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SCENE III.
Before the Prison.(shouts &c.)
Phorbas, Eumenes, Nicanor, &c.
Phor.
My brave associates hail! undoubted wreaths
Are our's.—The riven gates, the flying guards
Proclaim us conquerors.—Now haste my friends!
Within yon dreary walls your general lies,
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Quick burst the door.
Eum.
(advancing)
'Tis open.
Phor.
Let us enter!
(scene draws)
Eum.
Darkness! and solitude!
Phor.
We seek in vain.
Distraction!—at the time of thy escape,
Was he not here? and Antonina? my son?
Eum.
They were.—Alas! I shudder at the thought.
When I had scaled the battlements, the gate
Just gain'd by thee; this way a party fled,
And, as I guess'd, by Narbal hurried on.
This is his work—perhaps—
Phor.
Perhaps e'en now
They breathe their last.—Thus frustrated! Ye gods!
Oh! interrupt not thus our glorious course,
By you protected! and by you inspired!
Eum.
I see it all; from yonder dark recess
An arched vault descending, winds along
To the inner court; doubtless by that they pass'd,
And bore the suffering hero.
Phor.
Thro the gloom
I'll penetrate, should it conduct my steps
Down to the very centre.
Nic.
I will follow.
Eum.
'Twere but a vain attempt. A slender guard
Not to be forced, may brave an army there.
And solid doors of brass too firmly closed,
Obstruct the way.
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Caius.
Oh! horror! horror!
Phor.
Say,
What means my friend?
Caius.
Alas! thy father views
Yon glorious orb no more.
Phor.
Ye gods! not slain!
Caius.
Not slain, but rendered blind; a prisoner
Who saw the melancholy spectacle,
Affirms the fact.
Phor.
Most unexampled crime!
And do we lingering stand? not fly to punish
This odious monster?—Let the furies loose!
New-waken rage! again my friends assume
The front of terror! storm the inner gate!
Bring piles of wood! Light the destructive fire!
Havock and desolation be our plan!
And if we cannot save this first of men,
With all I love, all that my soul holds dear,
Let universal ruin stamp the day
With threefold horror!
Nic.
Generous youth proceed!
One spirit guides us; if we fail to rescue,
We amply will revenge thy fathers wrongs.
Death or success be our's.
Phor.
Death to his foes!
We, while indignant justice calls us on,
Rush to the goal of certain victory.
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