SCENE VI.
[An open space in a wood,—tables arranged
for a banquet,—Rousso, Anagnosti, Antonio
Melidori, and their followers, discovered feasting.]
ANAGNOSTI.
A soldier's life forever! free to pass
In feast or fray! how glorious this wild banquet
Compared to those dull, formal feasts of old,
Held at the olive harvest! Speak, Antonio,
Give us thy thought upon it: what! art silent?
ROUSSO.
Urge him no more; perchance Antonio pines
For the sweet quiet of that mountain life,
Which thou hast called so dull; its days of dream,
Its nights of warm voluptuous dalliance!
ANTONIO.
No, no, by heaven! those times are dead to me;
They had their pleasures, but not one to match
The keen delights of glory, the true honor
Which follows patriot service.
ROUSSO.
Gallant words,
Brave, and high-sounding; but for me and mine,
We do not fight for shadows!
ANTONIO
[coldly].
I'm at fault,
Not clearly comprehending, sir, your meaning.
ROUSSO.
Oh! thou dost well to speak of glory, honors,
We know what rich rewards await thee, chief,
When the war's ended; spoils, and wealth and beauty.
But yestermorn, I saw thy winsome lady.
The bride to be, old Affendouli's daughter.
Nay, shrink not, man, she is a lovely maid,
Fair as her father's generous; what an eye!
Half arch, half languishing; and what a breast!
That heaves as 'twould burst outward to the day,
And strike men mad with its white panting passion!
No lovelier woman lives, unless, unless—
It be that poor young thing who doted on thee,
Before the war,—what was her name? Philota?
ANTONIO.
Thy thoughts run on fair damsels; let us talk
Like soldiers, not like brain-sick boys in love.
ROUSSO.
With all my heart; only, one pledge to thee,
And Affendouli's daughter!
ANTONIO.
I have borne
This jesting with the patience of a saint,
But now 'tis stretched to license. Prithee, cease!
ROUSSO.
God, how he winces! if Philota—
ANTONIO.
Villain!
Utter that sacred name again—
ROUSSO
[rising suddenly and drawing
his dagger].
Oh, ho!
Wilt fight, wilt fight! I'm ready for thee; come.
ANTONIO
[aside].
(He shall not trap me thus.) Thou art my host;
'Twere shame, yea, bitter shame, this brawl should end
In blows and bloodshed! when the time befits,
[To Rousso].
Doubt not that I shall call thee to account
For this day's work; meanwhile I leave a board
Where clownish insult poisons all your cups!
[As he is about to depart, Anagnosti approaches,
with an air of conciliation.]
ANAGNOSTI.
Well spoken, noble captain, thou wert wronged;
But Rousso is so hasty! He repents;
Let not this solemn feast of unity
Break up in discord.
ROUSSO.
No, no, no, Antonio!
I do repent! Prithee embrace me, friend,
In sign of reconcilement.
[Rousso approaches Melidori with an unsteady
step; while in the act of embracing, he stabs
him in the side. Philota rushes upon the scene,
with a cry of agony, and throws herself beside
Antonio, whose head she supports.]
PHILOTA.
Too late! O God, too late! He faints, he dies!
Why stare ye thus upon us, cruel men?
Wine, wine, another cup, how slow ye move!
My scarf is drenched with blood,—ye pitiless fools!
Will not a creature loan me wherewithal
To bind his wretched wound up? There, 'tis stanched,
And he revives! Antonio, speak to me,
I am Philota!
ANTONIO
[his mind wandering].
Where hast thou been, my love, this weary time?
Am I not true? I charge thee, heed them not!
The girl is nothing to me; Rousso's tongue,
His sharp false tongue first joined our names together;
She loves another, and I love but thee;
Draw nearer, let me whisper. I have dreamed,
Oh, such a dream! the valleys flowed with blood,
And ruin compassed all our island round,
And every town was sacked, and, hark ye, nearer!
I saw a mother murdered by a knave,
A coward knave, because she would not yield
Her body to him; but I saved her child,
And here he is, a pretty, pretty boy!
Take him, Philota. Ah, my heart, my heart!
It pains me sorely; 'twas a terrible dream,
But now, thank Heaven, 'tis over! Thou art pale;
What makes thee pale? Bear up, my dearest love!
This morn we shall be wedded, and I think
We will not part again. I had a foe,
His name is Rousso; but we are so happy,
Let us forgive all foes; invite him thither,
PHILOTA
[weeping].
He breaks my heart—
ANTONIO.
How keen the wind is!
Keen, keen, and chill; it was not wont to blow
So coldly at this season: I am sick,
Yea, sick of very joy; but joy kills not;
My lids are heavy; I would sleep, Philota.
Wake me at early dawn; I told my mother,
That I would bring thee home, to-morrow morn.
[He dies.]
