 | Francis the First |  |
SCENE THE LAST.
—THE INSIDE OF A CHURCH.
Monks in the background, singing the service for the dead. Enter Pescara and D'Albret, supporting Francis. Soldiers follow them.
Monks
chaunt.
FRANCIS.
Monks
chaunt.
D'ALBRET.
Monks
chaunt.
FRANCIS
(speaking the response).
(Shouts without.
Enter Leyva and Spanish troops.
LEYVA.
What drowsy dirge is this? Be we not conquerors?
Shout a Te Deum for our victory,
And leave these doleful dumps to Frenchmen!
PESCARA.
Leyva, this boist'rous triumph shows not well
Before the fallen—
FRANCIS.
Oh, sir, take no heed,
For I take none of this;—to be o'ercome
May be the lot of base and brave alike,—
But, to be moderate in conquest makes
A great man greater than his victory.
SOLDIERS.
Come, baldpates, come, a merry psalm!
LEYVA.
Pescara, it is fitting thou should'st talk,
Who hast but march'd some leagues thy lusty troops
Through fruitful lands, levying all plenteousness,
To satisfy their need or their desire:
These wretches have been pent within their walls
With nought to stay their stomachs for three weeks,
Save scraps thy dogs would loathe:—I cannot curb them—
They're mad with hunger and excess.—
Enter, shouting, a body of drunken Soldiers; they seize the ornaments on the Priests, and begin stripping the altar.
FRANCIS.
Do ye stand by, and see this sacrilege?
Oh Spanish nobles!—Christian gentlemen!
Francis snatches a sword from one of the Soldiers.—Shouts without.
Enter Bourbon, followed by Spanish Officers and Soldiery.
BOURBON.
(Striking down a soldier at the foot of the altar.)
Down, dog! How now, whence this unholy outrage?
Pescara, Leyva—( seeing Francis)
—The king!
FRANCIS.
Bourbon!
BOURBON.
Wounded—alone—a prisoner!—Oh, sir!
Had you but hearken'd timely to true counsel,
This ne'er had come to pass—you had not fallen
To this estate—nor Italy been drench'd
With the best blood of your best chivalry.
FRANCIS.
This is a strange encounter for us two,
My lord—full of deep thoughts that need no comment.
That thou wert wrong'd, the world will bear thee witness;
That wrong endur'd hath made thee commit wrong;
The world and all its aftertimes will judge thee:
For my own part, though fate has play'd me false,
I will not wrangle with the lot she throws me,
Nor hold this day the darkest of my life,
Though thou hast won, and I lost all save honour.
(To Pescara)
—Sir, take my sword, I am your prisoner.
BOURBON
(to an Officer).
Go, bid our trumpets sound to the recall.
All slaughter, and despoiling of the dead, forbear.
And for our royal prisoners, their fate
Hangs at the mastery of Charles of Spain.—
From us all courtesy their rank doth claim,
And admiration for their noble valour.
Now sheathe your bloody swords, and all prepare
To march to Spain this very hour, that there,
By well-improved victory, we may
Crown the strange tale of this eventful day.
—THE INSIDE OF A CHURCH.
Monks in the background, singing the service for the dead. Enter Pescara and D'Albret, supporting Francis. Soldiers follow them.
Monks
chaunt.
‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.—Domine,
exaudi vocem meam.’
FRANCIS.
Why, this is fit! Peace, do not break their chaunt!
Monks
chaunt.
‘Fiant aures tuæ intendentes in vocem deprecationis
meæ.’
140
Oh it chimes truly with our dismal fortunes.
Monks
chaunt.
‘Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: Domine, quis
sustinebit.
FRANCIS
(speaking the response).
‘Quia apud te propitiatio est et propter legem tuam
sustinui te, Domine.’
(Shouts without.
Enter Leyva and Spanish troops.
LEYVA.
What drowsy dirge is this? Be we not conquerors?
Shout a Te Deum for our victory,
And leave these doleful dumps to Frenchmen!
PESCARA.
Leyva, this boist'rous triumph shows not well
Before the fallen—
FRANCIS.
Oh, sir, take no heed,
For I take none of this;—to be o'ercome
May be the lot of base and brave alike,—
But, to be moderate in conquest makes
A great man greater than his victory.
SOLDIERS.
Come, baldpates, come, a merry psalm!
LEYVA.
Pescara, it is fitting thou should'st talk,
Who hast but march'd some leagues thy lusty troops
Through fruitful lands, levying all plenteousness,
To satisfy their need or their desire:
These wretches have been pent within their walls
141
Save scraps thy dogs would loathe:—I cannot curb them—
They're mad with hunger and excess.—
Enter, shouting, a body of drunken Soldiers; they seize the ornaments on the Priests, and begin stripping the altar.
FRANCIS.
Do ye stand by, and see this sacrilege?
Oh Spanish nobles!—Christian gentlemen!
Francis snatches a sword from one of the Soldiers.—Shouts without.
Enter Bourbon, followed by Spanish Officers and Soldiery.
BOURBON.
(Striking down a soldier at the foot of the altar.)
Down, dog! How now, whence this unholy outrage?
Pescara, Leyva—( seeing Francis)
—The king!
FRANCIS.
Bourbon!
BOURBON.
Wounded—alone—a prisoner!—Oh, sir!
Had you but hearken'd timely to true counsel,
This ne'er had come to pass—you had not fallen
To this estate—nor Italy been drench'd
With the best blood of your best chivalry.
FRANCIS.
This is a strange encounter for us two,
My lord—full of deep thoughts that need no comment.
That thou wert wrong'd, the world will bear thee witness;
That wrong endur'd hath made thee commit wrong;
The world and all its aftertimes will judge thee:
142
I will not wrangle with the lot she throws me,
Nor hold this day the darkest of my life,
Though thou hast won, and I lost all save honour.
(To Pescara)
—Sir, take my sword, I am your prisoner.
BOURBON
(to an Officer).
Go, bid our trumpets sound to the recall.
All slaughter, and despoiling of the dead, forbear.
And for our royal prisoners, their fate
Hangs at the mastery of Charles of Spain.—
From us all courtesy their rank doth claim,
And admiration for their noble valour.
Now sheathe your bloody swords, and all prepare
To march to Spain this very hour, that there,
By well-improved victory, we may
Crown the strange tale of this eventful day.
| Francis the First | |