University of Virginia Library

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.