University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—Hall in Matilda's Palace.
Enter Godfrey, as if pursued.
Godf.
I have escaped his bloodhounds!—now no more
Is aught held sacred!—even from the fane,
Where I took sanctuary, have his minions driven me!
I saw their silent-laughing, wolfish eyes,
That shone demoniac through the painted glass!
Oh, what a state is mine! Worn and exhausted
With passion, foiled revenge, and sleepless nights—
Pursued by murderers—my friends subdued,
Or linked with those I hate; now am I forced
To shelter my devoted form here—here—
In the palace of a most unloving wife,
Abetting my arch-foe! Most hated Gregory!
Has not my folly equalled all my hate!
No opportunity, no gleam of chance,
Since the full hour of vengeance which I wasted,
Hath e'er illumed my rapier's darkened blade.
Now what 's to do?—A fiery struggle 's at hand!
The Emperor in the field—must I join him?
I choke at the thought!—yet, to thrust Gregory down,
It should be done. I 'll see Matilda first.
Strange rumours and misgivings thicken the air—
Where is she? Oh, where should she be, my heart!

[Exit.
Enter two Papal Guards, with drawn swords; and exeunt cautiously after Godfrey.
Enter Matilda.
Mat.
He wastes himself upon me!—this the reward
Of sympathies that reached from heaven to hell,
Steeped thrilling in his never-questioned course!
Now do the etherial and the nether fires
Confuse and mingle their extremes—What 's that?
A strange breath stung my shoulder from behind!
What are those footfalls? Well—well—nothing in life
Seems natural to those sick of it; grief conjures
With commonest sounds and things. I am, indeed,
In extreme wretchedness, and my knees tremble
With fast-declining health. Poor Damianus!
He, too, is sinking.

[Exit.
[Clash of swords within.
Re-enter Godfrey, mortally wounded.
Godf.
Oh, he has reached me! he has reached my life
By hireling steel!—would he had done it himself,
So should my death-grasp sway him down before me.
[Falls.
The blow has stunned me! I am shading off
To a sick air! My soul fades fast away!

Re-enter Matilda.
Mat.
It is my husband!—murdered!—Godfrey—Godfrey!
He bleeds!—it pours out! Stop, stop! Oh, my God!
Lift up!—speak, Godfrey!—speak to me!
In mercy, look at me, and speak!

Godf.
(dying).
It is an ice-drop
That sinks through the melting mist.

Mat.
Oh, Godfrey, look at me!

Godf.
And a faint voice, heard far—o'er the misty sea!
Was it my wife who cried far off in the mist?

Mat.
It is! it is thy wife! Look up!

Godf.
I loved her—
And send a last farewell.

Mat.
(wildly catching his hand).
Say you forgive her?

Godf.
Great God! is this Thy hand
Passing me onward?

[Dies.
Mat.
He is gone!—and I,
An unforgiven wretch, do seem to have hastened
His awful passage. This is Gregory's deed!
Where have I been? Godfrey, awake! awake!
I cast off—I curse Gregory! Fix not on me
Thy blood-shot, stony eyes!—Forgive, forgive!

[Gregory is heard calling without.
Gre.
Where are these Tuscan dullards?—they were wont
To lead the van of all the Papal force!

Mat.
It is his voice! Come, ponderous Mystery!
Betrayer of the soul and body, come!

Enter Gregory.
Gre.
Rebellion rides the wind; I hear his cry!
Marshal our Tuscan—Oh, the accursed slaves!
They 've killed him in his wife's palace!

Mat.
(rising).
Look here!

Gre.
Who did it?

Mat.
Art thou an iron bell,
Tolling men's dooms, insensible thyself?
There are dread words i' the blood of those who 're murdered!
Appalling pictures, voices, pointing hands!
Murderer! look, look in the widening mirror there!
There, where it ebbs into eternity,—
Wilt thou dare ask of me again, “Who did it?”

Gre.
By what sad accident found he this end?

Mat.
Pontiff, no more! From my o'erladen soul
I cast thee, as its heaviest load of guilt!
Much could I say—I leave it to your thoughts—
And much that lies too deep for any speech.
In presence of yon bleeding form, I burst
All links that bound me to thee, and do pour
His blood and his eternity between us!
Within! within!—
Bring hither my white robes!
My bridal night-dress, with sweet herbs and flowers,
To wrap my lord in!
Enter Attendants.
Where, where shall we go!

[Exeunt Matilda, and Attendants, bearing the body.
Gre.
(after a pause).
And where are now my hopes
Can the grey ashes,
Which sullen years shake from a dead man's urn,
Rise, like the procreant dust of autumn's weeds,
And plant themselves to supersede designs
Of noblest harvest?—can calamity
Fall on the far futurity of my fields,
And their great produce blight, with this one man?
Yes—yes—a palsy shakes time's giant hand.
O'er one poor corse Prometheus' self might stumble,
And sink on a sudden to dark fellowship!
Self-preservation thus seems double-edged,
And, guarding me, cleaves through my steep-set throne.
But then the future?—So, his corse is gone!
But it has left his silence in the hall,
As if himself were present, though unseen.
Would he were living, fierce in glittering arms!
I should not feel or fear him as I do,
Mute—pallid—motionless—standing out straight!
Horrible! horrible! I never thought before
That death was horrible.—
It must be borne.
Matilda!—Oh, nought can supply this loss!

Enter an Officer.
Off.
Your sovereign Holiness!

Gre.
Say it at once!

Off.
The Tuscan armies are withdrawn: e'en now
They pass the gates.

Gre.
(thoughtfully).
It is an evil hour.
They pass the gates?—How stands the Imperial force?

Off.
Great lord, the Emperor hath pitched a tent
Near to the baths of Titus, there to watch
The advancing of his army from the frontier.

Gre.
'T were fit he march from aught that 's left of Titus—
Titus, the embattled pestilence who marched
Against Jerusalem. Oh, these warlike brands!
Illiterate emperors and fighting kings.
Already so near!—but I was apt for this.
The Papal Guards?

Off.
All armed for instant call,
But much o'ernumbered by the coming powers.

Gre.
I 'll go alone amidst their trembling spears,
And tell them—stay!—send Damianus hither.
[Exit Officer.
Hath the galled Emperor burst my spiritual bonds?
He may be chained once more:—the means?—lord Guido!
Who like a leaf now quivers o'er the event,
And may fall either way. The Emperor yet
Shall wither 'neath my rod. Myself I'll plant
Full in his path tow'rds Rome, and shrouded close
In monkish garments, from beneath the cowl
With heaven's denouncement will his soul assault.
Thereto must Guido lend unconscious aid,
The madness of this sworder's sacrilege
To melt in dews of fear; thus twice disarmed
Before I strike him with my visible power.
But if he fall not?—how if he resist,
And with the vantage of his armies strive
My sway to level?—cursed be his hand!
He shall have no equality! I have wrought
For the supreme dominion of the world;
Have gained it, and must bear high onward still.

[Exit.