonted health.

Gar.
I'm well,—I was in health, but this damp region,
I breath not in it but with breath suppress'd.
Thou knowst right well I never liked this place:
Why art thou here?

Countess.
It is necessity.

Gar.
I know: I know; but other homes there are;
We'll hence to-morrow.

Countess.
Ha! so soon, my lord?

Gar.
It must be so. I would retire awhile;
Where is my chamber?

Countess.
In the western tower.

Gar.
No; I'll remain—I will not yet retire.
[Pacing to and fro, and then returning to her.
I know not how it is; I'm fanciful;
I like a southern chamber. Countess in a faint voice, gazing fearfully upon him).
E'en as you will.

[Sophera, who has during the greater part of this scene retired to the bottom of the stage with Rovani, now comes forward.
Soph.
Please you, my lord, to go, I will conduct you
Where many fair apartments wait your choice.

Gar.
I thank thee, courteous maid.

[Exit Sophera, followed by Garcio; and the Countess, after a thoughtful pause, is about to break into strong exclamations, when, perceiving Rovani, she checks herself and goes out hastily.
Rov.
coming forward, and looking after her).
All is not well: that step, those looks, those gestures,
So quickly check'd when she perceived me near,
Betray too visibly a mind disturb'd
And far removed from joy. Garcio is come
Unwelcomely upon her. Yet that burst
Of what appear'd like tenderness and love
When he caress'd his child!—I cannot think
She has in act been false; though much I doubt.

Enter Gonzalos behind him.
Gon.
Ha! mutt'ring to thyself! what are thy thoughts?

Rov.
Faith! ill-condition'd, moody, foolish thoughts,
Such as lone men, whose heart no kind mate cheers,
Alone could harbour.—Heaven forgive me for it!
I think our lady here had been well pleased
If this, her valiant lord, had from the wars
Return'd more leisurely.—Her quondam lover,
The Marquis of Tortona, in the neighbourhood
With his gay troops, bound for some petty fray
By them, in lofty phrase, ycleped war,
Has made a halt, and—

Gon.
Fie! thou canst not think
That she could turn her heart from valiant Garcio
To such a fool as he?

Rov.
Yet such strange things have happen'd.—
True, indeed,
So vile a change could not at once be made.
But let us now imagine some soft dame,
Whose valiant lord is absent, in her castle
Spending her dull lone days.
[Changing his voice, and speaking fantastically.
“Ha! who comes here?”—
“Good madam,” saith her waiting gentlewoman,
“A knight is at your gate.”—“He shall not enter:
It is a fool; go, bid him wend his way.”—
“And will you be so rude?”—“Ay, true indeed;
Then, for good courtesy, since it must be,
E'en bid him enter:—'tis a harmless fool.”—
“Good day, fair dame.”—“The same to you, Sir Knight.”—
“Might I presume—but how can words express it,
The sunshine of your beauty dazzles so!—
You will not chide me hence? What gentle goodness!
Dear, precious moments, but so swiftly gone!”—
Then whispers low the waiting gentlewoman,
“Madam, may he return another day?”—
“Well, well, he may, since thou wilt have it so.
It is in truth an amiable fool.”

Gon.
Fy, fy, Rovani! art thou not ashamed?
Who would believe, in hearing thee expatiate
On woman's weakness thus, that thou thyself
Art but a poor dependent on her favour
For all the bloom and sparkle of thy being—
A very daily beggar of her smiles!

Rov.
I, sayst thou? Where, in what nook of the earth,
Lives she for whom I sigh?

Gon.
Nay, rather ask in what nook of the earth
She liveth not. There's ne'er a moving thing,
That wears upon its form a woman's weed,
Be it or short or tall, or pale or buxom,
Or young or old, but thou dost roll thine eye,
And writhe thy body to fantastic shapes
Of affectation, to attract her notice.

Rov.
Nay, spare me, good Gonzalos! I, perhaps,
May, as I speak my jest or merry tale,
With restless eye keep peering to the side
Where beauty listens, too apparently;
But think not this attack on female constancy—
I mean this present individual push—
By any other motive has been prompted,
Than love and true regard for noble Garcio.
After the toils and dangers he has pass'd,
To see him thus received provokes me much.

Gon.
Hush! be more prudent; speak thy mind less freely.
Thy brain is ever full of idle fancies:
Come to the air, and cool thy fev'rish spleen.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Before the gate of the castle.
Enter Ludovico, Gauvino, and some inferior domestics from the gate, while martial music is heard without.
Gau.
(to Ludovico, after looking off the stage).
'Tis as I guess'd; look, Mr. Seneschal!
They bear the ensigns of Tortona. See!
Their chief himself is marching in the van.

Lud.
And, by my fay! a warlike face he wears,
Lofty and grim.

Gau.
Ay; full of awful terrors
For quaking drum-boys and poor piping elves.

Lud.
Comes he to visit thus our valiant lord,
And show his warlike state? Heaven mend his wit!

Enter Tortona, with a few followers, in martial array.
Tor.
Be not alarm'd, good sirs: though thus in arms,
We at your lady's gate are harmless visitors,
Who humbly crave admittance.

[Ludovico, as seneschal, steps forward to receive him with courtesy, while Gauvino mutters to himself.
Gau.
Mighty man!
What bless'd forbearance! For our lady's sake,
He will not slay and eat us for a meal!

Tor.
to Ludovico).
Good Mr. Seneschal, inform thy lady
That I, Tortona's Marquis, and her slave,
Most humbly beg permission at her feet—
But here comes opportunity more tempting:
A gentler messenger.

Enter Sophera.
Gau.
aside to Ludovico).
Great condescending man! superb humility!

Tor.
to Sophera).
Fair lady! most becoming, as I guess,
The beauteous dame you serve; do me the favour
[Speaking in a lower voice, and leading her aside.
To tell the noble mistress of this castle
That one, devoted dearly to her service,
Who breathes the air in which she breathes, as gales
Wafted from Paradise, begs in her presence
With all devotion to present himself.

Soph.
in a loud voice).
The Marquis of Tortona, as I guess.

Tor.
The same; and let not in your peaceful halls
Our warlike mien alarm you. In the field
Whate'er our power may be, forget it here.
Within her precincts, Mars himself would doff
His nodding helm, and bend in meek submission.

Soph.
True, valiant lord; the brave are ever gentle
In hall and bower. But think not warlike guise
Will so alarm us now: there are within
Whose nodding plumes, indeed, less downy are,
Whose well-hack'd armour wears a dimmer hue,
Who have already taught our timid eyes
To look more boldly on such awful things.

Tor.
How, those within? What meanst thou?

Soph.
Ha, my lord!
You come not then to wish the gentle countess
Joy of her lord's return.

Tor.
Is he return'd? It surely cannot be.

Soph.
He is, in truth. This morning he arrived
With many valiant soldiers from the wars,
Where they have seen rough service.

Tor.
That war so quickly ended?

Soph.
Yes, my lord,
And fortunately too. The Moors submit
To the victorious arms of noble Garcio;
Who, ere he left their coast, did for his prince
A happy peace conclude. Will it not please you
To enter, then, and bid him welcome home?

Tor.
I should indeed,—but 'twill intrude upon him.
He and his lady may, perhaps, desire
Some hours of privacy.—Oblige me, then,
And offer my respect—congratulation—
I do but ill express the joy I feel.
I will no longer trespass.
[Hurrying away, and then returning.
'Tis delicacy makes me thus in haste,
As thou wilt comprehend. Should time permit,
Though much I fear to-morrow's sun will light us
To other scenes, I will return and pay
To the most noble count all courtesy.
Fair maiden, fare thee well!
[Hurrying away, and returning again; then drawing her further aside and speaking softly in her ear.
The count, as I am told, dislikes this castle:
His stay, perhaps, may be of short duration?

Soph.
Belike it may.

Tor.
Though quitting this vicinity,
My station for a time will not be distant.
Couldst thou in such a case indite to me
A little note of favour? Taking her hand.)
Pretty hand!
A billet penn'd by thee must needs contain
Words of sweet import.—Fingers light and slender!
Offering to put on a ring.)
Let this be favour'd.

Soph.
Nay, my lord, excuse me.
The pen these fingers use indites no billets
Of such sweet import as you fondly guess:
A housewife's recipe, or homely letter
Of kind inquiry to some absent friend,
Exhausts its power. Unskill'd to earn such gifts,
I may not wear them.—Yonder comes Rovani,
A noble soldier; stay and learn from him
The story of the war. Word-bound he is not:
He'll tell it willingly.

[Rovani, who has appeared at the gate, during the latter part of their discourse, observing them suspiciously, now comes forward.
Tor.
No, no! I am in haste, farewell, farewell!

[Exit with his followers.
Lud.
He goes, I trow, less grandly than he came.

Gau.
Such hasty steps, indeed, somewhat derange
The order of his high nobility.

Lud.
Yet, pompous as he is, I have been told
He is no coward.

Gau.
I suspect him much.

Lud.
But thou art wrong: although he doth assume
Those foolish airs of martial gallantry,
He is as brave as others.

Rov.
who has placed himself directly in front of Sophera, and has been looking for some time significantly in her face).
So, gentle maid, your martial visitor
Retreats right speedily. How fortunate,
To meet so opportunely at the gate
A prudent friend, to tell him what, perhaps,
May save his bones, although it damp his pleasure!
Nay, smile not: I commend thee in good earnest.
Thou art a prudent maid, endow'd with virtues
That suit thy station. This is ample praise.

Soph.
Ample; and spoken too with meaning tones.
What face is this thou wearst of sly significance?
Go to! thou dup'st thyself with too much shrewdness;
And canst not see what plainly lies before thee,
Because thou aimst at seeing more. I'll in,
And bear Tortona's greeting to my lord
And to his countess.

Rov.
Do; and give it all—
The message and its postscript: words of audience,
And those of gentle whisper following after.
Let nothing be forgotten.

Soph.
Nothing shall.
Good day, and heaven curtail thee of thy wits
To make thee wiser!

[Exit into the gate, and followed by Ludovico, &c. &c.
Rov.
alone).
Ay, ay! a very woman! pleased and flatter'd
With the stale flatt'ry of a practised coxcomb,
Though plainly sueing for another's favour.
A very, very woman!—As I guess'd,
Some secret intercourse hath been in train,
Although how far in blameful act advanced
I know not.—Now, 'tis cross'd and interrupted.
So will I e'en believe, and fret no more.
What good have I in living free from wedlock,
If I for husband's honour thus take thought?
Better it were to wear the horns myself,
Knowing it not, than fret for other men.

[Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An apartment in the castle.
Enter Garcio and Ludovico, speaking as they enter.
Gar.
Ha! with a priest! conferring with a priest!
Have they been long together?

Lud.
Full an hour.

Gar.
And does she oft such ghostly counsel take?
Has she of late?

Lud.
My lord?

Gar.
O, nothing! nothing!
Stare not as if I meant to question thee:
I had no more to say. [Motioning him away.
[Exit Ludovico.

Alone.)
At such a time retired with her confessor!
What! hath her lord's return caused in her mind
Such sudden need of ghostly counsel?—Strange!
Something hath been amiss: if not in act,
She is, I fear, in will and fancy tainted.

Rovani enters behind him unperceived.
Rov.
Nay, pure or tainted, leave the fancy free.
Of her concerns who may cognizance take?
Although cowl'd priests beneath their jurisdiction
Pretend to hold her, be not thou so strict.

Gar.
Thou knowst, then, that my wife is with her priest.

Rov.
I knew it not.—She is a pious dame:
She seems—she is a very pious dame.

Gar.
Nay, speak thy mind! thou needst not hesitate.
We have been fellow-soldiers nine long years:
Thou ne'er wast wont to weigh thy words with me.
What dost thou think? There is some cause for this.

Rov.
Women are full of strange and fitful humours.

Gar.
Not so; it is not that.—Yet, were she false,
Methinks her shame-flush'd face would turn aside,
Nor look on me so oft and earnestly
As I have seen her gaze.—It cannot be!
In act she is not false.—But if her heart,
Where every kind and dear affection dwelt,—
If it be changed— stamping on the ground)
Some fiend hath been at work,—
Some cursed agent hath been tamp'ring with her.

[Pacing to and fro in violent agitation.
Rov.
Be not so wretched for a doubtful ill,
Which, if it be at all—

Gar.
A doubtful ill!
Oh, if my head but ached, or fev'rish sleep,
Or the more potent secret cause forced from me
One groan or sigh, what tones of kind alarm!
And the soft pressure of her gentle hand
In mute affliction, till I smiled again!
Here, on my bursting heart I feel it still,
Though cold and changed she be.
After a gloomy pause.)
Perhaps some awful and mysterious power
Within these fated precincts doth for me
Love to aversion turn.

Rov.
What dost thou mean by a mysterious power?
And but e'en now methought I heard thee name
A potent secret cause.—Thou hast been wont
Freely to make me sharer of thy thoughts—
Of all thy secret wishes.

Gar.
So I have:
Nought for thy good to hear or mine to utter,
Have I conceal'd from thee.—I hear a noise.

Rov.
No; I hear nothing.

Gar.
But my ear is quick;—
Too quick, perhaps, in fancying sounds that are not.

Rov.
Ay, thou art right: Sophera moved the latch.

Enter Sophera.
Gar.
to Sophera).
Com'st thou to tell me that the priest is gone?

Soph.
The countess did command me to inform you
She is not well, and begs that for the night
She may in solitude recruit her spirits.
She wishes you good night and peaceful sleep.
She bade me say, my lord, her malady
Is of no ardent kind that should alarm you;
But, as she hopes, will pass away ere morn. Aside to Rovani, while Garcio turns away in silence.)
He takes it deeply.

Rov.
aside to her).
No, faith! a soldier is too well inured
To disappointment; knowing not at daybreak
Whether his next night's slumber shall be had
On silken couch, by some fair princess fann'd,
Or on the cold damp earth, with dead men's bones
His wounded head to pillow. No, sweet maid!
We bear such evils lightly.

Soph.
'Tis well ye do; and so, brave sir, good night!

[Exit.
Gar.
returning to Rovani).
What thinkst thou of this message?

Rov.
I know not what to think.

Gar.
Thou dost! thou dost! for in thine eyes I read
A shameful thought, that must remain unutter'd.
Ruin, and shame, and misery come upon me!
Heav'n pours its vengeance on this cursed head!

Rov.
Nay, do not thus give way: be well assured
Ere thou give loose to passion.

Gar.
Assured! and how assured? What can I do?—
Become a calm inquisitor of shame?

Rov.
Restrain thyself, and go to thine apartment,
As if to pass the night. But, some hours later,
When all are gone to rest, steal softly forth
Into thy lady's chamber. There thou'lt see
If she indeed be sick, or if she hold
The vigil of a guilt-distracted mind.

Gar.
I like thy counsel well: I'll to my chamber.
Good night, my friend.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The bedchamber of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat by the side of the bed, with her head and arms thrown upon the bed. She raises her head, and, after a thoughtful pause, starts up eagerly.
Countess.
It cannot be! The roused and angry deep
Lashes its foaming billows o'er the bark
That bears th' accursed freight, till the scared crew
Into its yawning gulf cast forth the murderer.
On the embattled field, in armour cased,
His manly strength to blasted weakness turns.
Yea, in their peaceful homes, men, as by instinct,
From the dark rolling of his eye will turn
They know not why, so legibly has Nature
Set on his brow the mark of bloody Cain.
And shall I think the prosp'rous Garcio,—he
Whose countenance allured all eyes, whose smiles,
Whose voice was love, whose frame with strong affection
I've seen so dearly moved; who in my arms,
Who in my heart hath lived—No! let dark priests,
From the wild fancies of a dying man,
Accuse him as they will, I'll not believe it.
After another pause.)
Would in this better faith my mind had strength
To hold itself unshaken! Doubt is misery.
I'll go to him myself and tell my wretchedness.
O! if his kindling eye with generous ire
Repel the charge;—if his blest voice deny it,
Though one raised from the dead swore to its truth,
I'll not believe it. Enter Sophera.

What brings thee here again? Did I not charge thee
To go to bed?

Soph.
And so I did intend.
But in my chamber, half prepared for rest,
Op'ning the drawer of an ancient cabinet
To lay some baubles by, I found within—

Countess.
What hast thou found?

Soph.
Have I not heard you say, that shortly after
Your marriage with the count, from your apartment,
A picture of your brother, clad in mail,
A strong resemblance, over which your tears
Had oft been shed, was stol'n away?

Countess.
Thou hast.
How it was stol'n, for value it had none
For any but myself, I often wonder'd.
Thou hast not found it?

Soph.
See! this I have found.

[Giving her a picture, which she seizes eagerly.
Countess.
Indeed, indeed it is!
[After gazing mournfully on it.
Retire, I pray thee, nor, till morning break,
Return again, for I must be alone. [Exit Sophera.
(After gazing again on the picture.)

Alas! that lip, that eye, that arching brow;
That thoughtful look which I have often mark'd,
So like my noble father!
[Kissing it.
This for his dear, dear sake, and this for thine:
Ye sleep i' the dust together.—
Alas! how sweetly mantled thus thy cheek
At sight of those thou lovedst!—What things have been
What hours, what years of trouble have gone by,
Since thus in happy careless youth thou wast
Dearest and nearest to my simple heart.

[Kisses it again, and presses it to her breast, while Garcio, who has entered behind by a concealed door at the bottom of the stage, comes silently upon her, and she utters a scream of surprise.
Gar.
This is thy rest, then, and the quiet sleep
That should restore thy health: thou giv'st these hours
To the caressing of a minion's image
Which to a faithful husband are denied.
Oh, oh! they but on morning vapour tread,
Who ground their happiness on woman's faith.
Some reptile too!
[Stamping on the ground.
A paltry, worthless minion!

Countess.
Ha! was it jealousy so much disturb'd thee?
If this be so, we shall be happy still.
The love I bear the dead, dear though it be,
Surely does thee no wrong.

Gar.
No, artful woman! give it to my hand.
[Snatching at the picture.
That is the image of a living gallant.

Countess.
O would it were!
[Gives it to him, and he, starting as he looks upon it, staggers back some paces, till he is arrested by the pillar of the bed, against which he leans in a kind of stupor, letting the picture fall from his hands.
Merciful God! he's guilty!—am I thus?
Heav'n lend me strength! I'll be in doubt no longer.
[Running up to him, and clasping her hands together.
Garcio, a fearful thing is in my mind,
And curse me not that I have harbour'd it,
If that it be not so.—The wretched Baldwin,
Upon his death-bed, in his frenzied ravings,
Accused thee as the murderer of my brother:
O pardon me that such a monstrous tale
Had any power to move me!—Look upon me!
Say that thou didst it not, and I'll believe thee.
[A pause.
Thou dost not speak. What fearful look is that?
That blanching cheek! that quiv'ring lip!—O horrible!
[Catching hold of his clothes.
Open thy lips! relieve me from this misery!
Say that thou didst not do it.
[He remains silent, making a rueful motion of the head.
O God! thou didst, thou didst!
[Holds up her hands to heaven in despair, and then, recoiling from him to a distant part of the chamber, stands gazing on him with horror. Garcio, after great agitation, begins to approach her irresolutely.
I've shared thy love, been in thy bosom cherish'd,
But come not near me! touch me not! the earth
Yawning beneath my feet will shelter me
From thine accursed hand.

Gar.
O Margaret!
Can gentlest love to such fierce detestation
Be in an instant changed, for one sad deed,
The hasty act of a most horrid moment,
When hell and strong temptation master'd me?
And yet why marvel? for thou canst not more
Detest that deed than I, the wretched doer.

Countess.
Ah, ah! why didst thou?

Gar.
Listen to my story.
But, oh! the while, unfasten from my face
Those looks of horror, else I cannot tell it.

Countess.
Speak then, I hear thee.

Gar.
Thou knowst too well with what fierce pride Ulrico
Refused, on thy behalf, my suit of love;
Deeming a soldier, though of noble birth,
E'en his own blood, possessing but his arms
And some slight wreaths of fame, a match unmeet
For one whom lords of princely territory
Did strive to gain:—and here, indeed, I own
He rightly deem'd; my suit was most presumptuous.

Countess.
Well, pass this o'er;—I know with too much pride
He did oppose thy suit.

Gar.
That night! It was in dreary, dull November,
When at the close of day, with faithful Baldwin,
I reach'd this castle with the vain intent
To make a last attempt to move his pity.
I made it, and I fail'd. With much contempt
And aggravating passion, he dismiss'd me
To the dark night.

Countess.
You left him then? You left him?

Gar.
O yes! I left him. In my swelling breast
My proud blood boil'd. Through the wild wood I took
My darkling way. A violent storm arose;
The black dense clouds pour'd down their torrents on me;
The roaring winds aloft with the vex'd trees
Held strong contention, whilst my buffeted breast
The crushing tangled boughs and torn-up shrubs
Vainly opposed. Cross lay the wild'ring paths.
I miss'd the road; and after many turnings,
Seeing between the trees a steady light,
As from a window gleam, I hasten'd to it.
It was a lower window, and within,
The lighted chamber showed me but too well,
We had unwittingly a circuit made
Back to the very walls from whence we came.

Countess.
Ah, fated, fatal error! most perverse!

Gar.
But, oh! what feelings, thinkst thou, rose within me?
What thoughts, what urging thoughts, what keen suggestions
Crowded upon me like a band of fiends,
When, on a nearer view, within the chamber,
Upon an open couch, alone and sleeping,
I saw Ulrico?

Countess.
Didst thou slay him sleeping?
The horrible deed!—Thou couldst not! O thou couldst not!

Gar.
Well mayst thou say it! I've become, sweet Margaret,
Living, though most unworthy as I was,
Companion of thy virtues, one, whose heart
Has been to good affections form'd and bent;
But then it was not so.—My hapless youth
In bloody, savage, predatory war
Was rear'd. It was no shock to my rude childhood
To see whole bands of drunk or sleeping men
In cold blood butcher'd. Could I tell to thee
The things that I have seen: things, too, in which
My young hand took its part; thou wouldst not wonder,
That, seeing thus my enemy in my power,
Love, fortune, honours, all within the purchase
Of one fell stroke, I raised my arm and gave it.

Countess.
Fearful temptation!

Gar.
After a fearful pause, I softly enter'd.
The deed was done; and, hastening from the chamber
With breathless speed back to the spot where Baldwin
Held my brave steed, I mounted, favour'd now
By a new-risen moon and waning storm;
And to the fleetness of that noble creature
I owe it, that though heir to him I slew,
No whisper of suspicion upon me
E'er breathed as perpetrator of the deed.

Countess.
And I have been the while thy bosom's mate,
Pressing in plighted love the bloody hand
That slew my brother!

Gar.
Thou, indeed, hast been
An angel pure, link'd to a fiend. Yet, think not
I have enjoy'd what guilt so deep had earn'd.
Oh no! I've borne about, where'er I went,
A secret wretchedness within my breast
Turning delight to torment. Now thou knowest
Why on my midnight couch thou'st heard me oft
Utter deep groans, when thou, waked from thy sleep,
Hast thought some nightmare press'd me.
Oh! were the deed undone, not all the diff'rence
Of sublunary bliss that lies between
A world's proud monarch and the loathliest wretch
That gleans subsistence from the fetid dunghill,
Would tempt me to embrue my hands in murder.

[Speaking these last words loudly and vehemently.
Countess.
Hush! speak not thus! thou'lt be o'erheard: some list'ner
Is at the door. I thought I heard a noise.

[Going to the door, opening it, then shutting it softly and returning. No; there is nothing: 'twas my fears deceived me.
Gar.
And dost thou fear for me? Are there within thee
Still some remains of love for one so guilty?
Thou wilt not then, in utter detestation,
Heap curses on my head.

Countess.
Guilty as thou hast been, I cannot curse thee.
O no! I'll nightly from my cloister'd cell
Send up to pitying heaven my prayers for thee.

Gar.
Thy cloister'd cell! What mean those threat'ning words?

Countess.
Garcio, we must part.

Gar.
No; never! Any punishment but this!
We shall not part.

Countess.
We must, we must! 'Twere monstrous, 'twere unholy
Longer to live with thee.

Gar.
No, Margaret, no! Thinkst thou I will indeed
Submit to this, e'en cursed as I am?
No; were I black as hell's black fiends, and thou
Pure as celestial spirits (and so thou art),
Still thou art mine; my sworn, my wedded love,
And still as such I'll hold thee.

Countess.
Heav'n bids us part: yea, nature bids us part.

Gar.
Heav'n bids us part! Then let it send its lightning
To strike me from thy side. Let yawning earth,
Op'ning beneath my feet, divide us. Then,
And not till then, will I from thee be sever'd.

Countess.
Let go thy terrible grasp: thou wouldst not o'er me
A dreaded tyrant rule? Beneath thy power
Thou mayst indeed retain me, crush'd, degraded,
Watching in secret horror every glance
Of thy perturbed eye, like a quell'd slave,
If this suffice thee; but each tie of love—
All sympathy between us now is broken
And lost for ever.

Gar.
And canst thou be so ruthless? No, thou canst not!
Let heav'n in its just vengeance deal with me!
Let pain, remorse, disease, and every ill
Here in this world of nature be my portion!
And in the world of spirits too well I know
The murd'rer's doom abides me.
Is this too little for thy cruelty?
No; by the living God! on my curst head
Light every ill but this! We shall not part.

Countess.
Let go thy desp'rate hold, thou desp'rate man!
Thou dost constrain me to an oath as dreadful;
And by that awful name—

Gar.
Forbear, forbear!
Then it must be; there is no mitigation.

[Throws himself on the ground, uttering a deep groan, when Rovani and Sophera burst in upon them from opposite sides.
Rov.
(to the Countess).
What is the matter? Hath he on himself
Done some rash act? I heard him loud and stormy.

Soph.
She cannot answer thee: look to the count,
And I will place her gently on her couch;
For they are both most wretched.

[Sophera supports the Countess, while Rovani endeavours to raise Garcio from the ground, and the scene closes.

SCENE III.

The inside of a rustic hermitage; the hermit discovered marking a figure on the wall.
Hermit.
This day to all the lonely days here spent;
Making a term of thirty years' repentance
For forty years of sin. Heav'n of its mercy
Accept the sacrifice! Who knocks without?
[Knocking at the door.
'Tis nothing but my fancy. Break of day
Yet scarcely peeps, nor hath a new-waked bird
Chirp'd on my branchy roof.
[Knocking again.
Nay, something does.
Lift up the latch, whoe'er thou art; nor lock
Nor bar, nor any hind'rance e'er prevents
Those who would enter here.

Enter Rovani.
Rov.
O pardon, holy hermit, this intrusion
At such untimely hour; for misery
Makes free with times and seasons.

Hermit.
Thou sayest well: it will doff ceremony
E'en in a monarch's court. Sit down, I pray:
I am myself a poor repentant sinner,
But, as I trust, a brand saved from the fire.
Then tell thy tale, and give thy sorrows vent:
What can I do for myself entreat thy pity

Rov.
I do not for myself entreat thy pity
But I am come from an unhappy man,
Who, inly torn with agony of mind,
Hath need of ghostly aid.

Hermit.
I am no priest.

Rov.
I know thou art not, but far better, father,
For that which I entreat thee:
The cowled monk, in peaceful cloisters bred,
Who hath for half a cent'ry undisturb'd
Told o'er his beads; what sympathy hath he
For perturb'd souls, storm-toss'd i' the wicked world?
Therefore Count Garcio most desires to see thee,
And will to thee alone unlock his breast.

Hermit.
Garcio, the lord of this domain?

Rov.
The same.

Hermit.
The blest in love, the rich, the prosp'rous Garcio?

Rov.
He hath since dead of night traversed his chamber
Like one distraught, or cast him on the ground
In all the frantic violence of despair.
I have watch'd by him, but from thee alone
He will hear words of counsel or of peace.
Thy voice, perhaps, will calm a stormy spirit
That ne'er has known control.

Hermit.
God grant it may!
We'll lose no time, my son; I follow thee.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An ante-room; Rovani discovered pacing to and fro.
Rov.
Their conference is long. The gentle hermit
Has had, I fear, no easy task.—He comes! Enter Hermit.

Save thee, good father! hath thy shriving sped?
How is thy penitent?

Hermit.
Better, I hope: may heav'n preserve his mind
In the meek frame in which I left it! Never,
In all my intercourse with wretched sinners,
Have I with a more keen ungovern'd spirit
Stronger contention held.

Rov.
I well believe thee:
For I have seen ere now his spirit strive
In all the restless energy of passion.
Thou hast at last subdued him?

Hermit.
Thank God, I have! Meek and resign'd to heav'n
He now appears. But go to him, my son;
He needs thy presence much. Within an hour
He leaves the castle,—leaves his wife and child;
It is not fit that he should be alone.
Go, good Rovani, and with soothing words
Keep thou his resolution to the bent.

Rov.
Ah! such a resolution! Heard I right?
To leave his wife and child?

Hermit.
Question me not, my son; there is good cause:
'Tis meet that he should go.

Rov.
Forgive me, father!
That solemn voice and sorrowing eye too well
Asserts there is a cause,—a fearful cause.
I will obey thee.
[Going, but returns again.
Is there aught further thou wouldst have me do?

Hermit.
He will, perhaps, desire to see his lady;
But till he be prepared to leave the castle,
And take his last farewell, methinks 'twere better
They should not meet.

Rov.
I understand you, father.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The apartment of the Countess, who is discovered sitting on a low seat, her elbows resting on her lap, and her face covered with her clasped hands. She raises her head suddenly, listens for a moment, and then springs from her seat.
Countess.
I am not now deceived.
[Goes to the door and listens, then returns.
I heard his steps,—
Yea, and his voice,—and it was nothing. Ah!
My mind and senses so confused are grown,
That all this wretchedness seems like a dream;
A dream, alas! from which there is no waking.
I hear him now: it is a distant step:
I may be yet deceived.
[Going near the door, and listening again.
It is, it is!
Heav'n give me strength! my trial is at hand!

Enter Garcio, who approaches her, and then stopping short, gazes at her sadly, while she stands with her eyes fixed on the ground.
Gar.
Marg'ret, I thought—I hoped—I hoped—I was persuaded
The farewell yearnings of a broken heart
Would move thee to some pity of my state;
But that averted face, that downcast eye,—
There is abhorrence in it.

Countess.
O no! I fear'd to look; 'tis not abhorrence.

[Raises her eyes to him, and shrinks back.
Gar.
What moves thee thus?

Countess.
Alas! thou'rt greatly alter'd:
So pale thy cheek, thine eyes so quench'd and sunk!
Hath one short night so changed thee?

Gar.
A night spent in the tossings of despair,
When the fierce turmoil of contending passions
To deepest self-abasement and contrition,
Sabside;—a night in which I have consented
To tear my bosom up—to rend in twain
Its dearest, only ties—ay, such a night
Works on the mortal frame the scath of years.

Countess.
Alas! thy frame will feel, I fear, too soon
The scath of years. Sorrow and sickness then
Will bow thee down, while cold unkindly strangers
Neglect thy couch, nor give thee needful succour.

Gar.
And wherefore grieve for this? So much the better:
They least befriend the wretched who retard
The hour of his relcase.—Why should I live
If heav'n accept my penitence? Hath earth
Aught still to raise a wish, or gleam the path
Of one so darken'd round with misery?

Countess.
Nay, say not so: thy child, thy boy, to see him
In strength and stature grown,—would not this tempt thee
To wish some years of life?

Gar.
Others shall rear him; others mark his change
From the sweet cherub to the playful boy;
Shall, with such pity as an orphan claims,
Share in his harmless sports and catch his love;
While I, if that I live and am by heav'n
Permitted, coming as a way-worn stranger,
At distant intervals, to gaze upon him,
And strain him to my heart, shall from his eye
The cold and cheerless stare of wonderment
Instead of love receive.

Countess.
O think not so! he shall be taught to love thee;
He shall be taught to lisp thy name, and raise
His little hands to heav'n for blessings on thee
As one most dear, though absent.

Gar.
I do believe that thou wilt teach him so.
I know that in my lonely state of penitence,
Sever'd from earthly bliss, I to thy mind
Shall be like one whom death hath purified.
O that, indeed, or death or any suff'rings,
By earthly frame or frameless spirit endured,
Could give me such a nature as again
Might be with thine united!
Could I but forward look and trust to this,
Whatever suff'rings of a lengthen'd life
Before me lay, would be to me as nothing;
As the rough billows of some stormy frith,
Upon whose further shore fair regions smile;
As the rent shroudings of a murky cloud,
Through which the mountain traveller, as he bends
His mantled shoulders to the pelting storm,
Sees sunny brightness peer. Could I but think—

Countess.
Think it! believe it! with a rooted faith,
Trust to it surely. Deep as thy repentance,
Aspiring be thy faith!

Gar.
Ay, were my faith
Strong as my penitence, 'twere well indeed.
My scourge and bed of earth would then be temper'd
Almost to happiness.

Countess.
Thy scourge and bed of earth! alas, alas!
And meanst thou then to wreak upon thyself
Such cruel punishment? O no, my Garcio!
God doth accept the sorrow of the heart
Before all studied penance. 'Tis not well:
Where'er thou art, live thou with worthy men,
And as becomes thy state.

Gar.
No; when from hence a banish'd man I go;
I'll leave behind me all my crime did purchase.
Deprived of thee, its first and dearest meed,
Shall I retain its base and paltry earnings
To live with strangers more regarded? No;
Poor as I was when first my luckless steps
This fatal threshold pass'd,—I will depart.

Countess.
And wilt thou then a houseless wand'rer be?
Shall I, in warm robe wrapp'd, by winter fire
List to the pelting blast, and think the while
Of thy unshelter'd head?—
Or eat my bread in peace, and think that Garcio—
Reduce me not to such keen misery.

[Bursting into an agony of tears.
Gar.
And dost thou still feel so much pity for me?
Retain I yet some portion of thy love?
O, if I do! I am not yet abandon'd
To utter reprobation.
[Falling at her feet, and embracing her knees.
Margaret! wife!
May I still call thee by that name so dear?

Countess
(disentangling herself from his hold, and removing to some distance).
O, leave me, leave me! for heav'n's mercy leave me!

Gar.
following her, and bending one knee to the ground).
Marg'ret, beloved wife! keenly beloved!

Countess.
Oh, move me not! forbear, forbear in pity!
Fearful, and horrible, and dear thou art!
Both heaven and hell are in thee! Leave me then,—
Leave me to do that which is right and holy.

Gar.
Yes, what is right and holy thou shalt do;
Stain'd as I am with blood,—with kindred blood,
How could I live with thee? O do not think
I basely seek to move thee from thy purpose.
O, no! Farewell, most dear and honoured Marg'ret!
Yet, ere I go, couldst thou without abhorrence—

[Pauses.
Countess.
What wouldst thou, Garcio?

Gar.
If but that hand beloved were to my lips
Once more in parting press'd, methinks I'd go
With lighten'd misery.—Alas! thou canst not!
Thou canst not to such guilt—

Countess.
I can! I will!
And heaven in mercy pardon me this sin,
If sin it be.

[Embraces him, and after weeping on his neck, breaks suddenly away and exit, while Garcio stands gazing after her.
Gar.
Have I not seen my last?—I've seen my last.
Then wherefore wait I here?—
The world before me lies.—a desert world,
In which a banish'd wand'rer I must be.
[A pause.
Wander from hence, and leave her so defenceless
In these unruly times! I cannot do it!
I'll seem to go, yet hover near her still,
Like spell-bound spirit near th' embalmed dust
It can no more reanimate. Mine eyes
May see her distant form, mine ears may hear
Her sweet voice through the air, while she believes
Kingdoms or seas divide us.
The hermit is my friend, to him I'll go.
Rest for the present, eager crowding thoughts!
I must not linger here.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

An outer court of the castle; an arched gateway in front with a stone bench on one side of it.
Enter Ludovico, Gauvino, and Pietro, and seat themselves on the bench.
Gau.
The ev'ning breeze will cool us better here.

Lud.
After the sultry day it is refreshing.

Pie.
(to Gauvino).
Well, as I was a-saying to the seneschal,
I wonder that the count should think of choosing
That noodle Gomez to attend upon him.

Gau.
He has some reason for it, be assured

Lud.
How so, good chamberlain?

Gau.
Heaven knows! but this fantastical Rovani,
Whom as his deputy he leaves behind,
Already takes upon him, by my faith!
As if his kingdom were to last for ever.

Lud.
Thou speakst in spleen; he seems to me right gracious.

Gau.
I say not in the way of tyranny
He takes upon him; 'tis his very graciousness,
His condescending vanity I hate.
A vain, assuming coxcomb! E'en when Garcio
Frown'd like a master o'er us, yet my heart
Acknowledged him as such, and loved him oft
The better for his sternness.

Lud.
Didst thou? I'm sure full many a time and oft
Thou'st grumbled like a fiend, whene'er his orders,
Too roughly given, have cross'd thy wiser will.

Gau.
Well, well; perhaps I have! yet, ne'ertheless,
Would he were with us still!

Pie.
Ay, would he were!

Lud.
Perhaps he'll soon return.

Gau.
(significantly).
He'll ne'er return.—We'll see him here no more.

Lud.
Why sayst thou so?

Gau.
I have my reasons: he hath been too prosperous.

Pie.
And what of that?

Gau.
The power that has upheld him,
Will, when his term is up, dire reck'ning take.

Pie.
What dost thou mean?

Gau.
Nay, if thou canst not guess,
I will not utter more.

Lud.
Ha! yonder Gomez comes!

Pie.
Gomez, indeed!

[All rising to meet him.
Lud.
His lord is then return'd.

Enter Gomez.
Omnes.
Return'd already, man! Where is thy master?

Lud.
Is he not with thee?

Gomez.
I would he were. I left him some leagues hence;
By his command charged to return again,
And follow him no more. Long I entreated
To be permitted still to share his fate,
But was at last constrain'd to leave him.

Gau.
Ha!
Constrain'd! 'tis very strange. Where didst thou leave him?

Gomez.
In the dark centre of a gloomy forest,
Dismounting, to my care he gave his steed,
And, as I said before, so strictly charged me,
I was constrain'd to leave him.

Gau.
A dark forest?

Lud.
Sawst thou where he went?

Gomez.
He turn'd away, and I with heavy cheer—

Gau.
(very eagerly).
Didst thou not look behind thee in retreating
To see what path he took?

Gomez.
I look'd behind,
But in a moment lost him from my sight.

Gau.
(shaking his head).
'Tis marvellous strange!
Was there nor pit, nor cave, nor flood at hand?

Gomez.
Not that I noticed. Why dost shake thy head?

Gau.
He'll never more upon this earth be seen.
Whether or cave, or gulf, or flood received him,
He is, ere this, I fear, beneath the earth
Full deep enough, reck'ning with him who bought him.

Pie.
Reck'ning with him who bought him! Be there then
Such fearful compacts with the wicked power?

Gau.
Have ye not heard of John the Prosperous,
Who, starting at the sound of piping winds,
That burst his chamber door, full sore aghast,
With trembling steps his gorgeous chamber left,
And, by himself in a small boat embark'd,
Steering his way to the black wheeling eddy
In centre of the lake, which swallow'd him?

Pie.
My flesh creeps at the thought?

Gomez.
Dost thou believe it?

Gau.
Ay; or what think ye of the Count Avergo,
Who, after years of such successful crimes,
Took leave of all his friends, at warning given
By sound of midnight trumpet at his gate;
Round which, 'tis said, a band of plumed spectres,
Whose whiten'd bony jaws and eyeless sockets
Did from their open'd beavers to the moon
Stare horribly, stood ready to receive him?

Omnes.
And went he with them?

Gau.
Ay, certes, did he! for above the ground
With mortal men he never more was seen.
(To Gomez.)
But enter, man, and have a stoup of wine;
Thou seemest faint and spent.

Omnes.
Ay, give him wine, for see how pale he is.

Pie.
Like one who hath been near unearthly things.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

The garden.
Enter the Countess and Sophera.
Soph.
(speaking as they enter).
And look, I pray, how sweet and fresh and fragrant
The dewy morning is. There, o'er our heads
The birds conven'd like busy gossips sit,
Trimming their speckled feathers. In the thick
And tufted herbage, with a humming noise
Stirs many a new-waked thing; among the grass
Beetles, and lady-birds, and lizards glide,
Showing their shining coats like tinted gold.

Countess.
Yes, all things, in a sunny morn like this,
That social being have and fellowship
With others of their kind, begin the day
Gladly and actively. Ah! how wakes he,
His day of lonesome silence to begin,
Who, of all social intercourse bereft,
On the cold earth hath pass'd the dismal night?
Cheerful domestic stir, nor crowing cock,
Nor greeting friend, nor fawning dog hath he
To give him his good-morrow.

Soph.
Nay, do not let your fancy brood on this.
Think not my lord, though he with Gomez parted
In a lone wood, will wander o'er the earth
In dreary solitude. In every country
Kind hearts are found to cheer the stranger's way.

Countess.
Heaven grant he meet with such!

Soph.
Then be not so cast down. Last night the air
Was still and pleasant; sweetly through the trees,
Which moved not, look'd the stars and crescent moon:
The night-bird's lengthen'd call with fitful lapse,
And the soft ceaseless sound of distant rills
Upon the list'ning ear came soothingly;
While the cool freshness of the air was mix'd
With rising odours from the flowery earth.
In such sweet summer nights, be well assured
The unhoused head sleeps soundest.

Countess.
The unhoused head! and Garcio's now is such!
I could not sleep; and, as I paced my chamber,
Alas! thought I, how long a term is night
To lonely watchers! e'en a summer's night.
And in the lengthen'd gloom of chill December—
Why dost thou move?

Soph.
There is a stranger coming.

Countess.
Perhaps it is some message from my lord.

Soph.
I rather fear it is Tortona's lord.

Countess.
I wish my gate had not been open'd to him.
Will he persist to press his presence on me?

Enter Tortona.
Tor.
Pardon me, madam, this too bold intrusion,
But hov'ring round your walls, like the poor moth
Circling the fatal flame, I needs must enter.
I was compell'd to do it. May I hope
I see you well as lovely, and inclined,
From the angelic sweetness of your nature,
To pardon me?

Countess.
You still preserve, my lord, I do perceive,
The bountiful profusion of a tongue
Well stored with courteous words.

Tor.
Nay, rather say,
A tongue that is of all expression beggar'd,
That can the inward sentiments declare
Which your angelic presence still inspires.
(Pointing to Sophera.)
This lady knows how deep, how true they are.
She did refuse, yet, ne'ertheless, I trust
She bore my secret message to your ear.

Soph.
'Twas well for you I did not, good my lord;
You had not else, I trow, found entrance here.

Countess.
It had, in truth, prevented this presumption.
A secret message, saidst thou, for the ear
Of Garcio's wife!

Tor.
And does the man who quits thee,—
Like a dull dolt such heavenly beauty quits,—
Deserve the name of husband? No, sweet Marg'ret;
Gloze not to me thy secret wrongs: I know,
Full well I know them; nor shall formal names
And senseless ties my ardent love repel.

[Catching hold of her hand.
Countess
(shaking him off).
Base and audacious fool! did not thy folly
Almost excuse thy crime, thou shouldst most dearly
Repent this insult. Thinkest thou my lord
Has left me unprotected?—Ho! Rovani!
Move with a quicker step. Enter Rovani, followed by Gonzalos.

(To Tortona, pointing to Rovani.)
Behold, my lord, the friend of absent Garcio,
And in his absence holder of this castle.
To his fair courtesy, as it is meet,
I now consign you with all due respect;
And so farewell.

[Exit, followed by Sophera.
Tor.
I might, indeed, have known that modern dames
An absent husband's substitute can find
Right speedily.

Rov.
(aside to Gonzalos).
Jealous of me, I hear.
It makes my soldier's plume more proudly wave
To think such fancies twitch him.
[Aloud to Tortona, advancing to meet him.
Noble marquis!
Proud of the lady's honourable charge.
That to my care entrusts a guest so valued,
Let me entreat you to partake within
Some slight refreshment. After such fatigue,
So early and so gallantly encounter'd,
(Two leagues at least upon an ambling steed
Your morning's hardships fairly may be reckon'd,)
You must require refreshment.

Tor.
Paltry coxcomb!

Rov.
Yes, paltry as a coxcomb. good my lord,
Compared to greater. Pardon a deficiency
Your presence has occasion'd, and permit
That I conduct you—

Tor.
Most contemptible!
Follow me not! My way from this curst place
I'll find without a guide.

Rov.
Then be it so.
If it so please you: and, farewell, my lord,
Until within these walls you shall again
Vouchsafe to honour us.

Tor.
Which may be, jeering minion, somewhat sooner
Than thou dost reckon for.

Rov.
Whene'er you will, we're ready to receive you.
[Exit Tortona.
He calls me minion: seest thou not, Gonzalos,
Which way suspicion leans? The fool is jealous,—
Jealous of me! Hath any one besides
Harbour'd such foolish fancies?

Gon.
No, by St. Francis! ne'er a soul besides
Hath such a thought conceived, or ever will.

Rov.
Thou'rt angry: dost thou think my thoughts are evil?

Gon.
No; evil thoughts thrive not within thy breast,
Valiant Rovani; this I know right well:
But vain ones there a fatt'ning culture find,
And reach a marv'llous growth.

Rov.
Well, do not chide: I will with scrupulous honour
Fulfil my trust; and do but wish my arms
The lady and this castle might defend
Against a worthier foe than that light braggart.

Gon.
But thou knowst well, or ought to know, Rovani,
A braggart may be brave. Faith! were it not
For some small grains of wit and honest worth
Which poor Tortona lacks, thyself and he
In natural temper'ment and spirit are
So nearly match'd, you might twin nestlings be
From the same shell.—Be not so rash, I pray!
Tortona is no coward; and his forces
Greater than thou in ruin'd walls like these
Canst prudently oppose: therefore be wise,
And send for timely aid, lest he surprise thee.

Rov.
I will be hang'd before another soldier
Shall be admitted here.

Gon.
See to it then.

Rov.
And so I will; it is not thy concern.

[Exit Gonzalos.
Rov.
(alone).
He, too, 'tis manifest, has some suspicion
That Marg'ret favours me.
[Muttering, and smiling to himself, then speaking aloud.
Ay, those same looks. Well, well, and if it be,
It touches not our honour.—Fair advice!
Call in some neighbouring leader of banditti
To share the honour of defending her!
I know his spite. Twin nestlings from the shell
With such a fool! I know his jealous spite.
I will be hang'd before another soldier
Shall cross the bridge or man our moated wall.

[Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The outer court of the castle. Hermit, pilgrim, and several mendicants, discovered standing round the gateway at the bottom of the stage.
Enter, on the front, Ludovico, Gauvino, and Gomez.
Gau.
The rumour of our lady's bounteous alms
Spreads o'er the country quickly; every morning
Adds to the number of those mendicants,—
Those slothful pests, who thus beset our gates.

Lud.
Rail not so bitterly; there are, thou seest,
The sick and maim'd, and truly miserable,
Although some idle vagrants with the crowd
Have enter'd cunningly. Dost thou not see
Our hermit is among them?

Gau.
What, comes he too a-begging? Shame upon him!
His cot is stored with every dainty thing
Our peasant housewives rear, poor simple souls!
And prowls he here for more?

Gomez.
He never came before.

Lud.
Ay, and belike
He rather comes to give than to receive.

Gau.
And what hath he to give? God mend thy wit!
A broken rosary?

Lud.
A good man's blessing.

Gau.
Pooh, pooh! what folks are wont to sell at home,
They will not go abroad to give for nothing.

Gomez.
And see yon aged pilgrim by his side,
How spent and spare he seems!

Gau.
Hovels, and caves, and lazar-houses soon
Will pour their pests upon us.

Lud.
Hush, man! thou art a surly heartless churl!
Yonder the lady comes.

Enter Countess.
Mendicants
(advancing, and all speaking at once as she enters).
Blessings upon your head, most noble lady!

Countess.
I thank you all: have they been careful of you?

Mendicants.
Ay, bless you! they have served us bountifully.

Countess.
But wherefore stand ye here? Retire within,
Where ye may sit at case and eat your morsel.
Good pilgrim, thou art weary and lackst rest;
I fear the hardships of thy wand'ring life
Have blanch'd thy scanty locks more than thine years.

Pilgrim.
No, gentle lady: heav'n provides for me.
When ev'ning closes, still some shelt'ring cave,
Or peasant's cot, or goatherd's shed is near;
And, should the night in desert parts o'ertake me,
It pleases me to think the beating blast
Has its commission, by rough discipline
To profit me withal.

Countess.
The beating blasts have well fulfill'd on thee
Their high commission.
But, oh! exceed not! Wander forth no more.
If thou hast home, or wife, or child, or aught
Of human kind that loves thee, O return!
Return to them, and end thy days in peace.
Didst thou but know the misery of those
Who hear the night-blast rock their walls, and think
The head to them most dear may be unshelter'd,
Thou couldst not be so cruel—
(Turning round.)
Who twitch'd my robe?

Lud.
It was our holy hermit,
Who press'd, e'en now, its border to his lips,
Then shrank aside.

Countess.
But how is this? He hurries fast away.

Lud.
He is a bashful man, whose hooded face
On woman never looks.

Countess.
Has he some vow upon him?

Lud.
'Tis like he may; but he will pray for you.

Countess.
And good men's prayers prevail, I do believe.

Lud.
Ay, madam, all the peasants round, I trow,
Set by his prayers great store. E'en mothers leave
The very cradles of their dying infants
To beg them. Wives, whose husbands are at sea,
Or absent, or in any jeopardy,
Hie to his cell to crave his intercession.

Countess.
Do they? Most blessed man!
[Beckoning to the hermit, who stands aloof.
I have words for thine ear; approach, I pray.
[Leading him apart, on the front of the stage.
The absent and in jeopardy by thee
Remember'd are, and heav'n receives thy prayers:
Then, oh! remember one, who for himself,
Depress'd, discouraged, may not to God's throne
Meet supplication make!
[Taking him further apart, and in a lower voice.
There is a lonely wand'rer in the world
Of whom thou wottest. When the vespers sweet
And ev'ning orisons of holy men
Sound through the air, and in his humble cot,
With all his family round, th' unlearn'd hind
Lifts up his soul to heaven; when e'en the babe,
Tutor'd to goodness, by its mother kneels
To lisp some holy word,—on the cold ground,
Unbleer'd of earthly thing, he'll lay him down
Unblest, I fear, and silent. Such a one
Thou wottest of, good father; pray for him.
How's this? thou'rt greatly moved, and dost not answer.
Have I requested what thou mayst not grant?
Heav'n hath not cast him off. O do not think it!
The heart that loved him hath not cast him off,
And do not thou. Pray for him: God will hear thee.
[He retires from her; she still following him.
I do entreat, I do beseech thee, father!
I saw thy big tears glancing as they fell,
Though shrouded be thy face. Wilt thou not speak?

Hermit
(in a disguised voice).
I will obey thee, lady.

Countess
(to herself).
He hath a strange, mistuned, and hollow voice,
For one of so much sympathy.
[Alarm bell without.
Ha! the alarm! What may it be? Ho! Pietro.

Enter Pietro, in haste.
Pie.
Haste, shut the castle gates, and with all speed
Muster our strength,—there is no time to lose.
Madam, give orders quickly. Where's Rovani?

Countess.
What is the matter? Why this loud alarm?

Pie.
The Marquis of Tortona, not far distant,
With hasty march approaches, as I guess
Three thousand strong.

[Alarm rings again, and enter Rovani, Gonzalos, and others, from different sides.
Countess.
Heav'n be our trust! Hearest thou this, Rovani?

Rov.
I've heard the larum bell and strange confusion.

Countess.
Tortona with his hostile force approaches—
(To Pietro.)
Tell it thyself; saidst thou three thousand strong?

Pie.
Yes, madam, so I did compute his numbers;
And with him, too, one of those horrid engines
So lately known, which from its roaring mouth
Sends horrible destruction.
Not two leagues off I met him in array
Skirting the forest; and through dell and stream,
Fast as my feet could bear me, I have run
To give you notice.

Countess.
Heaven aid the weak! I fear our slender force
Will be as nothing 'gainst such fearful odds.
What thinkest thou, Rovani? for on thee
Our fate depends.

Rov.
Fear not, my noble mistress!
I will defend you. In your service bold,
Each of your men will ten men's strength possess.
Withdraw, then, I entreat you, to your tower,
And these good folks dismiss. [Pointing to the mendicants that still remain.
[Exeunt Countess and all the mendicants except the hermit, who retires to a corner of the stage.


Gon.
(advancing to Rovani on the front).
Rovani, be thou bold, yet be not rash.
I warn'd thee well of this; but let that pass:
Only be wiser now. There is a leader
Of bold condottieri, not far distant;
Send to him instantly: there may be time.

Rov.
I will not: we can well defend these walls
'Gainst greater odds; and I could swear that coward
Has number'd, in his fright, Tortona's soldiers
Threefold beyond the truth. Go to thy duty:
Muster the men within, while I, meantime,
From place to place all needful orders give.

[Exeunt Gonzalos and Rovani severally, while many people cross the stage in hurry and confusion, Rovani calling to them sometimes on one side, sometimes on another, as he goes off.
Gomez
(to Ludovico, following Rovani with his eye).
A brave man this, and gives his orders promptly.

Lud.
Ay; brave enough, but rash. Alack the day!
Would that our valiant lord were here himself,
His own fair dame and castle to defend.
Alas! that evil deed e'er stain'd his hand,—
If this were so: we'll see his like no more.

Hermit
(going close to Ludovico).
Fear not, good man, who lov'st thy hapless lord;
Give me thine ear.

[Whispers to him.
Lud.
(aside to hermit).
Conceal thee in that tower!

Hermit.
Hush, hush! and come with me: I will convince thee
That what I ask is for thy lady's good.

[Exeunt, hermit leading off Ludovico from Gomez.

SCENE II.

The great hall of the castle.
Enter the Countess, meeting Sophera; a confused noise heard without, and a discharge of cannon.
Countess.
What sawst thou from the turrets, for thy face
Looks pale and terrified? The din increases;
They have not made a breach?

Soph.
I hope they have not; but that fearful engine
Is now against our weakest buttress pointed.
[Cannon heard again.
It roars again; have mercy on us, heaven!
How the walls shake, as if an earthquake rock'd them!

Countess.
My child, my child! I'll to the lowest vaults
Convey him instantly.

Soph.
But you forget th' attack is still directed
Against the eastern side; here he is safe.

Countess.
And may th' Almighty ever keep him so!

[Cannon without.
Soph.
Again the horrible roar!

Countess.
Our ruin'd walls are weak, our warriors few:
Should they effect a breach!—O Garcio, Garcio!
Where wand'rest thou, unblest, unhappy man,
Who hadst our safeguard been! Enter Pietro.

Ha! bringst thou tidings?

Pie.
Ay, and fearful tidings.
The foe have made a breach, and through the moat,
Now grown so shallow with the summer drought,
Have made their way.

Countess.
Where does Rovani fight?

Pie.
He did fight in the breach most valiantly;
But now the foemen o'er his body pass,
For he is slain, and all, I fear, is lost.

Countess.
It must not be: I'll to the walls myself;
My soldiers will with desperate courage fight,
When they behold their wretched mistress near.

Soph.
(endeavouring to prevent her).
O, madam, do not go!
Alas, alas! our miserable fate!

Countess.
Restrain me not with senseless lamentations;
Driven to this desp'rate state, what is my choice?
For now I must be bold, or despicable.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The ramparts. Women discovered looking down from one of the lower battlements of the castle; the din and clashing of arms heard without, as if close at hand; then Tortona and his soldiers cross the stage, fighting with the soldiers of the castle.
1st woman.
See, there! see how our noble lady stands,
And bravely cheers them!

2d woman.
If they have any soul or manhood in them,
They'll fight like raging lions for her sake.

Gon.
(without).
Fie, fie! give way before your lady's eyes!

1st woman.
Ay, brave Gonzalos there right nobly strives;
But all in vain,—the enemy advance;
They gain the pass, and our base varlets yield.
(Voice without.)
Bear in the lady there; 'tis desperation!
(2d voice without.)
Resistance now is vain; bear in the lady!
(3d voice without.)
A miracle! a miracle!

1st woman.
What is't? Why call they out a miracle?

2d woman.
Hast thou not eyes to see? Upon our side
The hermit combats, coiling round one arm
His twisted garments, whilst the other wields
A monstrous brand, might grace a giant's grasp.
O brave! look how he fights! he doth not fight
Like mortal man: heav'n sends him to our aid.

1st woman.
And see! there is another miracle!
See Ludovico fighting by his side!
Who could have thought our gentle seneschal
Had pith and soul enough to fight so bravely?

2d woman.
See, see! the vile Tortonians stand aghast:
They turn, they fly!

[Loud shouts heard without, and re-enter Tortona and his party, pursued by the soldiers of the castle, led on by the hermit.
Hermit.
Turn, valiant chieftain! the most gen'rous foe
Of dames, whose lords are absent; turn, for shame!
Do not disgrace thy noble enterprise
With wounds received behind. Whate'er their cause,
Tortona's lords have still been soldiers. Turn,
Or be the scorn of every beardless boy,
Whose heart beats at the sound of warlike coil.
Thou canst not fear a man unhelm'd, unmail'd?

Tor.
No; if a man thou art, I fear thee not!

Hermit.
Well, to it, then, and prove me flesh and blood.

Tor.
Whate'er thou art, I'll bear thy scorn no longer.

[Exeunt, fighting furiously.

SCENE IV.

The great hall: a shouting heard without.
Enter Pietro, calling as he enters.
Pie.
Where is the countess?

Enter Sophera, by the opposite side.
Soph.
Thy voice calls gladly; dost thou bring good tidings?

Pie.
I do; but stop me not! Where is the countess?

Enter Countess in haste.
Countess.
What joyful shouts were those? My soldiers' voices!
Some happy chance has changed the fate of battle.

Pie.
Ay, changed most happily.

Countess.
And heaven be praised!
How has it been, good Pietro? Tell me quickly.

Pie.
When we were panic-strick'n, reft of our wits,
Treading, like senseless sheep, each other down,
Heav'n sent us aid.

Countess.
And be its goodness praised!
So near the verge of merciless destruction,
What blessed aid was sent?

Pie.
By our fierce enemy, as I have said,
So sorely press'd, a powerful voice was heard
Calling our courage back; and on the sudden,
As if the yawning earth had sent it up,
A noble form, clad in the hermit's weeds,
But fighting with such fury irresistible
As armed warrior, no, nor mortal man
Did ever fight, upon our side appear'd,
Inspiring us with valour. Instantly
We turn'd again on our astonish'd foe,
Who fled to gain the breach by which they enter'd.
Few have escaped; and by our noble hermit
Tortona's lord is slain.

Countess
(after looking up to heaven in silent adoration).
That mighty Arm which still protects the innocent.
Weak woman, helpless infancy, and all
Bereft and desolate, hath fought for us!
But he, the blessed agent of its power,
Our brave deliv'rer, lead me to him instantly!
Where is the marv'llous man?

Pie.
I left him, madam, on the eastern rampart,
Just as Tortona fell.—See Ludovico,
Who still fought nearest to him; he'll inform you.

Enter Ludovico.
Countess.
Brave Ludovico!—But that woeful look,
In such a moment of unhoped-for triumph!
Is the brave being safe who hath preserved us?

Lud.
Alas! e'en as we shouted at the fall
Of proud Tortona, conquer'd by his arm;
E'en as he stoop'd to soothe his dying foe,
The hateful caitiff drew a hidden dagger
And plunged it in his breast.

Countess.
Alas, alas! and is his life the forfeit
Of his most gen'rous aid!
O lead me to him! let me thank and bless him,
If yet his noble mind be sensible
To words of gratitude.

Lud.
They bring him hither. He himself desired
That they should bear him to your presence. See!
With sad slow steps they come.

Enter soldiers bearing the hermit on a low bier, and set him down near the front of the stage. The Countess stands in woeful silence till he is placed, and then throws herself at his feet, embracing them.
Countess.
Devoted, generous man! Heav'n's blessed minister!
Who hast, to save us from impending ruin,
Thy life so nobly sacrificed; receive,—
While yet thy soul hath taste of earthly things,—
Receive my thanks, my tears, my love, my blessing;
The yearning admiration of a heart
Most grateful! Generous man, whoe'er thou art,
Thy deeds have made thee blood and kindred to me.
O that my prayers and tears could move thy God,
Who sent such aid, to spare thy precious life!

Hermit
(uncovering his head, and discovering the face of Garcio).
Margaret!

Countess.
My Garcio!
[Throwing her arms round him for some time, then raising herself from the bier, and wringing her hands in an agony of grief.
This is my wretched work! Heaven was his judge,
Yet I, with cruel unrelenting sternness,
Have push'd him on his fate. O Garcio, Garcio!

Gar.
Do not upbraid thyself: thou hast done well:
For no repentance e'er could make me worthy
To live with thee, though it has made me worthy
To die for thee.

Countess.
My dear and generous Garcio!
Alas, alas!

Gar.
O calm that frantic grief!
For had my life been spared, my dearest Margaret,
A wand'ring banish'd wretch I must have been,
Lonely and sad: but now, forgiven by thee,—
For so my heart assures me that I am,—
To breathe my parting spirit in thy presence,
For one who has so heavily offended,
Is a most happy end. It is so happy
That I have faith to think my deep contrition
Is by my God and Judge accepted now,
Instead of years of wretchedness and penance.
Be satisfied and cheer'd, my dearest wife!
Heaven deals with me in mercy.
Where is thy hand? Farewell, a long farewell!

Soph.
See, he revives, and strives to speak again.

Gar.
Could I but live till I have seen my child!
It may not be: the gripe of death is here.
Give him my dying love. [Dies.
[Curtain drops.