University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Garden, near the Ganges.
Rhaida waiting.
RHAIDA.
The sun has set, and now should Meignoun come,
My dear, dear shepherd! All day long he leaves
My soul to wander; but at dark he comes,
Lovelier than night, to his poor Hindoo maid.
Look! On the holy altars flames the fire,
Which holy priests now feed with myrrh and flowers:
That is his signal—hark! he comes, he comes!
No,—no: O, faithless shepherd! 'tis the rush
Of the great Ganges, who doth love her lord
(Her ocean husband) more than thou lov'st me.
Fond fool, he will not come; yet, soft!—he's here!
He is here, and I wrong him. O Meignoun!

Meignoun enters.
MEIGNOUN.
My heart! my dear one!

RHAIDA.
My—my own! (falls into his arms.)
You're come?

MEIGNOUN.
Ay, but I soon must leave thee, sweet Hindoo!
With scarce a kiss from thy rich lip, must I
Seek the great City. Even now, my friends
Are waiting for me on the river banks;
And I must sigh—farewell!

RHAIDA.
Go,—go: farewell!

MEIGNOUN.
To-morrow I will come to thee betimes;
And I will bring with me the nuptial lamp,
And the bright bridal jewels—

RHAIDA.
Come thyself.
O thou, who art beyond all gems to me!
Bring me thyself; or (if thou wilt aught else),
E'en bring one lotus lily for my breast,
And swear upon't that thou wilt love me ever.

MEIGNOUN.
I'll do't, thou jealous girl; yet I have sworn,
A thousand times already, 'neath the stars,
To love,—and I do love thee.

RHAIDA.
Swear't again.
Never too often can a lover vow:
So once more vow, and I will list to thee
With ears more greedy than the mother owns,
When on her first-born's stammering words she hangs,
And thanks sweet Heaven for Music. Wilt thou love me?

MEIGNOUN.
I love thee now.

RHAIDA.
But ever, ever love me?

MEIGNOUN.
I love thee, and will love thee. Tush! not so
The summer nightingale shall haunt the rose:
Not Kunya (when 'mongst village maids he dwelt,
In his bright boyhood, and did woo, and win),
E'er loved as I will love. I'll bear thee hence
A bride more envied—

RHAIDA.
O thou vain, vain shepherd!

MEIGNOUN.
How?—but you chide me well: I had forgot.
I dreamt, as oft I dream, and sometimes hope.
A shepherd? that was true; yet, in past times,
The shepherd's sword hath cut its way to power.
I'll come and re-demand thee.

RHAIDA.
'Twill be vain.
And yet, if thou wouldst cast this cloak aside,
And tell us thy true name and parentage—?

MEIGNOUN.
Suppose, sweet, I should be that fierce Decoit,
Whose very name is terror to the land,
The river-robber, Kemaun?—Dost thou shrink?
Fear not: your Rajah tracks him where he lurks,
In the dark jungles. He has braved the law;
And powerful hands are on him.

RHAIDA.
Let him go.
You smile! ha! what art thou? Speak! Have I given
My whole heart to—

MEIGNOUN.
A robber? Dream not so.
Yet,—being a robber, he's a potent one;
Next to your prince in power. But I must go:
And, ere I go, one word of your fierce father:
I swore (as thou rememberest) to come back,
And from his lips force gentler words. Now, mark!
That hour is near; and, for the subtle slave
Who whispered lies in thy harsh father's ear,
I'll bring his fit reward.

RHAIDA.
He is too base—

MEIGNOUN.
[Voices are heard singing at a distance.

RHAIDA.
Must you go?

MEIGNOUN.
Dost hear the river surging 'gainst its banks?

RHAIDA.
It murmurs like a tender bride, methinks:
“Leave me not, love,” it says, “so soon this night,
When heaven looks kind on earth, and earth is happy.”

MEIGNOUN.
The storm is coming. If I more delay
We shall not 'scape the ambush. Love, farewell.

[Exit quickly.
RHAIDA.
His step grows faint,—and fainter; all is still.

[Listening.
Muttra comes out of a thicket of shrubs.
MUTTRA.
So, he is gone. Come forward; all is quiet.

The Zemindar enters.
ZEMINDAR.
Now, now, where is she? Ah, look where she stands,
The fool, still dreaming of that base Decoit,
That water robber, whom I more abhor
Than poison: but I'll wake her. Girl!

[Strikes her.
RHAIDA.
Ah, father.

MUTTRA.
Ho, ho! ho, ho!— (Aside.)
She will burn famously.
Those snaky locks, with which she snares men's hearts,
That tongue, with which she scorns them—she scorned me.

ZEMINDAR.
What, are you dumb?

MUTTRA
(aside).
Not yet: but soon she shall be.
Her ancles, silver-bound, her round soft arms,
Her bosom with his white love leaves upon it,
All shall consume: the priests are ready for her;
The flames are hungry, and my heart's ablaze
With a brave fury. (To Zemindar)
—Shall both die by fire?

ZEMINDAR.
Go in, and wait. (Rhaida exit.)
What say you? both by fire?
No; she may burn, because her blood will wash
A dark blot from my house: but he—come near!
I've dug a hole beneath my peepul trees,
And in't we'll tumble him. To-morrow night,
When his blood beats hot, we'll shut him up.

MUTTRA.
Ho, ho!
What alive? alive?

ZEMINDAR.
Ay, full of life and lust.
We'll cool his dreams, the while we quench his courage.

MUTTRA.
I love thee: good! But he will die—too soon?

ZEMINDAR.
No: I have fenced his grave all round with stone,
And pierced the lid with holes. Thro' these same holes,
The music of his screams shall soothe our ears.
Three days and nights I'll live beside his grave,
And listen—while he starves.

MUTTRA.
O brave! O brave!
Come, let us look upon this pretty place.
Come on, come on. Beneath the peepul trees?
Was it not there? This is the shortest path.

[Exeunt.