University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Monastery.
SAVELLI
(alone.)
The time for that is gone—Gerardo knows it,
Arezzi too: these creditors bark round me,
And every hour risks all. Who knocks?—come in.

[Enter Ludovico, attended by Gerardo, and other Monks.
GERARDO.
We wait upon the abbot—good—my brother.

SAVELLI.
The duke has made his choice then?

GERARDO.
He has filled
Our souls with thankfulness in that!

LUDOVICO.
Alas!
Mine still finds room for care: his highness joins
Ungracious duties to the power he lends me,
And makes its outset irksome—he requires
The clearance of our dealings; that we sum
Our debts and dues; and bids me take in charge
Our brother's office of the bursery here,
Till this be done.

SAVELLI.
So soon? with all my heart!
He lifts a burden from my neck—I leave
A barren and unthankful task, and wipe
Much scandal off.

MONK.
Pray God you may do so;
Its foulness spreads to us. The men we met with—
Who shamed our last night's obsequies—took home
Some from the gravest of the standers by,
To shew the vouchers for these debts, and turned
The city's wrath this way.—

SAVELLI.
We soon will quench it.
I have been working long—to gather up
The shreds and rovings of my trust, and make
Its selvage perfect—leave a seven years charge
Compactly rounded to a school-boy's ciphering—
I will require two days.

LUDOVICO.
'Tis less than just.
Brother, good night.

SAVELLI.
There are about us here
Ill-whispering tongues, beside the knaves we speak of—
Ay, some more near than these—in three days hence
I will requite their hissing.

LUDOVICO.
Would to Heaven
Nothing were here but love!—good brother, patience!
Do not say so.—

MONK.
If I am marked as such
I wish the three were one.

SAVELLI.
They may be found
As brief as you would have them be.

LUDOVICO.
Peace—peace!

[Exit with Monks.
Savelli and Gerardo.
GERARDO.
We are upon the coals at last.

SAVELLI.
Ay, these
Ply with their bellows fiercely! shall we change
To lead and melt, or ere the heat prevail,
Burst from their shatter'd crucible in flames
And blow them to the moon? this crier of peace,
Who takes the office that I hold, to patch
The one I covet, though they chuse and name him,
Is not our abbot yet.

GERARDO.
You might have asked
A little longer time to break his neck.

SAVELLI.
But then I do not need it. Two days more
Will serve for that. Two days! this world has changed
Its Lord in less than one: yet myriads live
Whose seventy years are ended ere they know
If what they think, they are. How many walk
With joints no steadier than a maid's at school,
That equal Mars in thought! As fancy goads them,
They conquer provinces, set free the enslaved,
Burn fleets, sack cities, perish in the breach,
Mock emperors from the scaffold—and conclude
That fate hath stolen some patriot from the skies,
To make him, it may be, a friar, a weaver,
A darner of mens' hose! are we like these?
If wine alone have moved our tongues so oft,
Let us be wiser now—stop where we are.

GERARDO.
Gooth sooth! and so in two days more be hanged!

SAVELLI.
We climb upon the ladder's top—one step
Will scale the ramparts—if we rest or turn,
A breath will send us down.

GERARDO.
Your ladder ends
Where many take the trouble for their pains
To mount, and straight come down another way,
Yet never reach the ground. Well—boldly on,
And see which stops the first.

SAVELLI.
A match—take these
And give Francisco two, the rest disperse
As those of yesterday. (Giving letters.)
The Mole and Castle
Are safely ours, and some about the Fleet:
Our strength is greater than our need.

GERARDO.
Remember
That which I spoke of Andria.

SAVELLI.
Prithee be gone—
So, we shall lose Arezzi—wait, a little.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Chamber in the Palace.
Prince of Andria and the Duchess.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
He has been sent for here.

DUCHESS.
Then speak it meekly,
As if in goodness toward himself, and thus
Leave out the offence, which else might reach to both,
And drive Arezzi mad.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
So—here he comes.
[Enter Cimbelli.
You have been quickly found, young man.

CIMBELLI.
Your Grace
Knew where to send and seek me.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Good sooth! not I.

CIMBELLI.
The messenger ran straight toward church, I thought
Your Grace had told him where.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
I pray—be quiet
We are not in the mood for jests all day—
Our fool talks much at home. I called thee here
To chide and punish, but her highness deigns
To bid rebuke be still.

DUCHESS.
We should remember
That youth is heady in its spleen, and pride
Ferments then mellows: what was harshness first
Is strength and flavour left to time.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
It is so.
I have not yet forgotten that I was once
Unripe and hard, like these.

DUCHESS.
Come near Cimbelli—
We will speak kindly with thee—thou dost whet
A temper in itself too sharp, and edge
The follies of thy friend: the elder thou
By much, with larger practice in this world,
Dost push him on to brawls, and mix his honor
With tavern fellowships—nay—fie! we know it.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
We have abridged his purse, whose plenty bought
Dishonest licence.

CIMBELLI.
I beseech your Grace
To stop and hear one word—Arezzi's honor
Has been his care to keep—and for his gold,
I never made it less.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
We do believe it—
And meant no other: but what we know is this;
Ye pick from better men, the loud and idle,
With whom ye herd. That quarrel of last night
Will not be ended yet.

CIMBELLI.
Then leave the blame
With those who raised it. Had your Grace stood there,
Arezzi would have found an abler second,
And done the same.

DUCHESS.
Those with whom you fought
Were noble and of Spain—the duke's companions,
Whose honor aches with theirs.

CIMBELLI.
The Count Arezzi
Is noble too, of Naples, and till now,
The duke's companion—Spain! ye saints go with us
To make us humbler! he will ever be—
Though not from Spain, their equal. Shall he lie
A jack for boys to quoit at? when I named him
Less reverently, as you thought, of late—I seemed
No better than one's neighbour's cat surprised
With butter in her mouth. Your highness stamped,
Set wide the door, called me a thief, or worse,
And hissed me out. For this—so help me Heaven
The honor which I felt before, I doubled—
One still is left—I said—who loves the Count.

DUCHESS.
Well, so I did.

CIMBELLI.
Your highness does so yet,
Or why those tears?

DUCHESS.
Bless that mis-shapen pate
Which if not wise, is honest—I will love
Both him and thee.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
There will be proof of that
In what we mean to do. Our ward Arezzi
Is noble, was provoked, had cause for choler—
It was not so with thee—yet thou didst fall
The first to gibes, strike one of princely blood,
And rail unshamed!—be still, I say, and hear me—
Thou canst not rest in Naples.

DUCHESS.
Let the duke
Learn to forget thee first, and then return
With wiser customs home.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
We will employ thee
Where trust is honor—make good haste to go—
Our letters shall be sealed to-night, to-morrow
They must set out toward Spain.

CIMBELLI.
Your Grace
Will grant a day or two beyond to-morrow?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
For what, Cimbelli?

CIMBELLI.
Tears, forsooth, and kisses—
I am in love.

DUCHESS.
'Twere wise to shorten grief.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
The maid will find a comforter—or Time
Will make her worth the more.

CIMBELLI.
'Tis not a maid—
Nor will Time mend her. Let her highness speak—
I only ask two days.

DUCHESS.
Well—count this, one—
And then I may.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
It is not wisely done;
But if your highness wills it so—so be it.

[Exeunt Prince Andria and Duchess.
CIMBELLI.
Ye both shall bear these letters to the king,
And tell him news yourselves of us and Naples—
I will keep house. “Come near me, good Cimbelli!
“We would speak kindly with thee!” Two days hence,
Cimbelli may begin to comfort thee,
And play the part of patronage. The duchess
Will love Arezzi and myself, and I—
Whether he does or not—will love the duchess.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The Palace Garden, at Night. On one side, the Palace lighted—on the other, the Sea.
AREZZI.
Their shadows move upon the walls within,
And o'er the softer cadences of song,
I hear their mirth! what was so pleasant once—
Night with her coolness, and that crimson moon
Whose rising wakes the nightingale—the flowers,
Too prodigal of their dewy sweetness, now
Tire and offend. I would not breathe again
The orange-blossom's fragrance thus, or hear
The fountain waters dash their marble vase.
No sounds disturb the moonlight sea beyond:
They seem to rest whose barks are anchored there,
This music does not reach to them!—but I
Shall sleep no more till death—my heart still tells me
Its throbs are numbered.—Among so many blessed,
There is but one that can remember yet
The wretch shut out:—she would forget me too
If fear were not as strong as this new love—
Now they must watch together, and a breast
So innocent once, become the incestuous couch
Where shame engenders falsehood! Let her bring
New lies upon her lips, and then go back
To flutter in the light of those fair halls,
Breathe their sweet incense, render sigh for sigh,
Or dubious pressure of dividing palms,
And blush beneath the lengthened gaze of love—
She did so, late, with me.—The strongest takes her,
And I, who might be such, stand here aloof
For fools to bate and hoot at!—hark—she comes—
[Enter Cicilia.
You keep your faith in this.

CICILIA.
I do indeed—
In this, and all things else—if not toward all,
At least with you.

AREZZI.
I would have doubted once
The vows of dying saints as soon, or spurned
A vestal's sacraments.

CICILIA.
Then why not still?
What promise have I made and broke—Arezzi?

AREZZI.
You said that you would love me.

CICILIA.
So I do.

AREZZI.
Ay—as you love ten thousand—all mankind—
Your neighbour and your enemy—for this
Heaven bless your charity!

CICILIA.
O! patience—patience—

AREZZI.
Then do not mock me—I am wretched now,
And speak I scarce know what. There is a time
When grief is less than misery, and respires
A mournful fragrance for the sighs it breathes—
Such melancholy greets its sorrows mildly,
And dallies with light pangs: but after this
Comes bitterness accursed and unallayed,
Whose taste is torment. No man ever yet
Knew and endured it long—though many talk
Of patience wisely, many too have borne
Life's miseries nobly—these had light within;
Their darkness was not blackness, helpless, hopeless—
They never felt as I do, or their cries
Had been as loud as mine.

CICILIA.
What shall I say?—
Believe me still, Arezzi.

AREZZI.
Speak the truth,
And then I will—say that a man should keep
His follies to himself, and hide his shame—
That the proud heart may burst, but not repine—
That he who tells its sufferings, owns its baseness.—
I say so too myself—disdain, not tears,
Should meet the unfaithful—but that fire consumes
First peace, then manhood; levels pride, and brings
Our strength to this.

CICILIA.
You will not hear me speak!

AREZZI.
Say that you love me still.

CICILIA.
I do.

AREZZI.
But how?
Now speak and save me if you do—my brain
Rocks dizzily, and from the sea and air
I hear a voice which calls me—I may bring
On other heads than ours that palace roof—
So—all will perish! Promise to be mine—
Give me that hand again.

CICILIA.
I cannot promise.

AREZZI.
No—why?

CICILIA.
I have already promised.

AREZZI.
Ah!
To whom, Cicilia?

CICILIA.
Nothing more than that
Which truth and honor will confirm, believe me.

AREZZI.
What promise—and to whom?

CICILIA.
This is unjust.

AREZZI.
Tell me that promise—I must know what promise—

CICILIA.
I am unhappy too—you will not hear me.

AREZZI.
Speak plainly, and I will—there is a promise?
Now tell me what it is.

CICILIA.
I cannot tell you.

AREZZI.
Dissembler—traitress!

CICILIA.
You will grieve hereafter
That you have called me such. It is because
The faith which never bent its gaze from you,
Is kept toward all.

AREZZI.
Hast promised love to all?

CICILIA.
To none but you.

AREZZI.
What double vows are these?

CICILIA.
If you have ever loved me yet—believe me,
And ask no more.

[Arezzi kisses her.
AREZZI.
I am content—farewell!
Be wise and secret—keep your promise now—
Still talk of faith and honor!—What I blame
Is not that Fancy changes, or that Love
Hath eyes for gold—but that, while truth were safest,
You chose deceit, and made me feel my shame
Even worse than all the rest—now go—adieu!

CICILIA.
Alas! not thus, Arezzi!—Let us part
As those who love unhappily, but feel
No worse than grief.—You will think justly yet:
Yes—when it is too late, you will believe me!
If we must part—it should be somewhere else—
Not here, where love began! These walks are witness
Of what it has been!

AREZZI.
Cruel! to speak of this!

CICILIA.
If I were what you call me, should I stand
To wait and sue—bear injuries like these—
And say I love you still?

AREZZI.
Tell me that promise—
You see my soul tormented—O! no, no!
You might have bidden farewell without deceit
Said that you must forsake me—left me here
Less shameful tears!—I could have loved you then
Through time and sorrow, still unchanged, and mourned
The lost, as those we weep, yet think in Heaven.

CICILIA.
I can do more, Arezzi—love the unkind,
Forgive the ungrateful—sorrow for the lost—
Bear shame itself unchanged—hopeless, still pray—
Wronged and suspected, keep my faith—and bid
Farewell without reproach. I have forgotten
My place too long—a princess and a maid
Has sued unheeded, unbelieved, and stooped
Her head to this—we shall not meet again
For anger and disgrace!—Farewell, Arezzi.

[Exit.
AREZZI.
If this should be a dream—this dreadful half
Of what I fear and suffer—let me find
Her bosom unpolluted when I wake,
And sleep again for ever!—Grief can raise
Its dæmons, and the hot and jealous brain
Is quick with fallacies—better doubt these
Than that which ever yet was truth! It is
Savelli's lie—Gerardo's—Gabriel's—Florez—
An universal lie! and she who owns them,
Has made no promises! Thus will I use
Her truth against her word—and keep my patience
While that most gracious and lacivious fool
Shall question which loves most—which most she loves—
Gaze in her eyes provoking smiles, and force
Reluctant kisses from the severed lips
Till passion yield them—what I dare not ask,
Take as his right.—O! but he never shall—
Never till I am dust! I hope not then.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

Public Walk.
Cimbelli and Gerardo.
GERARDO.
It is a perilous strait! to speak my knowledge
Seems like a wrong toward Charity—to hide it
Were lack of love indeed!

CIMBELLI.
Well, speak—what is it?
Rock Charity to sleep.

GERARDO.
The general tongue
Clamors its censures loudly, and mine own
But echos what it says.

CIMBELLI.
This general tongue
Belongs to foul-mouthed Fame—and Fame tells lies—
And lies should not be echoed.

GERARDO.
Men must know
Their frailties to repent them: thou art blamed
For words too liberal, and a life beside
Too like thy words.

CIMBELLI.
I would that I could hear
The same sins laid to thee—no tongue hath said
Thy words and life are paired.

GERARDO.
Alas we err—
And shall we not be humbled? Is it hard
That they who drink to drunkenness of sin,
Should wake at last in shame!

CIMBELLI.
Come, come—be honest.
Prithee speak out: I cannot talk in verse—
I do abhor your figures!—drunk with sin,
Now sick and sober!—There are eyes abroad
Which see by starlight, and have found thee, father,
Where thou wouldst not be known.

GERARDO.
Mark me, young man,
We too have eyes for darkness, and our ears
Can hear what yours cannot.

CIMBELLI.
I do believe!
Dark doings need quick ears. Who walks by night
Must look before, or woe-betide his nose.
You bear some witches lanthorn—you can trace
The blind worm's path for leagues without a moon,
And circumvent the jackal. When you pray,
The frightened stars go out—from village towers
The bells untouched ring mournfully—the wolves
Look up and howl—and from the gibbet's nail
The murderer's hand gets loose to free his head!
Three times, as old men say, before her travail,
Your mother met a judge—and dreamed all night
That screech-owls stood as sponsors to the babe,
While bats and molewarps nursed it.

GERARDO.
Who said this?

CIMBELLI.
The same that told thee what I do—he is
A knave no doubt: but patience—we go forth
Each where his nature guides—the light leads me,
Loud tongues, loose fancies, laughing lips and eyes—
I hate all mysteries.

GERARDO.
Thou dost, Cimbelli?
So, Heaven be praised! my hands are clean in this—
My knowledge is not now my sin.—Be merry—
Sing like some April cuckoo all day long
The same dull note, for rustic fools to mock at—
Their jest, then weariness. Thou that lovest light,
Come not too near the fire!—it were as wise
To bruise one's nose, as burn it. Lips may grin
Without a gibe. Pray that my prayers may free
The gibbet from that coxcomb there—and so
Go warily, sir Fool!—Look well about thee,
Nor slip nor stumble—or it yet may roll
A rood beyond its shoulders. I would hint
What makes it rock thus giddily—but thou
Dost loath all mysteries! so peace be with thee!

[Exit.
CIMBELLI.
What! treachery, ha!—this dog-fox scents us grossly!
I could not listen for my noise! My tongue
Rides courier to mine ears, and leads them on
Where I may lose all three!—Halloo! and after.

[Exit.

SCENE V.

An Apartment in the Palace.
Prince of Andria and the Duchess, meeting.
DUCHESS.
Your eyes speak first—they tell me something good!
Haste and interpret what it is.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
I will.
Love spurns his old obstructions, right and left;
The hard encumbrances of twenty years—
Now the heart makes its offerings unperplexed—
Honor not lessened by its love—and love
Sublimed, not cooled, by reverence—read these letters.

DUCHESS.
They came from Spain?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Whose character is this?

DUCHESS.
Our prayers then are fulfilled!—I know the writing.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
The king has called me kinsman—and our child,
His son and nephew—look! how good and gracious!

DUCHESS.
The royal hand itself!

PRINCE ANDRIA.
And here he tells us
To make our marriage public when we please.—
“Your wisdom shall choose for you what to do,
“And how to claim your place. It is our will
“That Ferdinand be proclaimed and crowned—yourselves
“Stand near enough to judge if this your secret
“Should follow briefly to the public ear;
“Or come the first; or both be heard at once.
“Look to the people well—their thoughts will guide you,
“And He, whose care you are. We will not mix
“Your history in the letters to our son—
“Tell it when best yourselves.”

DUCHESS.
Well, tell it now.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
To-day—to-morrow—when you will—but say,
Have we been wise in waiting? Was it wrong
To watch the perfecting of time like this?
Now we may teach Arezzi what he is.

DUCHESS.
To-morrow is his birth-day.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Let him learn
This and the rest at once.

DUCHESS.
He shall do so—
And many who would have made these clouds the blacker
Shall learn it too.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
To-morrow? We must make haste.

DUCHESS.
There will be time enough to call the guests:
We can prepare a banquet, where the duke
May practise royalty ere his throne is built—
The court expects no less, and he will thank us:
The feast may seem for him.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
And then, what next?

DUCHESS.
Then while a thousand eyes flash hate or love,
We will proclaim the birth-day of our child—
A prince, and sprung from kings, our own Arezzi!

PRINCE ANDRIA.
So, hide it from the duke, meanwhile?

DUCHESS.
From all
But one.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Cicilia?

DUCHESS.
Grief, I know not why,
As envious as the meekness which would tire it—
Hath wrought with double strength to-day, and made
Her silence worse than cries. I would not waste
The comfort of an hour.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
I had forgotten—
Here hope seems kindling too. The duke shall have
An Austrian princess for his queen.

DUCHESS.
Who says so?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
The king.

DUCHESS.
This perfects all I wish—come, come.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

The Abbey Cloisters.
Cimbelli and Gerardo.
CIMBELLI.
Nay, but you chew it crossways.

GERARDO.
Let me go—

CIMBELLI.
Let us go both together.

GERARDO.
Good or ill,
And whether what you think or not, I am
Of what I was thus much—I love too kindly
Such as I loved at first—the free, the sportive,
A merry heart like yours; and it would press
Far heavier on my spirit than greater sins,
To see the snare and watch the heedless perish.

CIMBELLI.
Now this is kindly said.

GERARDO.
The light leads you—
I am the while a bat, a screech-owl's godchild,
A fright, a portent—ominous as it is,
My voice was raised to warn you.

CIMBELLI.
What dost wish?
I will repent.

GERARDO.
'Tis time, young man!—by this
My words and doings may seem more akin.

CIMBELLI.
The words are good—and for the rest, Gerardo,
I would not coax, and sue, and tell a lie
To save as many threatened heads as his
That barked in hell!—so speak, or else good day—
Art one of us?

GERARDO.
I cannot answer that—
But hark!—stand still, you must not be so hasty:—
You talked of late with Andria?—You shall hear
And answer me—my brother and the duchess?—
Now can I tell of what?—

CIMBELLI.
Well, do.

GERARDO.
You touched,—
And sharply too,—the beggary of your friend,
Hinted his griefs, and ended that he lives
Deprived, deserted, wronged?

CIMBELLI.
I did.

GERARDO.
You said—
Unwisely as I think—that Nature yields
The authority of man to men, and law
In this hath strengthened Nature?

CIMBELLI.
I did not.

GERARDO.
Then it was rendered wrong. Mark me, my son;
The lesson, if we live, may do thee good;
If not, it is but lost.—Stand wide of quarrels,
Nor kick the dog which bites thy neighbour's heel.
When strong men smite the weak—go home in silence.
If Ahab lack a vineyard, bid him take it—
Though Naboth be thy brother. If a house
Consume with fire at midnight, let it burn
Unless thine own stand near. And if the church,
In which lie sepulchred thy father's bones,
Should chance to shake—'tis better that it fall
Than risk thine own in propping it.

CIMBELLI.
By the mass!
Mine was a silly squeamishness of late—
I might have said at first, had I heard this,
Thy words and deeds agree; good father, where
Didst learn thy catechism?

GERARDO.
What Andria points at
Heaven knows, not I! To covet is a sin
Which most besets old age. He is my brother—
Mine elder brother—but the near in blood
May stand aloof in will.

CIMBELLI.
Why true—you pair
No better than the weasel and the stote—
One wears the bushier tail.

GERARDO.
Hear me, Cimbelli!
Mouths which revile the mighty must be closed—
The sooner if they speak the truth—and thine
Hath long stood wide: it spatters at the church,
Blasphemes her ministers, vents, scoffs and jeers
At us, and all.

CIMBELLI.
Stop there, and take one half—
I ever loved the church, and some I honor
Whose mother she is, not all.

GERARDO.
So much the worse;
Now this is heresy—so rank a goat
To choose between her shepherds; he sins less
Who hates them all!—the discipline fails here
Which happier Spain can furnish—she may lop
The barren branches off, and purge with fire
The stock which profits not;—thou shalt bear hence
A message to the king?

CIMBELLI.
What if I do?

GERARDO.
His majesty may save a soul—and lend
The inquisitors to help thy faith.

CIMBELLI.
Ye faggots!
What, burn me?

GERARDO.
Hush! man, hush!

CIMBELLI.
I ever loathed
This heathenish cookery where they roast men whole—
And must I make a dish?

GERARDO.
We may be watched.
I barely keep the windward of mine oath,
As servant of the office—and have borrowed
From Faith too much for Charity—come hither!—
I saw the accusation; this right hand
Subscribed it, sealed it, sent it. Those in Spain
Can do what we cannot. While Andria lives,
Take heed!—dost hear me?—While he lives be careful.

[Exit.
CIMBELLI.
Father, adieu! I thank you for your news—
Your prayers and blessing at your better leisure.
'Tis well the plug is near to caulk this hole,
Or mercy on my boat!—Prince Andria—verily!
Old Honor's leading staff!—The slime of Nile—
With all its sun-engendered snakes and vermin—
Hath never hatched so strange a chick as this,
Bird, beast, or fish! A sphinx with claws and riddles!
Part cat, part crocodile!—pat me, and coax me,
Call me kind names forsooth!—jumped just in time!
But one day left. I stood so near the fire
My doublet seems to smell of it. And now—
It is as I could wish. The popular voice,
Some yearnings of mine own, above all Arezzi—
Who would abhor the hand which plucked one hair
From that devil's head of his—have kept between us,
Turned back my sword, and, but for this, to-morrow
Had seen its work ill done. The kingly babe
May travel with his aunt toward Spain—but Andria!
That brain of thine is dangerous. I will shove
Remorse behind me, think upon the flames,
And dash it out.—Arezzi may repine;
But when the thing is ended, it will be
Both well and wisely—justly done and fairly.
So let your politic pate rest whole till morn,
Then take its leave of night caps—good prince Andria.

[Exit.

SCENE VII.

An Apartment in the Palace.
Duke, Duchess, Prince of Andria—Officers and Attendants.
PRINCE ANDRIA.
We have dispatched those warrants from your Grace.
The time is brief indeed, with much to do.
[Enter an Officer with a letter.
Well, who brought this?

OFFICER.
I cannot learn his name:
Your highness saw the man alone last night.
He seemed in haste.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
So—this will tell us more.
Now send us Asti hither.
[Enter Asti.
O!—good—your Grace
Shall learn it from his lips.

DUCHESS.
To-night, you say,
We must expect these traitors here?

DUKE.
How many?

ASTI.
I cannot search their numbers, but enough
To make division of their strength.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
One third
Will scale Saint Elmo?—we are sure of these.

ASTI.
There is another for the Mole and Fleet—
The strongest third I hear.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
So much the better.
Gold has been scattered there I know: at dusk
We shall withdraw their garrisons elsewhere.

ASTI.
The last is destined here.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
No doubt the trustiest.

DUCHESS.
Whence did he learn all this?

PRINCE ANDRIA.
From one among them,
Who has a capital part to play, and yet
Knows little but his share.

ASTI.
He told beside
That we might find old faces at the feast—
But knew not whose.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
No matter.—It is set down
That some should enter first, you say, in masks?

ASTI.
Yes—ten or twelve, and masked. They come as guests,
Their dress and carriage suited to the place,
Till others left behind shall break the doors,
And enter too.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Thus one may seem a score—
While every man is feared and fears the rest!

ASTI.
I learnt no more.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Then hasten to the Mole,
And see that what we bid is done—quick! quick!
[Exit Asti.
We have from other mouths a warning too—
Now what says this? (Reads the letter.)
“Watch all tonight—beware
“Of guests with crimson scarfs and golden vizars,
“For such are dangerous.”—So—I wish we had
More space to make them welcome.

DUCHESS.
They seem, like us,
Scarce ready, and in haste.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Faith! they do well;
They might have waited long a chance more likely.
Who wake and sleep with danger in their thoughts
Are restless till it come.

DUKE.
Shall we prevent them,
And chuse some other night.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
Not for the world;
Your Grace will pardon that I speak so plainly—
I would not for the world.

DUCHESS.
We should be glad
That all we fear must show itself and end.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
We dare not hope it may be granted twice
To bind invisible Danger, spite his charms,
And force him to the light.

DUCHESS.
These snakes crawl out,
But while our eyes are on them, cannot harm us.

PRINCE ANDRIA.
They leave their holes at last, to meet the sun:—
These crimson skinned and golden headed vipers—
Let them slink back to grow and multiply;
And we may feel their poison in our flesh,
Ere they be seen again. Come in there—ho!
Give some one this. Now stir thee, good Filippo—
Pick me out twenty men, the best we have—
Such as can understand us—find them masks,
Let them be armed, and habited as guests,
Then wait upon us here.—Your Grace will pardon.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

A Vineyard, at Sun-set.
Arezzi, Cimbelli, and Savelli.
AREZZI.
Art sure of that, Cimbelli?

CIMBELLI.
Yes, I am.

AREZZI.
Let us look warily before we go,
And keep the offering uncorrupt! our feet
Are on the temple steps—a single spot
Defiles the victim—we should search within
To see that nothing sensual, selfish, proud,
Mix with the sacrifice. We give our hearts
Untainted to this work?

CIMBELLI.
I do.

AREZZI.
Speak, father.

SAVELLI.
I answer to my conscience, son: my vows
Are made elsewhere.

AREZZI.
Speak out—we will know more.
Is it for Naples or ourselves? her tears
Must follow what we do, and he is damned
Past hope or mercy here—sevenfold hereafter—
Who thinks his idols holier than her peace,
Or lightly turns him to a work like this.

SAVELLI.
Well, let him be so then—ourselves will make
Her health the record of our thoughts; Arezzi,
To this one end I live.

AREZZI.
Then go—both go—
That double curse would meet me if I went!
When Naples suffered—what was that to me?
I never saw her blushes, till lost hopes,
Pride, discontent, a splenetic hate of wrong,
And love with jealousy disturbed the dreamer.

SAVELLI.
Thus slaves learn truth: who suffers not, may doubt
Lest bile have bred the ills his neighbour mourns.
You know from what you feel.

CIMBELLI.
Why, Count, this love
Hath drawn thy tun of wisdom fairly out,
Nor left its lees to smell at;—let us make haste
Where Justice sweats in fur, and shame the guardian.
Ask for thy father's lands, gold, servants, honors—
Tell who has turned the public gaze this way
And made distrust disgrace—whose breath it was
That scorched the spring-shoots of thy love, transferred
Thy mistress to his master—blew thee forth
A pennyless vagrant from their court, and swelled
Spain's windy parasites to mock and brave thee!

SAVELLI.
Thou shalt have right! the doors stand wide for judgment,
And all are welcome there.

CIMBELLI.
O! blind and feeble!
They will not leave thee such a dog as I
For guide or comforter. I must be gone—
First, whipt—then, hanged—next, burnt! a smoke-dried herring
Scorched black to cure the weevils!—they have found me
With moonlight hedge-hogs, leagued against the calves—
A Faun, a Puck, a Succubus, a Foliot,
The he-cat of some hag—a witch-hermaphrodite
With dugs to suckle fiends. Because I laugh,
Our holy mother shakes the rock she stands on—
My jests are heresies—so hence to Spain
Where fire must search and purge them.

AREZZI.
Fie! believe not!
Who told this tale, Cimbelli?

CIMBELLI.
One it was
That knew the truth—I cannot answer more—
Father, what sayest thou?

SAVELLI.
Only one could know it;
And he could not have told it.

CIMBELLI.
Why?

SAVELLI.
Look!—One
Whose habit answers mine, whose blood is nobler—
If any else, 'tis false.

CIMBELLI.
Thou dingy cherub!
I will believe thee still.

AREZZI.
I dread to think it.

SAVELLI.
Well, set this murderous treachery out of sight,
There may be cause enough for what we do.

AREZZI.
And still the thought is dreadful.

SAVELLI.
Be thyself:
We have a bond on Fortune.

AREZZI.
Most success
Breeds most remorse! These eyes must see their tears
Who loved me once.

CIMBELLI.
Wouldst keep them all thyself?
Hast thou not had thy share? they were content
To look on thine.

AREZZI.
But still they nursed and fed me:
I render scorpions for the bread they gave.

SAVELLI.
O! this might suit some virgin twelve years old—
Our enterprize needs men.

CIMBELLI.
The king and queen,
Who hold to-night a kind of wedding feast,
Would keep the Count a virgin all life through.

SAVELLI.
I must away—we trust you, Count, thus far:
The rest we will discharge ourselves. For those
So loved and mourned we must provide without you.
Who joins the risk shares power—if some shall suffer,
We cannot hear your prayers.

AREZZI.
Give me your promise—
Mine oaths shall be as strongly sworn as yours—
Promise to spare these four—the duke, the duchess,
Prince Andria, and Cicilia—swear to save them—
To guard their persons, honors, health, and peace—
Leave them untouched to me, and if I need it,
To help me for their safety.

SAVELLI.
Well, what follows?

AREZZI.
I will not pause, or swerve, or look behind;
But yield my heart and sword to you and Naples—
So may I live or perish!

SAVELLI.
I do, Arezzi.

AREZZI.
This promise is for you, and all who serve you?

SAVELLI.
Again I swear.

AREZZI.
Cimbelli, kneel with us.

CIMBELLI.
I cannot swear half this.

AREZZI.
Thou canst not swear it?
Then all are free again.

SAVELLI.
Be ruled, my son—
Dost hold thy wrath above the health of Naples?
Fie! fie!—kneel down.

CIMBELLI.
Thou hast redeemed a life.
My honour and my soul are bound together,
And both stand pledged to this.

SAVELLI.
It is enough.
The leaders wait, farewell!—To-morrow, Count,
I meet them face to face. Be strong, yet wary—
Look full of hope, and be so. Shew this seal;
They know it, and will obey it.

[Exeunt.