University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

Another part of the Field. Enter Conor, meeting Caffa.
CAFFA.
Thy Judas-Star doth culminate in Heaven,
Only to sink the lower into Hell!
I hear God's thunder-gong tolling in Heaven
For thy damned soul! Prepare for death! for here,
With this right hand, will I unroll for thee
The iron Scroll of thy dark destiny!
'Tis written with an iron Pen in blood!
Read it, if thy weak eyes can bear such light,
And not be struck stone blind! Methinks thy ears
Should be as deaf as thou art blind to hear
Thy damning sentence read!

CONOR.
But I am not!

CAFFA.
False man! let not thy disbelief in God
Make thee believe that he is dead! He lives!
And he will raise Naisa up from death,
And His two other Sons, to make them live—
Whose living shall be daily death to thee!
This thou shalt see, if thou dost live! If not,
Then thou shalt see them after death, from Hell,
As Dives did Lazarus in Heaven! Ah! weep!
And tremble at my power!

CONOR.
Who told thee this?
Tell me who told thee this! speak out the truth!

CAFFA.
A Voice from out the Past, whose living tones
Vibrate through all the Future—reaching far
Away into the Sunless Night of Time,
Like rays shot from Apollo's golden bow,
Down through the abysmal depths of space,
Breaking into reverberant echoes round
The bleeding world!

CONOR.
So cry the Future Years!
Startling the Ear of Time, upturned to hear
God's lightning-curses rolling down through Heaven
In thunders—shivering in fiery splinters in
My soul!

CAFFA.
Now the last iron lash of God's
Great indignation is broken in thy soul!

CONOR.
I bear the thunder that no soul can hear,
But one like mine—crying aloud to me—
“Prepare to meet thy God!” The Gates of Hell,
Flung open wide, now wait for thy damned soul!

CAFFA.
That was the Bath Kol of thy doom! Thine eyes—
Like thy deaf ears so long unstopped to sounds
Of heavenly truth—shall soon be couched, to see
Visions unseen by mortal man before!
The fiery fingers of the Fiends of Hell,
Snatching at thy lost soul, shall drag thee down
Where lightning-chains shall clank around thy form
In thunderous splinters, manacling thy limbs
In serpentinious folds—seething into thy flesh
With fire unquenchable, fierce as the hiss
Of those immortal, ravenous snakes, whose tongues,
Of poisonous fire, shall lap forever thy black blood,
While Scorpions red are burrowing in thy bones!
Hell's Bandogs, louder than the direful clang
Of twice ten thousand shields by Titans hurled—
(Gog against Magog, fighting for the World)—
Shall pile obstreperous thunders round thy soul,—
High as Olympus! Thou shalt writhe beneath
The impending weight, like Titans when the Gods,
To keep them down from Heaven, hurled mountains on
Their prostrate forms—whose wrestlings underneath
Made earthquakes in the world!

CONOR.
Poor bleeding Stag!
I hear the Hellhounds barking for me now—
Following my bloody track—close on my heels!
Is there no Covert for the stricken deer?
No hope for my despair? Is there no God?
No Christ? No Heaven? No Hell?

CAFFA.
Yes, there is Hell!
There you will find your God—your Christ—your Heaven!

CONOR.
Then come to my release! Wishing to know
The worst, I long to rush into the arms
Of my desire! Then open wide thy doors!
For, feeling now unworthy of the world,
I long to be where I can feel at home!
For any place were better now than this,
Where I am most unfit to be! Oh! God!
Oh! Death! who art my God! my Christ! my Heaven!—
Because my Saviour from this life of sin!—
Come down to me!—If thou art up, come down!
If down—come up! redeem me from this death,
Which is my life, by ending of my death;
That, dying, I may be redeemed from death!
If that be life which is to come of death!—
The death that I may die!—Come down to me!
If that thou art an Angel in the Heavens—
Come—minister to my despair! If not,
Come up, from where thou art, to my release!
They say thou art the twin of Sleep! then come,
My gentle Geminus! rock me to rest,—
For I am weary of the world! Show me
Thy skeleton form—thine eyeless orbs of stone—
That I may hug thee in mine arms of flesh,
And warm thee with the joy that burns for thee,—
Since my crushed heart is cold to all besides!
Daidra will not have me now—poor, lost,
Dethronéd King! She will not have me now!
She, who refused me while I lived, will not
Be mine now I am dead! She, who refused
Me on my throne, will not sit by me now,
Here in this wormy grave! Oh! God! is this
Not hard? harder than Hell itself to bear?
It is! Then let me go to Hell! Come forth,
Oh! Death! come forth! for this damned life is worse,
Ten thousand times, than Hell!

CAFFA.
Thy Lord is here!
Behold thy King! thy Comforter is come!
Prepare to die!

Enter Naisa, Ainli, and Ardan, whom he supposes to be dead.
CONOR.
My Lord! my God! my Heaven!
What now! who comes? What's there! my friends, or foes?
My foes! my Hells! three Hells in shape of Heaven!
Alive, or dead? dead, or alive? Alive!—
An Incubus, far mightier than Death,
Weighs on my heart, pressing my soul from out
My body in the air—colder than ice!
My hair is changed to strands of piercing wire!
My heart has ceased to beat! my lips are dumb!
My blood crawls through my limbs like frozen snakes,
In hibernation of eternal death!
Speak! that my soul may know its doom! Speak out!
Let me not die in ignorance of my fate!
If I am doomed to Hell, why, tell me so!
No word? no answer yet? They will not speak!
But are as dumb as Death!—perhaps as deaf!
Oh! God! their silence louder speaks than words!
Thundering my doom! They tell me I am damned!
Enter Daidra.
But look! behold! she comes! 'tis she! 'tis she!
The Angel of my soul! my life! my Heaven!
Are they not dead? were they not killed?—they were!
But yet they live!—or else they could not come
To me in this bright armor of their lives—
Brighter than when they lived!—Speak to my soul!
By my eternal God! this silence is too long—
Shattering my soul to deafness with its shouts
Of adamantine thunder! You must speak!
My soul cannot endure this rack of pain—
This speech that looks so loud, but will not speak!
Are they the spirits of the dead? they are!
Then, God! no wonder they are dumb! for why
Should an immortal to a mortal speak?
Then, my Daidra! Angel of my heart!
A Lily fresh-blown from the Fields of Heaven!
Being now freed from every earthly taint,
But no more of an Angel than when first
I knew thy heavenly love! let me kneel down
And worship thee once more before I die!
Oh! God! she waives me not to kneel! Then—then—
She is not dead, but lives! yet, will not speak!
Mute as the Sons of Usna are! What does
This mean? have they come here to torture me?
Surely they have! for this is worse than Hell!
Speak! that my soul may know its doom! Speak out!
I charge thee, by the God of Heaven! to speak!
By all the Devils in Hell! I charge thee, speak!
By all that one man owes another, speak!
Have you no tongue, nor ears? Have ye no souls?
Are ye alive, or dead? Speak to my soul!
[Naisa points downwards.
Avaunt! begone out of my sight! to Hell
Thyself! down—down with Devils damned! Avaunt,
I say! Is there no God in Heaven!
[Naisa points upwards.
Then why
Permit me to be tortured thus? Who did
I ever torture thus?
[Naisa first points to himself, then to Daidra.
When did I this?

[Naisa answers by pantomime.
Liar! it was not I who did this thing—
But you, who tore her from my heart—which now
Lies bleeding at her feet! For this there is
No hope for thee in life—or death! For that—
Not for premeditated wrong—I sold
Thy soul to Hell! This was the reason why
I falsified my guarantee! Which sin
Was greater, yours or mine?—for you to steal
My wife, or me to scorn my guarantee?
The God of Heaven will answer for us both,
When we do meet together at his Bar,
Where each shall know his doom!
[Naisa points downwards again.
Begone from me!—
Oh! my Daidra! cruel, cruel child!
How can you treat me so? Speak, my dear Queen!
Speak to my soul, but one soft word, before
I die, that thy dear voice may cheer me in
My exile, whether I go to Heaven or Hell?

CAFFA.
“He who speaks, sows; but he who keeps silence, reaps.
Speech is silvern; silence is golden.”

CONOR.
True—
Silence never yet was written down. “Who says
What he likes, shall hear what he does not like.”

CAFFA.
Then, does the Fox thrive best who is most curst?
Enter the Spirit of Illan the Fair.
Nemesis is awake! She sleeps no more!
But with the lightning-lash of God now walks
The world to scourge the Offender down to Hell!

CONOR.
Who is it that I see before me now;
In form of one that was not long since dead?
Is it a Phantom conjured by the brain
By too long laboring with unhealthy thoughts;
Or is it a bold reality? It is
No Phantom, but a bold reality!
Whither shall I fly? Behind is Hell!
Before me, that which doth appal me more
Than legions of black Devils hot from Hell!
For in the lightning-wake of thy dread form,
Clad like the resurrection of the just—
I see the long funeral train of all
My buried years coming up from the Past,
Like some invincible army, to besiege
Again this trembling City of my life!
Avaunt! or tell me why you come to me
In more than mortal make—larger in death
Than in the mightiest manhood of your life!
Spreading this mildew of dark death
Over the iron mail of all my soul!
Speak out! or vanish from my sight again,
Into the grave, less dismal than thy form!
Your silence appals me more than even your sight—
Striking me dumber with your speechless speech,
Than could ten thousand thunders sent from Hell!
Open those speechless, eloquent, speaking lips,
And take this horrible Nightmare from my soul,
Causing my heart, like some impetuous sea,
Stormed into tempests by the roaring winds,
To beat with thunderous surgings in my breast—
Washing away the sands beneath my house of life—
Tottering where I now stand, ready to fall!—
Is this Naisa's spirit that I see?
If so, then God has sent him here to take
Revenge upon my life! Can I escape
The death that God determines I shall die?
Now do I know that the dead live again!—
Are you alive or dead? If you were dead,
You could not walk with such majestic life!
But the dead are dead! But if the dead should live,
It is not Death that lives, but life, which is
From God—God being the God not of the dead,
But of the living! Then he is not from Hell,
But Heaven! Then God has sent him here to wreak
Swift vengeance on my soul! If this be so,
Should I thus tamely stand? submit to him?
No! I will fight with him until the last
Drop leaves my heart! for, in the strife, my soul
Will harden itself against his sword,
Which else would cut deep pangs through all my life;
So that the strife will harden my heart to die
Without the pangs that yielding now would give!
Come on! if you have come to take my life,
The sooner done the better! After this—
Seeing what I now see—this life could be
Nothing but living death! for never will this
Foul Apparition leave my sight! Come on!

NAISA.
The chain of silence which so long has lain
Upon my soul, is broken—broken as
I mean to break thy rotten bones! Know, then,
That this same sword by which I fell, was charmed—
Seeming to kill, but not yet dead!—I live!
A Phœnix newly risen! By this same sword,
Will I now cut thy thread of life in twain!
The life that you inherit is from Hell—
Mine is from Heaven! Therefore, the difference in
Our destiny! For you, life has no charm,
Because your life had never any charm!

CONOR.
This is a bitter fate! but only makes
My soul harder to bear the ills of time!
My heart is now hard as the Rock of Hell!
No charmed sword, made of celestial steel,
Forged in the fires of Heaven—then tempered in
The cold waves of the Celtiberian brook,
Can pierce this adamantine mail which sight
Of thee has woven around my soul! Come on!
My soul is diamond—not to be cut
By anything less hard!

NAISA.
Your soul is clay—
Crumbling, as your vile body is, to dust!
There is no light for you in Sun or Moon!
But all the world is dark—dark as your soul—
Which is the fountain of your life, wherein
Your thoughts, like midnight devils, drown themselves
In strangling wretchedness.

CONOR.
Your words are truth,
But do not mend my case! Speak that which will
Inspire some hope, or speak no more! I will
Not hear you tell what I already know!
If there is no medicine can cure this grief,
Then help the disease to be my cure in death!

NAISA.
Know you not that the soul, by doing ill,
Will drag itself down from Heaven into Hell?

CONOR.
I know—by which I lose two thrones,—the one
On earth—the other, brighter one, in Heaven!
Farewell to both! since she is gone who made
Them so!

NAISA.
You mean Daidra?

CONOR.
Name her not!
Since she is gone from me forever more!
When you went down to Hell, she went to Heaven.

NAISA.
Then Heaven went into Heaven—where you
Will never go.

CONOR.
I do not want to go.
Unless she could be mine, it were no Heaven—
But Hell.

NAISA.
For how could Heaven unite with Hell?

CONOR.
As readily as I with thee. We have
A mutual repulsion!

NAISA.
There you wish to speak
Your own foul praise, but lie in doing so;
For present hate does argue previous love—
I never had for thee.

CONOR.
Nor I for thee.
Therefore, there being no hate between us two,
Let us depart in peace—you to your home—
Me back to mine.

NAISA.
Then down to Hell—where now
The Devil waits to crown thee King! My home
Is here on Eman's throne.

CONOR.
Liar! that is
My throne! for petty King of Ullad thou
Shalt never be—unless a ghost can reign—
Or now discrown her lawful King! Come on!

NAISA.
I make you bold touching your earthly love;
But know the only heir to that proud throne,
Stands here before you now, as Usna's Son.

CONOR.
You must discrown me first—which I defy
A ghost to do! for never shall my throne
Be filled by one of Usna's Sons—who stole
My kingdom when they stole my wife away!

NAISA.
Liar! she never was thy wife! she would
Not stoop to hate so foul a fiend!

CONOR.
But she
Could die—as did her impious lover here!
Thereby inheriting the hate of all
Posterity—the burning fires of Hell!

NAISA.
But I have only parleyed here this long
To make your death more terrible to you!
Your life is forfeited! you have to die!
Had you a thousand thrones to give for life,
You could not live an hour!

CONOR.
Who put my life
Into your hands? Who made you Executioner?
A Sheriff needs more mortal bones than yours!
But the mere sight of him who once was dead,
But lives again—knowing that this is not
From him, but God—has made my soul, that once
Was soft with fear—harder than adamant!—
You may now hack me all to pieces, but this
Terrible fear, that now appals my soul,
Has so hardened my heart, that I can die
And feel no pang! Come on, Infernal Ghost!
And he who conquers shall be Ullad's King
Forever more in Eman! Now, come on!
For fear that I may rally again to life,
And die in tortures! Draw, I say! Come on!
For with this trusty sword, tempered in Hell,
I'll hew my pathway through thy spectral form
Up to my throne in Heaven—or down to Hell.

[They fight desperately.—Conor falls.
NAISA.
Now does the iron chain of silence lie
Heavy upon thy lying tongue! But, hark!
I hear the Devils coming up from Hell,
To rivet fiery chains around thy soul!

CONOR.
Liar! it is not silence—for I speak!
Although the chain lies heavy, yet, I speak—
Telling thee to thy face, thou art no ghost,
But flesh and blood, as I am now—for nought
But flesh and blood could so contend against
Far better blood—bringing me down to death!

NAISA.
Where is thy throne now, little man? the chain
Of silence is around thy tongue! Open thy lips
And speak to me! Come up from thy foul grave,
And speak again as I do now to thee!

CONOR.
Oh! Barach! Barach! do revenge my death!
Let not this Son of Usna steal my throne!
Poison him in the night! Fergus has played
Me false! Then Caffa's dread Enchantments have
Been fatal to my life! Oh! damn his soul!
Take double vengeance on them all—all—all!
Oh! God! God! God! his sword was cold as ice!
But hot as fire! Hell's flames were in the blade!
I hear it hissing in my heart! I feel
It seething in my soul! Oh! damnéd fiend!
Away! begone! my heart—my head—my soul—
Are all on fire! Some water! fire! fire! fire!

[Dies.
CAFFA.
Poor Conor! thy false heart has ceased to beat!
Thy blood is stagnant! cold as ice! Death! death!
And thine immortal spirit gone to God!
Oh! what an awful sight is this!—to see
God's Angel, called the God of Death, turn out
A tenant from his body-house, because
He had refused the heavenly Landlord rent!
Gods! how he voiced away his agony!
In shrieks that would have torn his own hard heart,
Had he been auditor! But he is gone—
Gone to the dismal Shades below, where voice
Of mourning cannot come!—Farewell! farewell!

[Exeunt omnes. Scene closes.