University of Virginia Library

Scene I.

—The Roman encampment in Gaul. Tent of Acilius. Enter from tent, as if in conversation, Acilius and Otho.
Acil.
Such is the peril, Otho, to our arms,
Should these fierce Gauls compel us to engage
Ere our new levies reach us. What advise you?

Otho.
Why, when the strong arm fails, the subtle brain
Must make its failure good. In short, my General,
A happy stratagem might save us.

Acil.
Well—
Invent one.

Otho.
No; a child could foil me in
An intrigue. Put me on plain, easy work—
Fighting.

Acil.
These plotting Druids baffle us;
And Gaul would see its life in Rome's protection
But for their tyranny.
Enter Marcus
What is it Marcus?

Marc.
My lord, a vagrant Gaul, who tells us he
Is a deserter, is within our lines
And under guard.

Acil.
There keep him. What's he like?

Marc.
More an Iberian than a Gaul. He'd rather
Poison than strike, or else his looks belie him.

Otho.
Come now, a true deserter, and no spy.

Acil.
(To Marcus.)
Conduct him hither.

[Exit Marcus
Otho.
'Tis no patriot grief
Stamps such a visage.

Acil.
Trust not to a visage.
I've known the deepest villain in all Rome,
Bearing so open and unwrit a brow,
With voice so frank and hearty, smile so genial,
You'd look for a lightning flash from yonder sky,
Rather than guile from him.
(Enter Marcus and Arnulf.)
(To Arnulf.)
Your name?
(Arnulf glances at Marcus, as if to have him dismissed.)
Go, Marcus.
[Exit Marcus
Now?

Arn.
Arnulf, my name.

Acil.
Your motive for desertion?

Arn.
Hate's my motive;
A weakness, I admit but still I have it;
Steady though fierce clear-sighted, though relentless
Hate for inflicted wrongs.

Acil.
And who their author?

Arn.
The council of confederated chiefs,—
Ambron, their leader,—Norma, the high priestess,
Who has them all more abject than her hound
At her least beck.

Otho.
And your offence—what was it?

Arn.
It matters not! Yet, lest you doubt me, hear it:
Lieutenant 'mong the Arverni, I withheld
Gold due a comrade's widow; was for that
Doomed to be scourged and branded,—then degraded
To servile tendance on the army, Desperate
I threw myself at Norma's feet, for she
Could save me, but she gave me to my ruin.

Acil.
Well, Otho?

Otho.
I believe him.

Acil.
(To Arnulf.)
And does Norma
Urge on the war?

Arn.
Proclaims what you'll deny not:
The timely moment and your feeble state.
Roused by her eager words the tribes are arming
For a descent upon you that shall be
Resistless as an unexpected torrent!
But, mark me, Roman, 'tis a woman's will
That guides the impending mischief.

Acil.
And what then?

Arn.
Then, put your hand upon the helm that guides.

Acil.
How? Seize her person?

Arn.
Nay, her will.

Acil.
By bribes?

Arn.
Bribes? No! Not bribes in your sense. This it is
Hedged by her sacred office from the approach
Of youths enamored, Norma now has reached
The first rich bloom of womanhood, unwooed,
But not—I fancy—not unwoo-able,
If we may trust in gender. In her heart
(Waiting its master as the rose its June)
A world of sighs and tears and ecstacies
Lurk to befool her, for she is a woman!
And not fanatic zeal nor iron custom,
Strong as they are, can bind a woman's will.
Guess you my drift?

Acil.
But vaguely. Make it plainer.

Arn.
That duping awe, which frights the simple Gaul
From gazing with a thought of mortal passion
On Norma's beauty, would not dash the Roman.
This briefly then: select some noble youth
From out your ranks—and let his errand be
To woo and wed the priestess—privately.—
As it perforce must be—for she must break
Her vestal vow first, and the penalty
For that is death. But once his wedded wife
He can subdue her to Rome's purposes,
And through her wield or sheathe the Gallic sabre.

Otho.
A rare adventure for some gilded youth!
And, in our present straits, methinks the scheme
Were worth the instant trying.

Acil.
Try it then.

Otho.
I? I should scare her with my beard—and she
Frighten me with her smoothness ten times worse.

Acil.
(To Arnulf.)
What style of wooer would you have us send?

Arn.
A thorough man—yet not so absolute
A man, he cannot freely sport with those
Illusions that do catch a woman's heart,
And make her dream (poor fool) there's such a thing
As love,—O! endless and unchangeable—
A man, in short, can talk, and look, and sigh—
Ay, weep if need be, in extremity.

Acil.
(To Otho.)
Know you of such?

Otho.
I cannot on the moment—
Hold! Is not that Octavian? It is he!
The man for this adventure!

Acil.
The rich knight
Who seeks a battle as one would a revel,
Flying from weariness;—comes here to Gaul
As to an ampler amphitheatre
With games in which he too may bear a part.

Otho.
But still the man we seek. Let me accost him

[Exit.
Arn.
(Aside.)
Now, Ambron, mine shall be a double vengeance!

Acil.
And do your Druids, Gaul, in sacrifice
Shed human blood?

Arn.
Once, freely; rarely now,
Since Norma, paramount in war as peace,
Holds them in check, nay, with extinction threat—

Acil.
A moment wait.
The chosen gallant comes!
(Enter Otho and Octavian.)
Octavian, many welcomes!

Oct.
Salutation!
What wild work's this you've carved for me, my chief?
Is this our Gaul? Well, Gaul, what evil spirit
Has thrust into thy brain this villain plot
'Gainst Norma?

Arn.
Is't a villain plot, to find
A husband for the lady?

Oct.
Husband? Husband?

Arn.
No lover will our Gallic women heed,
Who sues not for the ampler title. They,
Being uncivilized, have still an awkward
Respect for chastity and nuptial faith.

Oct.
Do you hear that, my chief? A husband! I!
No! Find some other victim for the frolic.
What!—run my neck into the noose domestic—
Stand coupled for a life-time with a woman!
Not were she Helen and Pe-nelo-pe,
Aspasia and Lucretia—all in one!

Acil.
'Tis to serve Rome; the marriage will of course
Then be invalid by Rome's highest law!

Oct.
But not by that established here, my chief,
A higher law—a law we cannot break
Without a chafing and a—Tell me, Gaul,
Did you ne'er feel, before a scoundrel action,
A something pulling, tugging at your heart
To bring it right, though never conquering
In the unequal contest?

Arn.
War, my lord,
Levels all nice distinctions. Stratagems
That would be base, as between man and man,
Are to a General's honor—if successful.

Oct.
Success! Ay, that's the consecrating charm
If I do fail, my crime is but a crime;
If I succeed, 'tis inspiration, glory.
The gods think otherwise:—but pardon me—
Believe you in the gods?

Arn.
Religiously.
(Aside.)
That is, not at all.

Oct.
You look like a pious youth!
The gods take up the threads of consequence
To our triumphant sins; and retribution
Comes, shod with wool—but comes.—I play th' haranguer;
Forgive me, friends; I'll further probe this scheme
And straightway join you.

Otho.
(Aside to Octavian.)
Things look bad enough.
We snatch at straws. Do what you can to save us.

[Exeunt Acilius and Otho
Arn.
(To Octavian abstracted.)
My lord!

Oct.
Well, Gaul?

Arn.
I cannot urge it on you.
The peril far outweighs the honor of't.
You go alone—you cross the Gallic lines—
You seek the sacred grove where Norma dwells:—
What are the chances?—That before you reach it
You're seized as a spy and slain. And, should you pierce
Unseen to Norma's presence, there's the risk
Your fair words may not raise the tender thought,
Or even avail to save your forfeit life.

Oct.
True; there's the risk.

Arn.
And should you even succeed—
Should you win Norma—(and believe me, Roman,
The conquest might make even a Cæsar proud)—
You jeopard both your lives and make disclosure
Twice imminent.

Oct.
Proceed. You argue well.

Arn.
(Aside.)
Have I misread my man? (Aloud.)
I've said enough
For your dissuasion.

Oct.
Gaul, what see you there,
Tied to the oak tree?

Arn.
There? A horse who chafes
To break away.

Oct.
'Tis mine. I go to mount him.
Brief the time now between me and my object!

Arn.
Since you wilt rush to the venture 'gainst my urging,
Take this, (shows a small parchment,)
a chart, on which are dotted down
The lines to guide you. Norma's mansion lies
Upon the sunward border of this grove,
Nestled 'mid roses, blossoms of the grape,
And all the odor-shedding flowers and shrubs.
Reach that—and Norma's heart!—and you are safe.

Oct.
(Taking the chart.)
Before I thank you, I must see more clearly
The issue of this bus'ness. You can wait.

[Exit
Arn.
Ah, my fine, fleering blade! for all your scorn
I may requite you too in the general quittance.—
So treads the future victor! He'll not fail.
He takes a hurried leave of them;—he throws
Aside his martial trappings—mounts his horse
And gallops towards the outposts.—So far well!
Now must I get permission to lurk near
And watch him closely, lest he do relent.

[Exit