University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—KING FRANCIS TENT BEFORE THE WALLS OF PAVIA.
Night—a lamp burning: on one couch Henry of Navarre sleeping, on the other, Francis.
FRANCIS
(in his sleep).
Down! down! help ho! the traitor's stabb'd me!—help!
(Wakes)
What all alone! and night!—an idle dream!
(Rising)
Yet sure methought we did together fight,
Bourbon and I; and ever as I struck him,
Laval did come between us—but 'tis nought.
A very phantasy, born of my thoughts,
Which have been straining on to-morrow's issue.
(To Navarre)
—How well thou sleep'st, thou disinherited King!
Thou hast no dream of empire or dominion;
Thine being lost, no longer are a care.
And all th'event to-morrow brings to thee,
Is life, or death, a paltry stake at best!
Ta'en by itself, and without added value
Of crown, or kingdom, fame, or name to lose.
Sleep on,—youth's healthful current keeps its course
Within thy veins; and thy unwrinkled brow
Shows like the glassy wave, when sunset smiles on it.
Oh, would that I were eas'd of power too!—
Then might I rest, perchance, as thou dost now.
(He walks to the end of the tent, and draws back the curtains at the entrance of it; which, being opened, discover the camp by moonlight, the Tesino, and distant walls of Pavia.)
How many are there, sleeping on yon field,
Who shall to-morrow lay them down for ever.
How many heads, whose dreams are all of conquest,
Lie pillow'd on their graves.—Where shall they be
After the dawn, awaken'd by our trumpets,
Has drawn away night's curtain? Then shall come
War's horrid din,—then shall these slumberers,
All drench'd in gore, all gash'd, and mangled, roll
Together in the thirsty dust; and some
Shall pray to heaven for mercy, and for years
Of future life,—and some shall yell for pain,
And curse the hour that they were born, and cry
For water to allay their dying drought.
There shall the proud lie writhing, in the herd
Of common soldiers; there the brave shall lie,
Bleeding beside the coward;—there, perchance,
I shall be stretch'd, stark, ere the evening fall—
A fearful thought!—Now through the silent air,
And the dark night, might Fancy dream she saw
Death stalking in the midst of yonder field,
Marking the prey that shall be his to-morrow.
Why, how is this?—my blood chills in my veins!
A shadow passes over me!—shall I?—
Oh conscience! lie thou still; it is thy hand
That strikes so cold upon my sense, and turns
The rapid current of my blood athwart,
With these slow shiv'ring fears.—I'll wake D'Albret;
For now already through the twilight breaks
The dappled hue of morn, chasing away
Night's shadows, and these gloomy phantasies.
There is a freshness in the early air,
That quickens ev'ry faculty, and makes
A keen enjoyment of existence only.
Now falls the grey veil from fair Nature's face,
And streaks of light shoot through the amber sky.
What ho! awake, D'Albret! the day hath dawn'd,
And the young morning, clad in saffron robes
Of glorious light, opens heav'n's eastern gate,
And bids the sun good morrow.— (Trumpet)
—Hark! the trumpet,
Clear, as the lark's shrill matin note, doth sound
Through the blue vault,—the hum of multitudes
Rises in the still air,—the clash of steel,—
The tramp of trained feet doth beat the ground,
In even measure,—steeds neigh long and loud,—
And voices of command, whoop and halloo,
Ring through the tented lines;—arouse thee! slumb'rer!
The day is broke,—the camp is all awake,—
Shake off this sleep, and fit thyself for—

Enter Triboulet at the back.
TRIBOULET.

Death, master! I've ended thy period with a rare grace
for thee!

FRANCIS.

Thou here? I deem'd thee safe in Paris.

TRIBOULET.

Thou deemedst wrong, then; for I am sound before
Pavia.

FRANCIS.

When cam'st thou hither?

TRIBOULET.

With the last reinforcement: men, there are no more
that can come, and fools, there being so many already,
I thought thou could'st not take exception at one more of
the order.

FRANCIS.

But what wilt thou do here?

TRIBOULET.

That which thou wilt: fight, I conceive.

FRANCIS.

Go to, with thy lath!

TRIBOULET.

No, with my faulchion, master.

(He draws his faulchion.)
FRANCIS.

Why, my poor fool, what shall they do at court if thou
art slain?

TRIBOULET.

Resolve me this, master,—what shall they do if thou
art slain?

FRANCIS.

Marry, e'en get them another King.

TRIBOULET.

What! kings in such abundance, and fools so rare,—
royalty in such plenty, and folly scarce in the market!
But I'll tell thee; if I am slain, dear master, do thou
console my mourners; they will be many, doubtless;—
I'll bequeath thee my cap and bells—and let poor Clement
write my epitaph.

FRANCIS.
Out weather-brain! but see, here come the heads
Of our grave council; get thee gone awhile
Into the further tent, and tarry there
Until I send for thee.
[Exit Triboulet.
I'll have him kept
Safely throughout the day,—for worlds I would not
That the poor knave should come to any harm.

(During this scene Henry D'Albret has arisen, buckled on his sword and spurs, &c.)
Enter Vendôme, Chabannes, De Varennes, and Pages.
FRANCIS.
Now, good my lords, your voices, and perchance
Some short hour hence we'll ask you for your swords;
Speak forth, speak freely. (To a Page)
—Bid a herald sound
Summons through all the camp, to all the chiefs
And leaders of our host, that straightway here
They do convene to counsel or consult
How best our conduct may be ordered,
In this emergency and strait of war.
Despatch, despatch! we suffer no delay;
All must be quickly said and done to-day:
Sit, gentle lords,—good cousin D'Albret, sit.

[They seat themselves. Exeunt Pages.
Enter Charles of Alençon.
ALENÇON.
Sir,
The morning blushes, that she lay asleep,
Pillow'd on the grey clouds, long after you
Had left your couch, in busy thought preparing
To meet the venture of this perilous day.

FRANCIS.
We'll make the noon blush redder yet, good cousin,
If thou and all these nobles here assembled
Are half as willing for the siege as I!—
But, Vendôme, thou art riper in thy years,
And of a judgment more mature than any,
Than all, that sit in council round us here.
Speak, therefore; say, shall we attempt th'assault,
And lay this rebel city in the dust?
Or back to France, there to recruit and raise
Our wearied troops, who, through their weariness,
Find strength to talk of marching home again?

VENDÔME.
My gracious liege, brief words do best befit
The brief allotment time hath portion'd us:
Therefore, unprefac'd be my say, and short.
Pavia hath not yet given sign of yielding,
Though now a lengthen'd siege hath tried her force;
Resistance in the city, and without
(At least, so rumour saith) a mighty band,
Marching to aid her worst extremity,
In numbers countless—

FRANCIS.
Ay, so rumour saith,
But rumour's best arithmetic we know;
Multiplication, Vendôme, is it not?

D'ALBERT.
I do entreat your Majesty's excuse
For that I break my lord of Vendôme's speech,
In seeming hotness of impatient youth.
But had he said, fresh, full of strength and life,
And courage, such as untried armies feel,
Before grim war hath prick'd a single vein,
Or drain'd one drop of blood, or drank one breath,
Methinks his argument had stronger prov'd.

CHABANNES.
We, good my liege, have pour'd forth crimson floods
Around the walls of Pavia, mingling with
The silver Tesino another stream,
All full of warmth, and but just robb'd of life.

FRANCIS.
Hark! for methinks, without, we hear the stir
Of hasty footsteps drawing near our tent:
Who comes?
Enter Bonnivet.
De Bonnivet! ah, is it thou?
Welcome, thou King of Tennis! thou art wanted,
Thou giver of hard blows and unwise counsels:
Here be these lords, advising us to raise
This weary siege, and back to France again.

BONNIVET.
Out on such counsel! How, sirs, raise the siege
And fly?

D'ALBRET.
Ay, even so, sir, raise the siege!
I marvel that your eyes serve not thus far,
To see that on a combat hangs the venture
Of life and death, freedom and slavery.
Do you not see 'tis all the foe doth seek?
What stake is this, where, failing, they lose nought;
And where, if they should win, we must lose all?
This battle will be double victory
To them, for 'tis their only confidence—
'Tis the last effort of their desp'rate hope—
The straining of the nerve before it cracks;
The issue that must crown, or crush, for ever.

ALENÇON.
Besides all this, another point remains—
Men are not fed with words, and well we know,
Would Bourbon give his heart's best blood for it,
He hath no other coin. Thus following
Through lands, laid waste by our victorious arms,
Without a hope of combat, and with fear
Of mutiny among their starving thousands;—
Think ye they will not rue this hasty march?
And curse the hour they quitted Germany,
To hold that rebel Bourbon's cause for food,
And page our heels through Italy for rest.
But, an we wait them here, and give them fight,
And let them weigh the fearful odds that all
Spur them to battle, even to the death,—
Why they may chance, my liege, to find a strength
From out their very weakness, and a hope,
Born in the moment of extreme despair;—
And should we be defeated—

FRANCIS.
Defeated! say'st thou? by my soul, Alençon,
Thou speak'st as thou hadst never worn a sword!
Defeated by a set of German clods!
What though the traitor Bourbon lead them on!
Methinks ye have forgotten, all of ye,
That in our camp his deeds of arms were learnt.
The masters of his infancy are here,
And though that youthful age hath budded forth
Into most powerful and vigorous manhood,
Here are the men who train'd the haughty spirit,
That having broken through all curb of duty,
Threats its instructors; here the very men,
Who first put weapons in those grasping hands,
That now, forsooth, ye deem invincible.
By heav'ns! ye are bewilder'd all by fear!
Or else your eyes have ta'en some other taint,
That makes ye shake so at this scarecrow, Bourbon.
What though he hath heart, head, and hand, the which
Are merits that I freely own and praise?
Yet hath he not ten thousand hearts and heads,
To move this mass of thick-brain'd, half-train'd savages,
Whereat, oh, valiant chevaliers! ye tremble.
Nay, cousin D'Albret, we are poor, indeed,
If in this very presence be not some,
Ay, many, that could match with yonder rebel;
Thyself art proof against thy argument.

BONNIVET.
Nor is this all: did not the king of France
Swear by his knighthood's sword, he would exalt
Leyva's head on conquer'd Pavia's walls?
The vow was spoke like thunder in our ears;
The sword flash'd brightly in the king's right hand;
And now shall Pavia triumph in our flight?
And bathe its ramparts in Tesino's flood,
All curdled with the red libations pour'd
By us, as tributes to th'unconquer'd town?
Shall Leyva, that haughty Spaniard, smile,
To think, that with his single bilboa
He held at bay the chivalry of France?
More, more than all, shall Europe, 'neath whose eyes
The fearful hazard of our game we play,
Point to the plains of Italy, and cry,
There was a gallant king and knight forsworn?
There France's lilies swept the dusty field,
Not blushing with the hue of deadly fight,
But pale with shame at this most foul retreat!
Oh shame upon ye, lords!

ALENÇON.
Now, by this light,
I did but urge the measure, that we might
Survive to fight and bleed in France's quarrel
Nor all be slaughter'd here by rebel hands.

FRANCIS.
Cousin D'Albret, thou hast forgot thine own
Immediate cause and quarrel in this fray.
Thy lost inheritance, Navarre, doth lie
Within the compass of to-day's engagement.
If we are conquerors, why then thy crown—

D'ALBRET.
Perish my crown,—and with it all my hopes,—
If that the dear desire of righting me,
Hath made your majesty so long to waver
'Twixt your host's safety, and my interest!
By heav'n! 'ere I behold this fair array,
And all its gallant leaders, perill'd thus,
My crown and kingdom shall remain unclaim'd,
And my good sword be my inheritance!

VENDÔME.
But see, who comes in haste; his tidings seem,—
If one may read them in his dusty trappings,—
Sudden.—

Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
My liege, tidings have reach'd our post,
Within this hour, the city must surrender,
If we attack. The Spaniard Leyva's troops,
Too harshly disciplined by want and weariness,
Have broke all discipline, and will not raise
An arm to save their town.

BONNIVET.
Now, now, my liege!
To horse; and bid the trumpets sound th'assault.

Enter another Messenger.
MESSENGER.
Arm! arm! my liege! the Spaniard is upon us!
De Bourbon and his army are at hand!
Over the westward plains, the clouds of dust
Rise thickly from the vanguard of his host;
From whose dense canopy full oft flash forth
Helmet, and crest, and lance, and pennon bright,
Giving dread promise of the coming fight!

(They all start up.)
FRANCIS.
Up, and away! to horse, to horse, my lords!
'Twill be the battle then, and not th'assault!
Or if our cousin D'Albret be not wearied,
We'll have the battle first, and then the siege.

D'ALBRET.
I pray to heav'n your majesty may find
No rest he seeks not!

FRANCIS.
Nay now, gentle coz,
Thy hand, and ere we part, we'll have thy word,
To meet us in our tent, after the battle;
Where we will fill a health to our fair ladies;—
Amongst whose number, Victory is not
The most unkind. Now, all unto your posts!
It may so chance we may meet here again;
But if fate wills it other, farewell all,
Whom one short hour shall cause to stand or fall.
[Exeunt all but Bonnivet.
De Bonnivet, do thou draw out thy men
Close by the Tesino, but keep them back;
Nor let thy bloodhounds slip the leash, till I
Send signal for the onset.
[Exit Bonnivet. Francis draws his sword.
Now, all ye powers that rule the tide of war,
Whose voice is in the belching cannon's roar,—
Whose wing is in its flashing light,—who spread
Its smoky canopy along the plain,—
Making death doubly hideous by disguise:
Come! sit upon my brow! and be my eyes
The heralds of your sentences to Spain;
That at each glance the rebel host may read
The terrors waiting on incensed kings.
Now, Bourbon, traitor! we shall meet once more,
And proud shall be the prize of thy revolt;
For I'll encounter thee, and sword to sword,
I'll pay thy heavy debt of injuries,
With such a glorious death, that men shall say
Thou wert more honour'd, dying by this hand,
Than hadst thou lived, and conquer'd all the world!
(Trumpets.)
Hark! hark! they sound the onset! to the field!
Confusion light on him who first shall yield!

[Rushes out.