University of Virginia Library

SCENE VII.

—Changes to the Hall of the Castle.
(Time—Night.)
Enter, to Mary and Adelaide, Wingfield and Francisco.
Wing.
Father Francisco is come.

Fran.
God bless your Highness!

Mary.
Father, I give you thanks. O, I am glad,
I'm comforted once more to see
That humble habit, and that sacred emblem.

Fran.
'Tis the peculiar duty of our order,
To minister to prisoners.

Mary.
You seem to feel, as if you once had felt
The misery of them who learn to note
The dreary hours by the slow-moving shadow
Of staunchel-bars upon the chequered floor;
To whom the cheerful sun shines but to tell
That life and joy exist, but not for them;
Whose serenade is noise of closing bolts;
To whom the sweetest sound that meets the ear
Is the slow warden's morning-steps ascending,
And then the ringing of the loosened hasps;
Even the stern face, that seems to grudge a look,
And tongue returning monosyllables
To anxious questioning, even these
Impart a kind of pleasure to the wretch
Whose home's the prison-house.

Fran.
Be comforted.

Adel.
Be comforted!

Fran.
How many pine in prisons for the crime
Of poverty, who never were accused
Of any greater guilt?

Mary.
The debtor! Oh, his lot is happiness
Compared to mine; his friends, those whom he loves,
They visit him. Have we not, Adele, marked,
The little barefoot boy come to the gate,
Bearing his prisoned father's morning mess?
At sight of whom the keeper's frown would change
Into a smile; and, as he let him in,
He'd pitying stroak the elfin's sun-bleached head.
I've wished to be the parent of that child.

Wing.
You would not wish to have your child with you?
These gloomy walls would frighten him.

Mary.
(Reproachfully.)
I'd shake this chain before my baby's face,
And please him thus, and then he'd smile to me.

Fran.
Ah! why these bonds?

[To Wingfield.
Wing.
I thought you came to comfort, not to move
Her discontent.

Fran.
Your Highness' thoughts, I trust, are turned to heaven?

Mary.
Yes; and the more that sorrow fills the heart,
Heaven shines more glorious to the sight of hope;
As to the tear-filled eye the tiniest star
Shoots forth a thousand beams athwart the gloom.

Fran.
I say it is not seemly, 'tis not right,
[To Wingfield.
This strict restraint—chains!

Wing.
Art thou the bearer of the Queen's commission?

Mary.
See what a furrow in my wrist it makes.

[To Francisco.
Fran.
'Tis barbarous.

Wing.
Withdraw, I do command.—
[Exit Francisco.
To show how much it is my earnest wish
To grant your Highness all indulgences,
I have allowed this priest to consecrate
The chapel; he comes to tell you this,
And to announce, that on the morrow morn
He will perform the service of the mass,
And that you and this lady here may join.
He'll be again with you ere night.

[Exit.
Adel.
O what a wretch is that!

Mary.
The friar had some ruth;—
I thought I saw a tear start in his eye.
Voice from without. Beware, beware!

Adel.
O God! that is the voice of Douglas.

Mary.
'Tis his:—There's something dreadful meant against us.
Farther access, no doubt, they have denied him:
'Twas from the garden that the warning came.—
I dread some horrid purpose 'gainst my life:
This low'ring Wingfield came not here for nought.—
Lead me to my chamber; I'm sick with apprehension:
Beware!—that word—it had a heavy knell.
I see dark visions float before mine eyes.
I used to love to muse on death; but now,
Behind his form, I see a hooked wheel,
Half-covered with a black, but blood-stained pall,
And in his knurled hand, 'stead of a dart,
He shakes fell torture-irons.—
Bear, bear me from the sight!

[Mary leans on Adelaide, looking wildly.
Adel.
O, Mary, I would die for thee.

[Exeunt.