University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

The Study of Calaynos. Enter Oliver.
Oliver.
I do not like this journey of my lord's—
And yet I know not why; the path is safe,
And we are guarded by a retinue.
'T is many a year since last I saw Seville;
'T is natural, therefore, I should wish to go:
Yet do I not. What can this feeling mean?
Is it that influence, o'ermastering will,
Presentiment, which pulls me from the wish,
And presses on my heart its leaden weight?
I 've heard that soundest sleepers will awake
When danger steals upon them. It may be
The first low knocking of death's pallid hand,
Ere he flings wide the gate which shelters life,
That so appalls my mind and shakes my purpose.
Pshaw! this is idle.—I must e'en end thus,
As I began, I do not wish to go.

(Enter Calaynos.)
Calaynos.
Are all things ready for our setting forth?

Oli.
They are, my lord.

Cal.
Then, at the break of day,
Mount all the train.

Oli.
You have delayed till then?

Cal.
Yes; 't was my lady's wish, not my intent.
But on the morrow we must sure begone;
We do but give our parting lengthened pangs
By keeping doubt alive.

(Enter a Servant.)
Servant.
My lord, old Friar Gil is in the hall,
And craves admittance.

Cal.
Friar Gil! how 's this?
'T was but a week ago we met, and then
He tottered so beneath his weight of years,
He scarce could ope the door that guards his cell.

Ser.
He seems to walk with pain, and well-nigh dropped
Ere we could bring him to the neighboring hall.

Cal.
Admit him, then. [Exit Servant.]
'T is near a miracle;
So feeble—

(Enter Friar Gil.)
Friar Gil.
Son, my blessing!

Cal.
Welcome, Father!
Thou art fatigued and weakened by thy walk.—
What cause has drawn thee from thy cell so far?
Such lengthened walks, to one of thy great age,
Are full of peril. Why not send for me?
Bring a chair, Oliver. [Oliver places a chair.]

So, sit thee down.

Friar G.
I feared to miss thee; as I lately heard
That thou design'st a journey to Seville:
I came to warn thee from that dangerous step.

Cal.
Dangerous! What danger do you know or fear?

Friar G.
None that is certain, every one I fear.

Oli.
Ha! here 's another seer. [Aside.]


Cal.
Father, thy path through life was long and hard,
And thou hast gathered wisdom by the way;
But this idea is baseless fantasy.

Friar G.
Hear me, Calaynos! As I lay last night
Sleepless, but why I know not, on my bed,
Telling my beads and thinking o'er my sins,
Thy grandsire, as I saw him ere he left
This castle for Seville, before me stood,
Pointing his hand, through which the moonbeams shone,
To a great gash beneath his lifted arm;
Then, solemnly and slow, he waved his hand,
As if in warning, towards the castle-gate.
I strove to speak; but, ere my tongue was loosed,
The melancholy shadow passed away.
So, with the dawn, I rose to seek thee here:
Once turned me back, to 'scape thy lordship's laugh;
But, ere three steps were taken, I prostrate fell,
Though the path 'neath me was without a stone.
It seemed the will of heaven that urged me on,
And gave my feeble frame unwonted strength:
So have I sought thee, though but half in hope,
To overrule thee in this enterprise.

Cal.
For thy kind zeal I thank thee. 'T was a dream,
Bred on a superstition of our house,
That to my race Seville brings fated death.

Friar G.
Has it not been? Did not the one I saw
Fall at Seville, struck by a coward's steel
Over the wine-cup? So thy father thought;
And he did homage by a deputy,
As oft I 've heard him say. Go further back;
All of thy race shunned, as a plague, Seville.
And thou, the last of all the mighty line,
The wisest, greatest, without heir or kin,
Wouldst tempt thy fate, though nothing urges thee!

Cal.
This is a thing at which my reason laughs,
And naught but actual trial can resolve.

Friar G.
Go, go, thou headstrong man! Nay, I'll not chide;
May God go with thee! I have done my part.

[Going.]
Cal.
Farewell! We'll meet again.

Friar G.
Perhaps—farewell!

[Exit.]
Oli.
I hope, my lord, you'll take the Friar's advice.

Cal.
Take what?—Take hellebore, good Oliver!
For you with Friar Gil have lost your wits.

Oli.
I am not superstitious, as you know;
But when I think what greatness hangs on you,
And with your fall how much would be o'erthrown,
I nigh believe that watchful heaven might send
This anxious phantom to avert your ill.

Cal.
I do not go through stiff-necked stubbornness;
I view these rights of homage to the crown
As a stale pageant better unperformed,
At least by me, who can depute the act.
But in Seville I have a most dear friend,
From whom, till late, I had not heard for years;
And now he writes me in the closest straits,
Saying his lands are forfeit for some debts,
By knavish means imposed upon his hands:
Should the law take its course, his wealth is gone,
And he turned forth in utter beggary.
Some days ago, I sent him present aid;
With promise to redeem his lands from pawn,
When at Seville I shall the court attend.

Oli.
Let me not balk you in this noble act,
Though instant peril stare us in the face.

Cal.
He loves not good who turns from it through fear.
O, what a joy is it to have the power
That lifts from want the worthy sufferer!
What double rapture when he calls us friend,
And with that name wipes obligation off!
Out, out!—my heart 's afire, till this be done!
Urge on the loiterers,—see them all prepared
To start at dawn,—our speed shall clip the way!

[Exeunt.]