University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Rustan, Mufti.
Rustan.
The night looks black and boding. Darkness fell
Precipitate and heavy o'er the world;
At once extinguishing the sun: and lo!
What clouds ascending deepen shade on shade.
Some ruffling storm is nigh. But are we safe?
Are we alone? I would be shrouded close
From mortal eye and ear. List—

Mufti.
All is still.

Rustan.
Then tell me—for my soul impatient longs
To hear the news—What has our dreaded Lord
At last resolv'd?

Mufti.
I follow'd to his tent.
The scene was terrible. His mind appear'd
A mighty ocean stir'd by fighting winds.
His pace uncertain, fury in his aspect,
His bosom heaving with convulsive thoughts,
By turns he cast his eyes severe on heaven;
By turns he bent them gloomy on the ground:
A pause of silence where dumb horror reign'd,
More wild and more expressive to the sight,
Than on the ear the storm of words can pour.

Rustan.
Proceed, my Lord.

Mufti.
At last, in broken sounds
By passion render'd vehement, and low;
“Mufti, he cry'd, how says our sacred law?
“What doom inflicts it on a trusted slave,
“Who plots destruction to his master's house?
“In close conjunction with their foe profest,
“A rancorous heretic—”

Rustan.
He meant the Persian;
Who long has courted Mustapha in private.
Well, you reply'd—

Mufti.
His blood be on my head.
Thus stain'd and black with complicated guilt,
He merits more than death; chief for his league
With heretics, a race on earth abhor'd,
Accurst of heaven.

Rustan.
Ay, that was well, my Lord;
And after Solyman's own heart. I hope
You urg'd it home with weight of argument.

Mufti.
I did: and prov'd all heresy more black,
More pestilent, than even the false belief
Of Christian dogs. He bow'd his head profound,
Invoking heaven, attesting Mahomet:
And cry'd—“This son must perish. Not a world,
“A pleading world should save him from my justice.”
Then order'd his confinement.

Rustan.
Ha! confinement?
By Azrael, the angel that must sever
His soul and mortal part! I was in hopes,
His execution, Mufti, had been order'd.
This tardy vengeance dashes half my joys:
'Tis dangerous, and may be deadly to us.
Would I had ne'er embarqu'd on this wild sea,
Where tempest ever rages!—conscience too
Now sharpens all her stings—

Mufti.
Away, my Lord;
What are you doing but what thousand statesmen,
Who liv'd and died in fame, have done before you?
He shall not scape. I have fresh accusations,
That with the Sultan's piety will weigh
More strong than all his crimes. This Mustapha
Is a rank unbeliever.

Rustan.
How, my Lord?
This news revives my heart.

Mufti.
Inflam'd with zeal,
And holy hatred to the foes of heaven,
Jews, Christians, who pollute our pious land,
I would have wrought that boy to prompt his father
In giving to the sword those infidels.
What was his answer, think you?

Rustan.
I can guess:
Some libertine reply.

Mufti.
'Twas most profane!
He pointed to a plain that lay before us,
Profusely gay with flowers—“Admire, he cry'd,
“Wise nature's various hand: a thousand colors
“A thousand odors, greet the sight and smell.
“Fair suns arise, and genial dews descend
“To foster all alike: and in return,
“They waft their mingled incense to the sky,
“A grateful offering there. Perhaps 'tis so
“With difference in opinions: this at least,
“They have their use; nor shall they want protection,
“While those who hold them live, as subjects should,
“In amity and peace, promoting each
“The general wealth, observant of the laws,
“And to their sovereign true.”—He said: and turn'd
Abruptly from me, frowning scorn and anger.

Rustan.
I thank thee for this news: but go, my Lord,
Watch near the Sultan's door. I will the while
Walk here and meditate.