University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A Street, near the Palace.
Oswald walking to and fro in a reverie.
OSWALD.
Revenge is sure!—
I have so wrought upon his fiery heart
He'll never rest till he has found Elfrida;
What follows? he will win her to his will,
And I shall see those dark, imperial eyes,
That flashed their scorn like lightning on mine own,
When at her feet I sighed my passion forth,—
Gods! I shall see them bent to the earth in shame
Beneath my gaze of triumph; and her lip—
Curled with but half-suppressed derision then—
Shall quiver with remorseful agony,
Ere I my vow of vengeance cancel! Lady!
Thou'st crushed a serpent that hath still a sting!
(Enter Athelwold.)
Ah! Athelwold! my noble friend! how fare you?

ATHELWOLD.
Oswald! well met! Thou'rt just the man I want;
I've heard thee lavish of unlovely names
Full oft on scoundrels;—help me now to pour
My just abuse upon the veriest slave,
The vilest, meanest, most malignant rascal—

OSWALD.
Whom can you mean, my Lord?

ATHELWOLD.
In sooth, I know not;—some poor pitiful fellow
Who's robbed me of my favour with the King,
And dares not shew himself. Knew I his name,
I'd brand him first as coward through the realm,
Then to the earth his low-born carcass trample!
Now I think on't, I caught a glimpse of some one
Leaving the presence-chamber as I entered.
I did not see his face—his form I glanced at;
It had a cringing air—Think you 'twas he?

OSWALD.
In truth, my Lord,—

ATHELWOLD.
But, Oswald, answer me!
Was't not a venomous wretch?

OSWALD.
My Lord, in truth—

ATHELWOLD.
In truth, my Lord—my Lord, in truth—why so
I am—in truth, a Lord—my courteous friend!
But what has tam'd thee thus? for God's sake, rave!
Be furious! storm! as thou art wont when I
See fit to give the reins unto my passion,—
Was't not an odious knave?

OSWALD.
I—good my Lord—

ATHELWOLD.
Why, Oswald, what's the matter?
Art thou in love? has some bewitching dame
Thy service slighted, or thy rival crowned
With love's own rosy garland?

OSWALD
(aside.)
'Sdeath! doth he mock me?

ATHELWOLD.
Yet, gentle Oswald! if you love me, spare
This knave of mine one round of rich invective,
To comfort me, for I am sick at heart;—
Was't not a white-heart craven?

OSWALD.
Yes! hell and fury! death! damnation!—I

ATHELWOLD.
Why, this is stirring! this is as it should be!
On, on, good Oswald! spare not hell nor fury,
Be prodigal of death, and heap damnation
On the poor wretch's head! Why! were he thine,
Thy foe, thou couldst not curse him with more relish!
I thank thee, Oswald! thou hast cool'd my temper!
Farewell, my friend; but prithee do not let
My going stay thy torrent of abuse
Against this caitiff-butt of ours—ha! ha!
How he would tremble could he hear us rage!
He'd never dare to own it—would he, Oswald?
Ha! ha! ha! ha! poor fellow! Fare thee well!

[Exit.
OSWALD.
“Slave!” “coward!” “rascal!” “pitiful fellow!” “knave!”
“Poor white-heart craven!” “sneaking, venomous wretch!”
“This caitiff-butt of ours!”—well! well! I've borne it,
And must, perchance, again; and watch, meanwhile,
This wild volcano raging in my breast,
Lest one light spark betray me. God of heaven
What have I not endured this last half-hour!
I could have dashed my torturer to the earth,
With right good-will! but each fresh taunt of his,
Though traced in burning letters on my brain,
Made the appropriation harder still.
And have I lived to bear these insults calmly?
Ay! 'tis the meed of treachery like mine.
I was his confidant—I have betrayed him,
And do deserve his scorn—but not the less
Will I pursue my purpose to its end.