University of Virginia Library

SCENE VIII.

A Pavilion at Montalva's Castle.
Enter the Prince Montalva meeting Francisco.
Francisco.
Oh! venerable Prince! I've news to tell
Will seize the feeble fibres of thy brain,
And tho' thy nerves could mock the temper'd steel,
Would shiver them with horror!

Montalva.
Where's my son?
All the long night I watch'd for his return.
Heav'n grant no ill betide him.

Francisco.
Well I know,
He that reports ill news ungracious seems,
Howe'er his phrase be fashion'd: therefore hear
A tale that mocks all harmony of speech!
Startled by groans of anguish, I arose
Ere I had pressed my pillow one short hour,
And to the forest, where the tow'rs of Valmont
Rear their dark battlements, pursu'd my way;
There, hold my heart while I reveal a story
Big with all Hell's worst horrors! your brave son
Lay by the thicket side, a piteous corse;
The ruddy stream once mantling o'er his cheek
Had flown to drench a dire assassin's sword!

Montalva.
Nay, then, my weary journey soon will end,
And my long pilgrimage of worldly woe
Fade like a fev'rish dream! The source is still
From whence my spring of rapture rose so bright!
The flow'r that deck'd my silver hairs is dead!
Blasted and scatter'd by the ruthless storm!

Francisco.
Oh! 'twas a cruel deed—

Montalva.
Alas! Francisco!
And shall I never see my child again?
Never, in converse sweet, beguile the hour
That closes life's dull scene? It is most strange,
So near the castle, and at night's still noon,
When ev'ry moaning breeze distinctly steals
O'er meditation's ear, to be so butcher'd!

Francisco.
I know not what to think; yet much I fear
Some secret malice urg'd the murd'rer's sword
More than the hope of plunder.

Montalva.
Even so!
Oh! good Francisco! Heav'n absolve my soul,
If, without proof, I judge a fellow creature;
But shrewd suspicion points at Alferenzi:
A rival's hate alone could prompt an act
So fraught with ruin! Oh! my gallant Albert!

Francisco.
Say, shall I lead you to him? The rude swains
And village girls have strew'd his graceful corse,
And ev'ry fragrant bud was steep'd in tears!

Montalva.
Ah! let me not behold him; for my eyes,
If once they fix'd upon my murdered boy,
Would start with anguish from their humid spheres,
And yield me up to darkness! Here I swear,
Never to cherish hope or seek repose
Till I have dragg'd the curst assassin forth,
And, by the last deep groan that rends his heart,
Appeas'd the spirit of my valiant son!

[Exeunt.