University of Virginia Library

ROMIERO:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Don Romiero, a noble Spaniard.
• Don Guzman, his friend.
• Don Maurice, a youth in love with Beatrice.
• Don Sebastian, father of Zorada.
• Jerome, domestic of Romiero.
• Pietro, domestic of Romiero.
• Mariners, passengers, domestics, &c.

WOMEN

• Zorada, the wife of Romiero.
• Beatrice, her friend.
• Nurse.

Scene in or near the castle of Romiero, by the seashore of the Mediterranean. Time, during the reign of Peter the Cruel, King of Castile, towards the middle of the 14th century.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The sea-shore after a storm, with the masts of a wrecked vessel seen above the water at a distance, and casks and various chests, boards, &c. floating on the waves. Enter shipwrecked mariners and passengers, followed by Sebastian, who keeps apart from the others.
1st pass.
Well, sirs! to tread on firm dry earth again
Makes the heart glad and thankful.

1st mar.
With good cause;
For a dry grave at home is, after all,
The secret wish and prayer of every seaman,
Ay, even the boldest of us.
None hath so long or roughly lived at sea
As to be careless where his bones are laid,—
In sacred ground, or in the gulfy deep.
And thou, too, thinkst so, if I read thee right.

[To 2d passenger.
2d pass.
Ay, so in truth thou dost; I said my prayers
Devoutly as the tempest louder wax'd,
Nor am ashamed to own it.

2d mar.
Nor needs to be so; seaman as I am,
Let me, as oft as fortune beckons me,
On summer seas or rough December's waves,
Career it boldly with my jolly mates;
But let me die at last in mine own cot,
With all my kinsfolk round me. My poor wife!
She listens to the winds when others sleep,
And thinks,—Well, well! we are all safe on shore.

3d mar.
But, saving this, what have we else to cheer us?
Men on dry land are hungry and lack food;
We cannot live on safety only. See,
Here comes a countryman. Ho! friend, I say! [Calling off the stage.
(Voice answering without.)

What dost thou say? I cannot hear thy words.

3d mar.
Come hither, if thou hast a Christian heart,
Or any charity; come near, I pray thee.

Enter Pietro.
Pie.
What is your will with me?

3d mar.
I pray thee, friend,
What shore is this? Be there or food, or shelter,
Or Christian pity in these parts? Thou seest
What miserable shipwreck'd men we are.

Pie.
Yes, ye are cast upon a shore, where shelter
And Christian pity never are withheld
From those who want them. Seest thou through the trees
That castle? There a noble lady dwells,
Who will have pity on you.

3d mar.
Thank Providence for this! Your noble ladies,
When once they take to goodness, are most bountiful:
The best of all; the men to them are nothing.

1st pass.
She hath no lord then?

Pie.
He is absent now,
Kept at the king's high court, as it is said,
But my opinion is—

3d mar.
Whate'er it be,
That is not our concern. What is his name?

Pie.
They call him Don Romiero.

Seb.
(advancing hastily).
What saidst thou? Is he absent?

Pie.
He is, but his good lady will relieve you,
Ye need not fear for that.

Seb.
We will not fear. Ye love that lady, then,
Who is, ye say, so good?

Pie.
How should we else? A very brute would love her.

Seb.
Yes, thou sayst well; she was e'en from her birth—
I mean, all ladies sprung from noble blood
Are, from their birth, to generous actions train'd;
At least, it should be so.

Pie.
And is so, friend; for I have oft observ'd
Good birth and breeding, as in my own lady,
With gracious kindness join'd.

Seb.
What is her name?

Pie.
Donna Zorada. Thou hast heard, belike,
How her poor father—

Seb.
(turning away).
No; I hear no stories;
I am a man withdrawn from worldly coil,
Who hears or cares for nothing.

Pie.
(to 3d mar.)
This is no mariner? and he speaks strangely.

3d mar.
The strangest thing is that he spoke at all.
We took him up at sea from a small boat,
Which, by the moonlight, we descried afar,
Like a black cockle on the glimmering waves;
But whether earth or hell had sent him to us,
We doubted much.

1st mar.
Nay; when the hurricane wax'd to its pitch
We scarcely doubted, and were once resolved
To cast him overboard. Yet, ne'ertheless,
He hath escaped; and God be praised, we did not.

Pie.
Hush! he returns again. Go on, poor souls,
In lucky hour ye come; for in that wood
Not many paces hence, amongst the trees,
Donna Zorada takes her morning walk;
You'll find her there. Come, I will lead you to her:
And, as we go, there are some words of counsel
Which I shall give to you. They may be useful;
For age, and some small share of shrewd observance,
Have made me, though I say it, fit to counsel.

1st mar.
Do so, good man, and heaven reward thy kindness!

[Exeunt all but Sebastian.
Seb.
(alone).
So near her! Led, as by the hand of heaven,
Even to her very door! And I shall shortly
See her again, and hold her to my heart!
My child! my child! Oh! when those gentle eyes
Look on my woe-worn face and alter'd form,
And these coarse weeds, how will thy piteous heart
Swell e'en to bursting! In that wood hard by,—
So near me! Blessed heaven hath brought me here.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A wood, with various walks and alleys cut through it. Enter Zorada and Beatrice, speaking as they enter.
Bea.
In truth, I slept it out. At times, indeed,
A sound came to my ears, as it had been
The distant roar of wheels, and then I dreamt
Of coursing chariots and approaching crowds,
And courtly tournaments, and tried in vain
To cast my richest mantle o'er my form,
To meet the coming show!

Zor.
Thy mantle for the show!

Bea.
Yes, but perversely,
Still, as one tassell'd end across my shoulders
I had composed, the others to the ground
Fell dangling all awry. Then I look'd down,
And, O sight of confusion! Canst thou guess
What saw I then?

Zor.
Some fearful thing, no doubt.

Bea.
My own bare feet unslipper'd and unhosed,
That on the chequer'd floor began to move
In dancing measure. Yea, the very blood
Rush'd to my cheeks; I felt it in my dream.

Zor.
How could a dream so vain find harbourage
In thy fantastic brain, my little friend,
On such a dreadful night?

Bea.
It was the tempest's sound that brought the dream.

Zor.
So grand a cause producing thoughts so vain!

Bea.
Who takes account of that? Thou wert awake,
Else thou, belike, hadst ta'en the mighty blast
For the quick waving of some gallant's hat
To cool thy glowing cheek, or the soft winnowing
Of outstretch'd pinions—Cupid's wings, perhaps;
Or those of downy swans, as I have seen them,
Scared from the sedgy margin of the lake,
Bending their hurried flight across thy path.

Zor.
I was, indeed, awake, and heard with awe
The war of elements, whose mingled roar
Brought to mine ear the howl of raging fiends,
The lash of mountain billows, the wild shrieks
Of sinking wretches; and at intervals
Cross'd strangely with the near distinctive sounds
Of clatt'ring casements, creaking beams and doors
Burst from their fastenings, swinging in the blast.
It was a fearful night; and many a soul,
On sea and land, have found a dismal end.

Bea.
Ay, we shall hear sad tales of this ere long,
When seated round our evening fire. Alas!
It will be piteous; but, the ill then past,
It will be soft and pleasing piteousness.

Zor.
Sad tales, I fear! O how my sympathy
Follows the seaman's hardy, perilous life;
And the poor passengers, torn from their homes
To toss upon the rude and fathomless deep,
Who shall no more on the dry land set foot,
Nor find a peaceful rest e'en for their bones.
It is a dismal thought.

Bea.
And yet how fair and bright the morning shines,
As if it laugh'd at all the late turmoil!
There's not a cloud in the whole azure sky.

Zor.
None, save those little wanderers, pure as snow,
Those wild bewilder'd things, so hasting on
Like sea-birds to their rock.—What men are these?

Enter Mariners, &c.
1st mar.
We are, an' please ye, good and noble lady,
Poor shipwreck'd seamen, cast upon your shore;
Our all is lost; and we are spent and faint
For want of food.

Zor.
Ye shall not want it long.
Go to the castle, where all needful succour
Will be provided for you.—From what port?
But stop not now to answer idle questions.
Are ye all mariners?

1st mar.
(pointing to pass.)
Those men are merchants;
And he who lingers yonder 'midst the bushes,
Is one we found at sea, some leagues from shore.
We know not what he is.

Zor.
Why keeps he thus aloof? Call to him, friend.

1st mar.
(calling off the stage.)
Ho! there; come this way, sir; the lady calls ye.

Zor.
He has a noble air, though coarsely clad.
How is it that he moves so tardily?

3d mar.
He's wayward, lady; neither mores nor speaks
Like other men.

Zor.
Enter Sebastian, bending his head, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
[He bows in silence, and she seems agitaled. (To the mariners, &c.)
Pass on, my friends; this lady will conduct you.
Wilt thou, my Beatrice, do this kind office?
And I will follow shortly. Tell my people
To serve these shipwreek'd strangers bountifully.

Mariners, &c.
(speaking all together).
God bless your liberal heart, my noble lady!

[Exeunt all but Zor. and Seb.
Zor.
(eagerly).
Who art thou?

Seb.
Hush, till they be farther off.

Zor.
Oh! is it thou?

Seb.
Stand from me; no embrace;
They may look back and see us.

Zor.
How slow they move! Will they ne'er gain the thicket?
My yearning heart will burst; how slow they move!
(Stands looking after them impatiently and trembling all over for a few minutes.)
Now they are out of sight.
(Rushing into his arms.)
My father! my dear father!

Seb.
My dear child!

Zor.
Oh! art thou here in dread? come here to see me
In peril of discovery? too, too kind!
Dear father! kind, and good, and dear to me,
How and where'er thou art. I fear, I fear
Thou art not as I would: tears in thine eyes,
And anguish on thy face! How hast thou fared?

Seb.
Thou shalt hear all when I have words to tell thee.

Zor.
Not now; take breath awhile, and be composed.
Lean on the grass, and I will fetch thee nourishment.

Seb.
(preventing her from going).
Not now, dear child
I am composed again, and from my side
Thou shalt not move, till I have told thee all.
(After a pause.)
Thou knowst the bitter wrongs and foul affront,
Which my ungrateful monarch put upon me,
As meet reward for many years of service.
Ay, though I say it, valiant, faithful service
In field and council.

Zor.
I know it all too well; a burning shame
That he should so requite thee! Some base wretch
Hath tempted him with—

Seb.
Say his noble nature,—
I think it once was noble,—was abused
By the base machinations of my foes.
Say what thou wilt; I was a man, a soldier,
And sought revenge, that baleful remedy
For bitterness of heart.

Zor.
Nay, pause, I pray you! do not tell it now:
Thou art too much distress'd.

Seb.
No, hear it now; 'tis short, and when once told,
One misery is past. Leagued with three chiefs,
Resentful as myself, we did in secret
Derise the means, and soon had reach'd our mark.

Zor.
Your mark! O what was that?

Seb.
I see the fearful meaning of thine eye;
But be not so disturb'd.—Our mark indeed
Was vengeance, but not murder.—On his throne
We meant to place a nobler prince, whose hand
Had even justice to his subjects dealt.
We meant to place on Pedro's worthles brow
That which became it better than a crown.

Zor.
I understand;—a monk's unseemly cowl.
I'm glad you did not mean to shed his blood.

Seb.
My gentle child, we meant but as I say.
And while revenging my especial wrongs,
We should have freed Castile from a hard master,
Who now sheds noble blood upon the scaffold,
As lavishly as hinds the common water
Of village pool cast o'er their arid fields.
And yet to kindle in our native land
The flames of civil discord, even this
Has often rack'd my mind with many doubts,
Recoiling thoughts, and feelings of remorse.

Zor.
Ha! that indeed had been a fearful consequence,
Had your concerted enterprise succeeded.
But speak not now of this. How did you fail?

Seb.
Amongst our number, one accursed traitor
Like Judas lurk'd, and to the royal ear
Divulged the whole.—But we were warn'd of this,
And fled, each as he might. I gain'd the coast,
And lay disguised till I could find a boat,
In which I reach'd last night that founder'd bark,
Whose slender mast just peeps above the surge,
Like some black wizard's wand, token of ill.

Zor.
No, not of ill, dear father, but of good.
'Tis heaven hath sent thee here.
My lord did write to me some distant hints
Of your sad story. When he shall return,
He will protect you. Cherish'd here with us,
You shall in secret live, till fair occasion
Shall offer to convey you where you would,—
Some land of safety.

Seb.
Thy lord's return! no, no! beware of that!
He may not be my friend.—Nay, it is said
That he and others, from their kindred ties
Suspected as abettors of our treason,
To clear themselves, have sworn unto the king,
Dead or alive, wherever they may find us,
Our bodies to deliver to his power.

Zor.
'Tis false! thou wrongst Romiero.
Do not believe it. Some false Judas also
Hath, in this point, deceived you. No, he did not—
He swore no oath so cruel and so base.
Do not believe it.—Hark! the castle bell!

[Bell sounds.
Seb.
Some traveller of note must be arrived.

Zor.
And I must quit my dear and honour'd parent,
With heartless ceremony to receive
A most unwelcome guest.—
Enter that tangled path; it leads to shelter,
An aged woman's cot, where thou mayst rest
And have refreshment. She will minister
To thy necessity. O woe is me!
That any hand but mine should have that office!

Seb.
When shall we meet again?

Zor.
At fall of eve beneath the castle wall,
Near to the northern postern. Heaven watch o'er thee!
There's some one coming! part as we were strangers,
Without one sign of love. That is the path.

[Exit Sebastian; and, after a pause, Don Maurice enters by the opposite side.
Maur.
Good tidings! Don Romiero is arrived.

Zor.
My lord return'd? and art thou sure 'tis he?

Maur.
Yes, I am sure; why should I doubt it, madam?
His train is in the court, and joyful vassals,
Hearing the notice bell, crowd in to greet him.
I have not seen him yet, but am in haste
Come to apprise you of it.
[Observing Zorada motion with her hand, and point as to something at a distance.
What man is that to whom you motion so?

Zor.
A shipwreck'd stranger, who inquired his way,
But was about to take the erring path.

Maur.
He has a stately air, though mean his garb;
I'll go myself and guide him through the wood.

Zor.
No, no! I pray thee, let us to the castle.

Maur.
I'll follow thee: but, 'faith, I fain would go
And hold some parley with that stranger. Surely
He is no common man.

Zor.
I do beseech thee!

Maur.
I'll soon return.

[Going.
Zor.
O stay, Don Maurice, stay.

Maur.
Why? How is this?

Zor.
I cannot stir without thee.

Maur.
What is the matter, lady? You are pale.

Zor.
I've wrench'd my foot: I'm lame; I'm faint with pain.
I pray thee let me lean upon thine arm.

Maur.
Ay, to the world's end. Nay, lean all thy weight,
And let me bear thee up: thou dost but grasp me
As if to hold me fast. The pain is violent.

Zor.
No, it is better now; 'tis almost gone,
But I walk lamely still. Let us proceed.

[Exeunt.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An open entrance hall in the castle. Jerome, vassals, and domestics, are discovered in waiting. Enter Pietro.
Pie.
(to Jer.)
So, our good master is return'd in safety:
May I not see him?

Jer.
No, not now, good Pietro.

Pie.
Not now! how so? It is my privilege,
Which he has granted to this hoary head,
To see him, unreproved, whene'er I list.
I needs must greet him.

Jer.
Thou hadst better not!
Donna Zorada is not in the castle
To welcome his return: till he hath seen her,
I think thy courtesy would have small chance
Of courteous reception.

Pie.
Well, be it so: what changes wedlock makes,
That Don Romiero should be so possess'd!
He should have wedded earlier, as I think,
Or not so young a bride. For, as they say,
Let all things be in right and due proportion.
Let not the hart play gambols with the fawn.
Plant not a sapling olive by the side
Of the broad oak. Link not the bony staghound—

Jer.
Truce with thy wisdom, now! see, he is coming.

Enter Romiero, in a hurried, impatient manner, followed by Guzman.
Rom.
Not yet return'd! Go, Jerome, to the wood,
That is her favourite walk.

Jer.
Please you, my lord, I have sent Blas already
To search the wood, and now he is return'd.

Enter Blas.
Rom.
Hast found her, Blas?

Blas.
Yes, she will soon be here;
She's coming from the wood.

Rom.
With steps, I warrant,
Light as the bounding roe.

Blas.
Nay, good my lord,
Donna Zorada, somewhat lame, I guess,
Comes with slow steps, supported on the arm
Of young Don Maurice.

Rom.
I'll bear her in my arms: she is in pain.
The very pressure of the velvet turf
Will do her injury.

[Exit hastily.
Guz.
(to Pie.)
Thou wearst a surly smile upon thy face,
Good Pietro, mine old friend; what may it mean?
Thy lord, methinks, is a right tender husband.

Pie.
Ay, marry is he! I remember well
His lady mother urged him oft to wed.
“Become a woman's toy!” quoth he: “am I
Of such soft matter form'd, that you, forsooth
Would make a husband of me?” Then he'd speak
Of women, even the fairest and the best,
With such sharp taunts, that she, good lady, sigh'd,
And in despair forbore all further plea.

Guz.
But dost thou think he spake unfeignedly?

Pie.
Why should he feign with her who gave him birth?
She was a woman of good parts, well taught
Sober, and wise.

Guz.
And yet it might be so.

Pie.
I cannot tell; for now, as I remember,
His love for Donna Laura none suspected,
Till he was found at midnight in the vault
Lamenting o'er her grave.
'Twas said that many a night a sheeted spectre
Haunted the spot: that spectre was Romiero.

Guz.
It might be so: and yet he is not close,
Concealing what he feels, but with his friends
Free and confiding.

Pie.
Yes, St. Lawrence bless him.
His thoughts must have their vent; but yet I say,
And know it well, none did suspect his love
Till he was found lamenting o'er her grave.
Ah! many a cheerful face hides careful heart!
This is a saying well approved by all.
For sound experience teaches many things,
Which, as my mother, heaven rest her soul,
Was wont to say—

Guz.
Excuse me now, good Pietro;
I'll stay and hear it all another time;
I am in haste.

[Exit.
Pie.
(looking after him with displeasure).
He too in haste! That light and heedless youth,
Full of their youthful sports, should be impatient
When sober serious men begin to speak,
Is nothing marvellous; it was always so.
But now the evil still goes on increasing,
And men of middle age and understanding
Are e'en as light and foolish as the young.
An evil sign, I trow, of evil times.
Should it go on increasing, by my certes!
Ere I have spoken half a sentence, off
Each foolish varlet I address will run,
And leave me most discourteously to find,
As it may chance, another auditor
For the remaining half.—O foolish times!
Foolish and evil too!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Zorada's apartment. Enter Romiero and Zorada.
Rom.
Feelst thou no pain, my love? Thou art fatigued.
Ah! why didst thou refuse thine own support?
These arms that to the earth's far verge would bear,
Blessing their toil, so sweet, so dear a burthen.

Zor.
Indeed, my lord, I needed no support;
The pain had passed away: I walked with ease.

Rom.
The foolish envious pain which cast thee, sweet,
Upon another's care. Thus, thus, and thus
[Kissing her cheeks, and then both her hands, one after the other.
I pay thee my devotion. Nay, look on me,
Smile on me thy sweet smiles, and raise thine eyes,
Sweet mate, sweet play-fellow, pretty Zorada!

Zor.
Nay, good my lord, these words are full of fondness,
And yet they please me not. What shall I say?
Speak to me as a wife, companion, friend,
Not as a petted darling. Art thou well?
How has it fared with thee since last we parted?
My father too—what dost thou know of him?

Rom.
Thou needst not fear for him; he has escaped;
He is in safety in a foreign land,
Where he, I hope, will end his days in peace.

Zor.
And shall I ne'er behold his face again?
[He shakes his head.
O but I will! I'll go to comfort him,
And so wilt thou. Why dost thou turn from me?
May it not be?

Rom.
Oh ask me not! I've sworn—

Zor.
What hast thou sworn?

Rom.
I cannot tell thee now.

Zor.
Then it is true!
[Turning from him with violent gestures of distress and displeasure to the end of the chamber; then returning and looking in his face upbraidingly.
How couldst thou; Oh! how couldst thou
Swear to deliver to the tyrant's vengeance,
Dead or alive, wherever thou shalt find him,
My father, thine old friend, the brave Sebastian?
Is it not so? If thou hast sworn an oath
Less terrible than this, tell it me quickly.

Rom.
Dear love, he is in safety far from hence,
This oath, as to his life, is nugatory;
And, but for it, thou ne'er hadst seen thy husband.
Thou knowst the cruel nature of Don Pedro.
Ah! why that face of sorrow and displeasure?
Alas! I see I am not welcome here.

Zor.
No; say not so.

Rom.
How can I then explain
Thy sad averted looks? Where art thou going?

Zor.
I'm faint; I am not well; I'm sick at heart;
I long to be alone.

Rom.
Life of my life! Indeed, thou art not well;
Then wherefore leave this chamber?
[Pointing to a couch.
Here lay thee down, and I will watch by thee.

Zor.
I'll rest me in my closet for a while!
I'm wayward grown, and love to be alone.

Rom.
No; say not so; I know thou art not wayward;
It is not in thy nature; but distress,
From filial duty, strain'd, perhaps, too far,
Hath made thee so. Remain, my love, with me;
Thou wilt forgive me when thou hast consider'd.

Zor.
I cannot now consider, with a heart
Gored to the quick. I pray you, then, my lord,
Permit me to retire.

Rom.
I'll lead thee to thy closet: lean on me.
[She waves him off with her hand.
Wilt thou not deign to do it?
[Exit Zorada, still motioning him not to follow her; (stopping, with clasped hands, in a thoughtful posture, after having paced several times rapidly across the room.)
An absent father and a present husband
I' th' scales are put, and, to all outward seeming,
The last doth kick the beam. Is it for this—
For this that I have given my freedom up,
Drawn every strong affection of my heart
To one dear point?—and this the poor return!
[After a second pause.
My life in such a perilous circumstance,
And now restored to her and to my home!
This is of small account. O woman, woman!
One corner of a gallant's passing fancy
Pleaseth thee well; the whole devoted heart
Of man matured is to thee as a yoke,
A cumb'rous weight from which thou wouldst escape;
And friendship, filial duty, every tie
Defrauds thy husband of his dear-earned rights.
[After pacing again through the room as before.
I am a fool! I knew the heart of woman—
Knew what she had to give, and, Oh! too well,
What might, at price of many an inward pang,
To her be given; yet, ne'ertheless, forsooth!
I murmur at my lot.

[These last words spoken while Don Guzman is entering behind him.
Guz.
What art thou mutt'ring? Murmurs at thy lot!
Were these the words I heard thee utter now
In such a smother'd voice? With fair Zorada
Within that lot comprised, wouldst thou exchange it
For any other man's?

Rom.
No; not for his who fills th' imperial throne.

Guz.
What ails thee, then, possessing such a treasure?

Rom.
Ay, if I did possess it.

Guz.
Dost thou not?

Rom.
The heart I do not. Call ye it possessing,
When any tie of friendship or of nature
Crosses the vows which she has given to love?

Guz.
I do not understand fantastic notions
And fine-spun niceties of sentiment.
I'll comprehend thee better presently.

Rom.
'Tis plain and simple matter. My return,
Though from a perilous state, gives to Zorada
Slight pleasure: her affections and concern
Are all engross'd by what is duty call'd
To her unhappy father. I am nothing.

Guz.
And is this all, indeed, that troubles thee?

Rom.
Should there be more? Why dost thou smile so strangely?

Guz.
At thy most simple folly, noble friend.
Surely the men in these degenerate days,
When every high-plumed youth and idle stripling
Hath leave to play his gambols in the sight
Of maids and married dames without reproof,
And pour bewitching nonsense in their ears
At feast or tourney, is most fortunate,
Who can but charge a young and lovely wife
With too much duteous love for her old father.
[Laughing heartily.
I needs must laugh: thou art fantastical.

Rom.
No; thou art light of heart and canst not judge:
Having no care thyself, thou art incredulous
Of any cause which others have for care.
To speak to thee of what I feel, is folly,
Though, from long habitude, I needs must do it.
Thou hast no sympathy, and yet my heart
Clings to thee as a friend.

Guz.
Nay; fie upon thee!
Thou knowst full well that unto the world's end
I'd run to serve thee, though my pliant lip
Cannot approve of all thy fleeting notions.
But we'll debate no more on things so irksome.
I came to say that Maurice hath invited me
To see some curious cave which yesterday
He first discover'd, as along the shore
In quest of sea-birds' eggs he idly wander'd.

Rom.
Has he been here so long?

Guz.
Doubtless he has. It is a curious sight
This fairy cave, as he described it to me:
I shall be absent for an hour or so;
Perhaps, a little longer.

[Exit.
Rom.
(alone).
He is fortunate,
Who can but charge a young and lively wife
With too much duteous love for her old father!
The smile that follow'd too,—that had its meaning.
Lame and not lame, and leaning on his arm!
The stroke darts through me like an adder's sting,
Though but so slightly given.

Re-enter Guzman with Maurice.
Guz.
Maurice is come with me to tempt thee out,
If we may be so bold. The fairy cave
Is a short ride from hence, the day is cool,
And we will wait thy pleasure.

Maur.
I pray you be entreated, good my lord.

Rom.
I thank ye both; I mean to stay at home.

Maur.
What! here alone, the ladies being retired?
On such a day as this, when the blue waves
Heaving and sinking in the sunny gleam.
Show all the changes of their crisped sides
Like the seam'd foldings of a silken robe;
When every sea-bird is upon the wing
Skimming and diving for his finny prey;
When distant vessels, tacking to the breeze.
Seem dames whose snowy kirtles are stretch'd out
To the slow measure of some courtly dance;—
On such a day as this to stay at home
In gloomy chambers pent—

Rom.
Surprises thee.

Maur.
In truth it does. Methinks on such a day,
Did not we see above the glassy brine
The mast of that wreck'd vessel still appear
To tell the dismal tale of last night's storm,
One would with buoyant heart say to the ocean,
Let us career it o'er thy surgy fields
To every coast o' th' earth.

Rom.
I doubt not, sir, 'tis a fair sight to those
Who come so far afield to look upon it.
Is thine old tutor dead, or dame Magera,
That thou art rambling gallantly at large
In this our distant province?—Dost thou blush?
That is a folly, if thou hast no cause.

Maur.
I fear, my lord, I have offended you.
I am as free to ramble now at large
As any he who reckons twice my years;
Nor should my visit to this distant province
Be deem'd an idle ramble; Don Fernandez,
My aged kinsman, claims some duty of me:
I am an inmate of his lonely tower.

Guz.
Pooh! boy, thou'st said enough, and somewhat more:
Who cares about thy visit to thy kinsman?

Rom.
Who does not care? It is an age of duty;
Nought now is cherish'd in the tender breast
But ties of blood; and his good company,
With all his lore and saws and thrice-told tales,
Will well reward the virtue of this youth.
Go to your cave, and see it in its beauty:
The billows else may wash its shelly sides,
And make it bare and little worth to-morrow.
(Aside to Guzman.)
Take him away: why do ye linger here?

Guz.
(aside to him).
Why speakst thou so unkindly to the youth?

Rom.
(aside).
Spoke I unkindly? Then 'twas unawares,
I meant it not.

Guz.
(aside).
Be civil to him then, and make amends;
He stares and wonders at such taunting words.

Rom.
(aloud).
A pleasant ride, my friends.
[They turn to go, and he calls after them.
And hark, Don Maurice!
If thou preferr'st a wayward captious host
(For such I do confess myself to be),
With two fair ladies (both methinks are fair),
To thine old kinsman's company, return,
And be one night at least our honour'd guest.

Maur.
I do, with thanks, accept your courtesy.

[Exeunt Maurice and Guzman.
Rom.
(looking after Maurice).
The very eye and visage, light and thoughtless;
A woman's varying blushes with the tint
Of sun-burnt hunter mix'd; the very form,
Slight as a stripling, statured as a man,
Which has—detested spell! so oft beguiled
The female fancy, prizing worthless show.
(After a pause.)
Can it be so? O no! it cannot be;
I but distract myself. I'll crush within me
All thoughts which this way tend, as pois'nous asps
That sting the soul and turn its bliss to bane.
(After another pause.)
To think of it no more, indeed, were good,
If it were possible. And yet to know
The truth, if fair or foul, were better still;
They are both placed beneath my observation;
'Tis well I did invite him for the night.

[Rings a bell violently.
Enter Jerome.
[A pause, Romiero seeming unwilling to speak.
Jer.
What do you want, my lord?

Rom.
Thyself, good Jerome.
Who follow'd thee? I heard a creaking step.

Jer.
It was mine own, my lord.

Rom.
'Tis well; come nearer, man. How many oaks
Have by my brawny foresters been fell'd,
Since I left home?

Jer.
I do not know, my lord.
Shall I inquire?

Rom.
Of what wouldst thou inquire?

Jer.
The oaks which you have just been speaking of.
Do you not wish to know—

Rom.
True; but I have another thing to say.
How many times hath this young don been here
To visit Donna Beatrice?

Jer.
To visit her?

Rom.
Yes, fool! to visit her.
Why dost thou look so strangely at the question?
Answer it in few words and faithfully.

Jer.
He hath, for some days past, come to the gate,
At noon-tide hour or so, but whom to visit
It suits not me to say.

Rom.
Then! 'tis not Beatrice he comes to visit?

Jer.
It does not so appear; it may,—it may not.

Rom.
Why dost thou hesitate and stammer thus?
Art thou afraid to speak? What is the matter?

Jer.
Nothing, my lord, but you did fix your eyes
With such a keen intenseness on my face,
I fear'd I might offend.

Rom.
How fear'd, unless the thing thou hast to say
Should be of bad import?

Jer.
As I breathe life,
Nothing of good or bad import have I
To tell your honour.

Rom.
Well, well! be it so.
Thy strange bewilder'd face made me suspect thee.
Why dost thou wait?

Jer.
Your further pleasure, sir.

Rom.
There's nothing else.—Yes, yes! go bid my huntsman
Prepare him for to-morrow's early chace.

Jer.
Why, good my lord! he died the very day
Before you left the castle.

Rom.
Ay, true, I had forgotten.—Get thee gone.
[Exit Jerome. (Alone.)
I like not his scar'd face and wary words:
Something is always wrong when such as he
Stammer, and stare, and weigh their phrases so.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

Night. A grove near the walls of the castle, which is seen in the background, the moon appearing behind it. Enter Maurice.
Maur.
(after listening).
No footstep near, no stirring of the boughs,
Which cast their darken'd forms, distinct and motionless,
Athwart the paly lustre of the moon!
No gentle messenger to meet my hopes!—
Ah Hope! who makest the lover still thy fool!
Do I not know that she would give her presence
To no man living at an hour like this,
In such a spot as this, yet twice already
Some birch's shiny stem or blossom'd shrub
Have been to me her very form and semblance.
She may despise my billet—tear it—burn it,
Yet my heart beats as though—Ha! here comes Jerome. Enter Jerome.

What news?

Jer.
Good news.

Maur.
I'd smother thee with kisses,
But that thou art such an unseemly hound.
How look'd she? Was she angry? Was she pleas'd?
Will she vouchsafe to hear me plead my suit?

Jer.
She will.

Maur.
And where?

Jer.
In the long gallery,
Now unfrequented. I will be on watch
That no intruder break upon your meeting.

Maur.
Prince of Castile, go doff thy hat and plume;
I am a prouder, happier man than thou!

Jer.
Hush, hush! begone,—I hear a noise without.

Maur.
Where?

Jer.
To the right. We'll take the other path;
Though I must needs return by this again.

[Exeunt. Enter Zorada and Nurse by the opposite side.
Zor.
Stand thou aside, good nurse; I'll on some paces,
And softly call; if he be near at hand,
He'll know my voice.
[Coming forward to a thicket near the front of the stage.
Ho! art thou there? come forth;—come forth and fear not.
Perhaps he has mistaken thy direction,
I think he is in covert farther on.
I hear a rustling, yonder, to the left.

[Returns again to the bottom of the stage, and enter Sebastian. They embrace each other, while nurse stands apart.
Seb.
My child! my dear Zorada!

Zor.
Dear, dear father!

Seb.
And thou must meet me as a man proscribed:
Child of a parent, reft of name and honours,
Bann'd by the church, and by the laws condemn'd
E'en to the traitor's death of degradation:
One whom to name were pain and insult to thee;
One now despised of all, forgot, accurst.

Zor.
O not accurst! for I will bless thee, father,
Though every other tongue should blast thy fame.
O not forgotten! I'll remember thee;
Ay; nightly, daily, hourly, in my thoughts
Shalt thou have place; more cherish'd—more endear'd,
For that all hearts beside have shut thee out.
O not despised! for I will honour thee,
And in my pious thoughts, as now in act,
Kneel at thine honour'd feet in faithful duty.

Seb.
Rise, dearest, kindest, best, mine own Zorada!
Yes, child; thou shalt be all the world to me;
But it must be a faint, ideal world.
I may in dreams, in thought, in musing fancy
Behold thy face, thy form,—may hear thy voice—
But many a league of ocean and of land
Must lie between us. E'en my dying day
Will not be lighten'd with one look of thine.

Zor.
(after weeping on his neck).
We do not know what heaven appoints for us.

Seb.
Has Don Romiero spoken aught to thee
Respecting my sad fate?

Zor.
He has: 'tis true—the dreadful tale is true.
The king has bound him by the horrid oath
Which thou didst mention to me.—Base compliance!

Seb.
Nay, blame him not; he took it in the faith
That I was safe, beyond the reach of power.
But this being so, I needs must rest in hiding,
Secure and close, till thou canst find a vessel
To take me from the coast.

Zor.
There is within the precincts of this wood
An old abandon'd chapel, where the dead
Rest undisturbed. No living tenant there,
But owlet hooting on the ruin'd tower,
Or twitt'ring swallow in his eaves-screen'd nest,
Will share the dismal shelter: for a time
Thou mayst be there secure. My good old nurse
Has all things duly stored for food and rest,
And will conduct thee to it. Come, dear nurse!
Greet thine old master in his time of sorrow,
And take of him good care.

Nurse.
Yea, that I will; for unto me and mine
He hath been ever kind and bountiful.
O woe the day! that I should have occasion
To do him such a service!

Seb.
Ay, nurse; there be sad changes in men's fortunes.
The day when first I saw thee to thy breast
Lay this dear child, a little toothless infant,
Whilst o'er ye both bent with fond beaming eyes
The best and fairest lady of the land,
For so she was,—that was indeed a day—
A day of brightness. Ah! how different
From this most dismal hour!

Nurse.
She was a noble lady, fair and gentle!
This wicked world did not deserve to hold her,
And so her time was short. And for her babe—
My babe;—I call'd her mine, and still will call her,—
A very cherub, peeping from the clouds,
As our fair pictures show them, is less beautiful
Than she half-covered with her cradle-clothes,
When waking from her morning's sleep, appear'd.
Ah me! the pleasant days that I remember!

Zor.
(alarmed).
I hear a noise.

Seb.
Thou art, my dearest child, alarm'd for nothing.

Zor.
Yes; I fear every thing. But, right or wrong,
Go instantly, nor linger longer here.
Nay, go: we do not part: I'll see thee soon.

Seb.
Heaven bless thee, then! Come, nurse, I'm now thy child,
Cherish me kindly.

Nurse.
Ay, bless your honour! I will do my best.
I'd give the life-blood in this poor old heart
For you and yours.

[Exeunt Sebastian and nurse. Zorada goes by the opposite side, meeting Jerome, who enters at the same time, and hurries along, covering her face as she passes him.
Jer.
Who's that who starts aside with guilty haste?
[Following her.
Ho! damsel, mistress, whosoe'er thou be,
Let me have words of thee. I swear, good faith!
I'll take thee safely to thy rendezvous,
If thou wilt trust me.
[Following her off the stage, and then returning.
What have I done? What have I seen? No face,
For that was closely cover'd, but the figure,
The robe, the air,—if it be not Zorada,
I am a fool—a purblind, mazy fool,
And do not know my right hand from my left.
What brings her here? Were't any other woman,
It were an easy thing to guess her purpose.
Well, who lives long may see strange things, they say;
And if I needs must give my thoughts the rein,
I'll curb my tongue.

[Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An outer room in the apartments of Zorada, with a wide door opening in the bottom of the stage, which shows a magnificent bedchamber, where Romiero is discovered walking to and fro in a distracted manner; he then rushes hastily from it to the front of the stage, and bends his ear to listen.
Rom.
No footstep yet: all's still: 'tis past endurance.
So late! the first night, too, of my return!
Is it the tardiness of cold aversion?
'Tis more than that; some damned conference
Elsewhere detains her. Ay, that airy fool
Wore at the supper-board a conscious look,
Glancing in concert with the half-check'd smile
That moved his quiv'ring cheek, too well betraying
His inward triumph: 'twas a cursed smile;
I would have cast my javelin at his throat,
But shame withheld me.—She the while did sit
With pensive fearful eye, that always fell,
Beneath my keen inquiring look, reproved.
Is virtue thus demure, restrain'd, mysterious?
She, too, who was as cheerful as the light,
Courting the notice of my looks! no, no!
Some blasting change is here. What can be done?
For something must be done.
[A pause and listening.
Ho there without!
Who walks at this late hour?—A heavy step;
Have they their emissaries on the watch
To give them notice of my movements? Ho!
Ho there without! Enter Servant.

What dost thou up? Why art thou not abed?

Serv.
My lord, it is not yet our hour of rest.

Rom.
Thou liest! 'Tis late; 'tis past the midnight watch.

Serv.
I do believe scarce half an hour has past
Since I did light your honour from the hall.

Rom.
Peace! thou art fool or knave, I know not which.
I've pass'd since then two hours as truly told
As sun on dial moves.—Why shrinkst thou back?

Serv.
I hear my lady coming.

Rom.
Coming at last! Haste! leave me; go thy ways. [Exit servant.
[Putting out a lamp which stands on a side table.

Out light! The partial gleam from yonder door,
Will, as she enters, fall upon her strongly;
I'll stand aside, and mark her face unseen.
Enter Zorada, who stops short to wipe tears from her eyes, &c., as if preparing herself to appear composed; whilst Romiero, in the shade, after eyeing her suspiciously, bursts suddenly upon her.
Have done with all this smoothing of thy features,
And look as sad and rueful as thou wilt.
The tardy, slow unwillingness, and all
Thy strange demeanour of this day, too well
Speak that which e'en the smiles of Hebe's cheek,
Hadst thou more female art such smiles to copy,
Could not gainsay.—Where hast thou been so long?
Wilt thou not answer me?

Zor.
You frighten me, Romiero, as I reckon
'Tis little past our usual hour of rest.

Rom.
Thou dost evade the question. Not the time;—
Where hast thou been?

Zor.
Have patience—O have patience!
Where I have been I have done thee no wrong:
Let that suffice thee.

Rom.
Ha! thou'rt quick, methinks,
To apprehend suspicion. Done no wrong!
What call'st thou wrong? Yea, by that sacred band
Which linketh soul to soul in wedded love,
Pure, fervent, and confiding,—every thought,
Fancy, and consciousness, that from thy husband,
Unfitting for his ear, must be withheld,
Is wrong to him, and is disgrace to thee.

Zor.
Then woe is me! Since wives must be so perfect,
Why didst thou wed Zorada de Modinez?

Rom.
Dost thou upbraid me for it? Then too well
I see the change.—Yes, I will call it change,
For I must still believe thou lovedst me once.

Zor.
Yes, yes! I loved thee once, I love thee now,
And will for ever love thee, dear Romiero,
If thou wilt suffer me.

Rom.
Suffer thee, dear Zorada! it is paradise
To think thou lovest me, hell to doubt of it.

Zor.
Then doubt it not. If I am cold and sad,
I have a cause,—I must repeat my words,—
Which does to thee no wrong. Some few days hence
Thou shalt know all, and thou wilt pity me.
Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundst to be untrue?

Rom.
Thou never didst.

Zor.
Then why suspect me now?

Rom.
Give me thy dear, dear hand, my own sweet wife!
Yes, I will trust thee, and do thou the while
Think charitably of my stern rebuke.
Love can be stern as well as tender, yet
Be all the while most true and fervent love.
But go to rest, dear child, and I will follow thee;
For it indeed is late.
[Stands musing as she retires, then turning suddenly.
Zorada!

Zor.
(returning).
What, my lord?

Rom.
Forget not, lore,
That soothing ointment of such efficacy.

Zor.
For what, I pray?

Rom.
Didst thou not wrench thy foot?

Zor.
O, not at all.

Rom.
Didst thou not say thou hadst?

Zor.
O that was but a feint to cheat Don Maurice.

Rom.
To cheat him! wherefore cheat him? for what end?
Was it a time for childish freaks like that?
And the deep colour crimsoning thy cheek—
What does it say?—Go to! thou needst not speak.

Zor.
Indeed, indeed you err; my heedless words—

Rom.
Were very, very heedless.—Go to bed;
Go, go! my hour of rest is distant still.
Linger not here, I say; retire to rest.
[Exit Zorada into the chamber. (After musing some time.)
I do not think her wicked, but there lurks
Within her fancy vain and dangerous things.
Those striplings,—those light, beardless playfellows
The devil himself hath not an imp more subtle
Than one of these.—They laugh, and mock, and mimic,
And cast upon the lovely face of virtue,
The gloomy veil of cloister'd melancholy,
While vice is all so gay and deftly trick'd,
That who can choose but range them on her side?
To break down every sacred tie, what is it?
'Tis but a merry trick!—
Ay, she was wary, too, in her expressions:
“Did I e'er tell thee that which afterwards
Thou foundst to be untrue.”—Equivocation,
A half-corrupted woman's poor device.
[Muses and mutters to himself a few moments longer, and then paces up and down with slow irresolute steps.
—A half corrupted woman!
If it be come to this, who shall restrain
The hateful progress, which as rapidly—
Restrain it! No! to hell's profoundest pit
Let it conduct her, if she hath so far
Debased her once pure mind, and injured me.
I dare not think on't, yet I am compell'd;
And at the very thought a raging fire
Burns in my head, my heart, through every vein
Of this distracted frame. I'll to the ramparts,
And meet the chillness of the midnight wind;
I cannot rest beneath this hateful roof.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

An old Gothic gallery, with doors leading to different apartments. Enter Jerome, carrying a light, and followed by Don Maurice.
Maur.
I am the first at our appointed place,
Which is beseeming in affairs of love.
I hope, meantime, she is upon the way.
List, dost thou hear a step?

Jer.
My ears are not so quick.

Maur.
Am I again deceived? and hearst thou nothing?

Jer.
I hear the swallows stirring in their nests,
Disturb'd with sudden light. Such creatures build
In ev'ry crevice of those mouldering arches.

Maur.
Didst thou not tell me these adjoining chambers
Are all untenanted, and no one near us.

Jer.
(pointing).
Yes, all are empty but that further room,
In which Don Guzman chooses to abide,
That from its lofty windows he may see
A more extensive prospect.

Maur.
Would he were at the utmost verge of all
That may be thence survey'd!—I like it not:
He is a dangerous neighbour.

Jer.
But he is tired and gone, ere this, to rest:
You need not fear to be disturb'd by him.

Maur.
I hear a footstep now she comes, she comes!
O she is good and punctual to my wish!
Do thou retire, good Jerome. Enter Beatrice attended, and Jerome with her female attendant keep on the background, while Maurice, running eagerly to her, leads her nearer the front.

My charming Beatrice! may I indeed
Believe that thou art here; that thou vouchsafest
To come with thoughts of favour for thy slave?

Bea.
Perhaps I do but dream I am so bold.
It is so strange,—my mind is so bewilder'd!

Maur.
And why bewilder'd, love? There's nought to fear.

Bea.
I've heard sounds of alarm, and seen faint forms,
That seem'd to follow me, and yet were nothing.
I thought the very stones of the old walls
Did call my name and know me as I pass'd.

Maur.
Fear nothing, love: this place is unfrequented:
Swallows or bats may whisper of our meeting,
But nought besides.—Oh! how I have desired
To tell thee all my heart; on bended knee
To plead my cause!—My fate is in thy hands;
And since thou hast such pity of my pain
As thus to listen to me, may I hope
Thou wilt be better still?

Bea.
Go not so fast: perhaps I am but come
To chide thee for thy most presumptuous message.

Maur.
And if thou do, I'll bear it all so meekly,
That thou wilt say within thy cunning self,
“This man, in truth, is made to be a husband.”

Bea.
It were no cunning but a foolish self
Could hold such inward parley. Every gallant
Would laugh most certainly within himself,
On hearing such a sober, grave conclusion
Join'd to the noted name of gay Don Maurice.

Maur.
Nay, do not twit me now with all the freaks,
And levities, and gambols charged upon me
By every lean-faced dame that wears a hood.
I will be grave, and dismal, and punctilious
As heir at miser's funeral, if thou wilt,
And all the while as blithe o' heart as he.
I have as many fashions and demeanours,
As mantles in a lady's wardrobe; choose,—
I'll be whate'er thou wilt, if in return
Thou wilt obey me but for some few hours.

Bea.
I hear a noise.

Maur.
Only the wind that moves yon creaking door.
Step farther this way.
[Leading her to the opposite side of the stage, near the door of Guzman's chamber.
The time is precious, my most charming mistress!
Let me speak plainly in few words. Thou knowst
How much I fear Romiero's apt suspicion.
Delay were dangerous: therefore by the dawn,
In the dark grove of pines, meet me, prepared
To quit with me the castle, and for life
To share my lot. Deny me not: time presses:
O let me urge thee!—As for life I plead.

Bea.
(after a pause).
What can I say?—I feel I should not say it,
And yet I feel thou dost not plead in vain.

Maur.
Thou'lt meet me then,—do not retract thy words.
There is no time for slow deliberation.
Thou'lt meet me by the dawn?

Bea.
Yes; I will meet thee in the grove of pines.

Enter at the bottom of the stage a Servant, who whispers to Jerome, and then retires, upon which Jerome advances hastily to Maurice.
Maur.
What is the matter?

Jer.
Romiero is not yet in bed. A spy
Who stood on watch without has given me notice.
He wanders through the house like one possess'd,
And may at last invade your privacy.

Maur.
He is not yet so near us. We shall hear him
Ere he approach.

Jer.
His motions oft are sudden.

Bea.
Retire, retire! I'll meet thee by the dawn;
So, till that time, adieu.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Don Guzman's chamber, who is discovered sleeping in his chair. Enter Romiero.
Rom.
Not yet abed! Ay, but he is asleep.
Happy unwedded! Thou canst soundly sleep;
Nor woman's fickleness, nor woman's guilt,
Can bring disgrace or agony to thee.
I'll not disturb him.
[After remaining for awhile on the front of the stage musing and muttering to himself, he speaks, but in a low voice.
The heart, the heart! What prize we but the heart!
[Mutters again, then breaks out in loud and vehement utterance.
No; though his lips had never touch'd her hand,
If that be lost, I'm wretched!

Guz.
(waking).
What sound is that? Who's there? Ha! thou, my friend!

Rom.
What has so startled thee?

Guz.
The voice that woke me.
Thou must have heard it; 'twas a human voice.

Rom.
It was mine own, Don Guzman.

Guz.
What has befallen? Why wert thou so alarm'd?
Or was it some sharp pang of bodily pain?

Rom.
No, no! it was not that; and I am here
Only to share thy chamber for the night.

Guz.
And why? I am amazed.

Rom.
I've paced o'er ramparts, halls, and galleries,
Till I have need of rest.

Guz.
And thou wouldst find it here? What strange caprice
Debars thee from the fair Zorada's chamber;
That place which gives the rest of paradise?

Rom.
Ah! so it did to me. It was a spot
Where every lovely—every sweetest thing
In seeming shelter, bloom'd i' th' early sun,
Till the first sultry breath of southern winds
Blasted its freshness, leaving nought behind
But tainted fragrance—sere and faded flowers.
It was the magic palace of a dream,
Changed in an instant to some dismal den:
It was a bower of healthful innocence,
Changed to a lazar's vile and loathly ward:
It was—Oh, oh! I know not what I say,
Thinking of what I was and what I am.

Guz.
Nay; give thy ruffled thoughts a little pause;
Be well assured things are not as thou fearst.
She did appear so good.

Rom.
Alas! she did.
If I but droop'd or look'd a little pale,
The stroke of her soft hand, her kindly words,
Her sweet breath on my cheek,—O! it did turn
The hour of pain to bliss!—And all this happiness
Was but delusion—but a hov'ring vapour
That covers for awhile the fenny pool.

Guz.
No, say not so! Is it not far more likely
That the delusion rests with thee, my friend?

Rom.
(after musing, and without heeding what Guzman has said).
Ay, if I did but droop, her look of sympathy
Went to my soul. Or if I parted from her,
Though only for a week—a day—

Guz.
Cease, cease!
Be well assured it is not as thou fearst.
Try to compose thyself: what are thy proofs
That she has been unfaithful?

Rom.
No; what a worldly judge would deem unfaithful
I trust she has not been; but what avails it?
He whom her fancy follows, he who pleases
Her secret thoughts and wishes, is her lord,
Let who will, by the power of legal right,
Her body hold in thraldom.—Not unfaithful!
If I have lost her heart, I've suffer'd all.
No further outrage can enhance my wretchedness.
[Turning quickly and taking hold of him.
But thou believest that, e'en in this, my fears
Are mere extravagance.
[Pausing and looking earnestly in his face.
Dost thou not think so? Dost thou not, Don Guzman?

Guz.
I hope they are.

Rom.
That hope implies a doubt;
Ay, and a doubt which, when I saw thee last,
Did not exist. Speak, speak! If thou mistrust her,
It is on no slight grounds.

Guz.
Be more composed, and I will tell thee all.

Rom.
There's something then to tell; some damned thing.

Guz.
Nay, think not so; for, when I've told thee all,
'Twill make no certain proof against Zorada.
And since thou thinkst her love for thee is changed,
Caring but for her love, thou mayst the better
Endure to learn the worst, if such should follow.

Rom.
(in a faint voice).
I understand thee.

Guz.
Two hours since, perhaps—
I've been asleep, and cannot say how long—
But pause we now. Thy quiv'ring lips are white,
Thine eyes are fix'd: lean upon me, my friend.

Rom.
A sickly faintness passes o'er my heart.

Guz.
(supporting him to the chair).
Lean here awhile; thou canst not hear me yet.

Rom.
I'm better now.

Guz.
But we will pause awhile.

Rom.
Proceed, proceed! I'll listen, though thy words
Were each the spik'd tooth of a martyr's wheel.
Proceed:—Some two hours since—

Guz.
Some two hours since, as, not disposed to sleep,
I was perusing that old book of stories,
I heard, and, as I judged, close to the door,
Two persons speaking in the gallery.
The voice of Maurice I could recognise,
The other was a woman's.

Rom.
(starting from the chair).
And Zorada's.

Guz.
Use not such frantic gestures of despair;
I say not it was her's: perhaps it was not;
Perhaps 'twas Donna Beatrice.

Rom.
No, no!
It was Zorada. Absent from her chamber
I found her at that time. When she return'd,
At a late hour, we had some wrangling words,
Gloz'd o'er, but poorly gloz'd, with female fraud,
Which soon betray'd itself, and then I left her.

Guz.
'Tis very strange; and what I heard them say—

Rom.
Ay, ay! proceed with that; and make no pause
Till thou hast told the whole, though it should make me
A very fiend of agony and shame.

Guz.
Thou grasp'st my throat so hard, I cannot speak.

Rom.
Well, well, then! Out with all their damned words,
Till they have proved the blackest tint of guilt,
And then will come the fatal end of all;
The sabre clutch'd in strength; the stroke of vengeance;
The horrible joy, that lasteth for a moment!
Let all this be; let horror be unstinted!
Let every misery light upon the head
Of that most wanton—No, the word would choke me;
I will not utter it.

Guz.
Thou art beside thy wits; thou canst not hear me.
The words they spoke, prove against her, and no one,
An act of guilt, but only the intent.

Rom.
Intent! O monstrous! foul deliberation!
If life-blood warm his heart another day,
I am bereft, debased, and brutified,
Unmeet to wear the outward form of manhood.

Guz.
Wilt thou not hear my story?

Rom.
I have heard it,
Knowing the cursed purport; ne'ertheless,
Relate it all, minutely as thou wilt,
I'll listen to the end.

Guz.
I drew close to the door, and heard these words
Distinctly spoken in Don Maurice's voice:—
“Thou knowst I fear Romiero's apt suspicion;
“Delay were dangerous; therefore, by the dawn,
“Meet me beneath the grove of pines, prepared
“To quit the castle. We will fly together:”—
Or words to this effect, which indistinctly
Fell into softer whispers, till, alarm'd,
As I suppose, they left the gallery.
'Twas my intent to give thee early notice;
Therefore I shunn'd that tempting couch, and sought
Here, in my chair, to snatch a little sleep,
And be in readiness ere break of day.

Rom.
Thou hast done well.
[After a pause.
Come to this pitch of secret profligacy,
Who was so modest and so timid once!
Was I a tyrant, that she is so ready,
To doff the virtuous and respected wife—
For the base mistress of that minion too?
Some spell, some devilish witchery, hath subdued her,
Ere it could come to this.

Guz.
Ay, so I think, if that in verity
It be Zorada.

Rom.
O 'tis she! 'tis she!
Thinkst thou I am a fool to be deceived
By such affected doubts, in pity utter'd?
Speak truly, plainly, treat me as a man.
Call them—yea call that woman, an' thou wilt,—

Guz.
Fy, fy! Zorada is not yet a—

Rom.
(putting his hand on the lips of Guzman).
Hold!
Speak not the word; I'm weaker than I thought:
Is it not near the dawn?

Guz.
I think 'tis distant still.

Rom.
Surely it is not.
We'll to the eastern turret, and look forth:
Should they escape!—My brain burns at the thought.

Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A grove of pines, and the sky of morning, before sunrise, seen through them. Enter Romiero and Guzman, from a thicket at the bottom of the stage.
Rom.
The dull light through yon bank of misty clouds
Hath changed its tanny hue for silver grey;
'Tis near, 'tis actually, 'tis past the time.

Guz.
Have patience; for the sun, I guess, is still
Behind the eastern hills.

Rom.
Should they escape!—Some cursed emissary,
Upon the watch, perhaps, hath given alarm.
Should they escape us by some other path!—
It must not be: I will look out.

Guz.
(drawing him back to the thicket as he is about to advance).
Keep still.
I see them now; but let us be conceal'd
Till they are nearer.

Rom.
They move tardily,
With their damn'd dalliance.—So very fond
That they forget the peril of their state,
Lost in the present bliss.—
Ay; smile with lips which shall, within an hour,
Be closed in death; and glance your looks of love
From eyes which shall, ere long, in coldness glare
Like glassy icicles.

Guz.
Stay; rush not on them now.

Rom.
See that! see that! her hand, and then her lips!
Shall I look on, and give another moment
To such abhorred transport.—Where's my weapon?

[Snatching his sword from Guzman, who attempts to remove it.
Guz.
Be not a madman in thine ecstasy,
And foil thine own intent.—See, they advance.

Enter Maurice, leading Beatrice muffled in her mantle.
Maur.
Come, sweetest mistress mine, move we more quickly;
Our horses wait us some few paces off;
And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds,
Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip,
Holding on homely fare a merry feast,
We will, like them, in all security,
Enjoy a welcome rest.

Rom.
(rushing forth).
Which shall to doomsday last, thou damned villain!

[Draws fiercely upon him, while Beatrice runs away. They fight, but she presently returns and rushes between them, favoured by Guzman.
Rom.
Forbear, thou shameless woman.—Beatrice!

Bea.
It is, my lord; and O have pity on me!
It is myself who am the most to blame.
Pardon my dear, dear Maurice.—Yes, you will.
Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy,
Emboldens me—Our hearts have long been join'd;
O do not sever us!

Rom.
No, simple girl:
Sever ye! by the holy rood I will not!
I am right glad that ye are so united.
Stick to it then; be thrifty of your love,
To make it last; be doves in constancy.
Good sooth, young fools! I will not sever ye.

Bea.
(kissing his hand).
Thanks, noble, kind Romiero!

Maur.
Thanks for this frank and unexpected pardon!
I fear'd, my lord, that you might deem it right
To thwart my suit with Beatrice, who lived,
Protected, as her friends might haply think,
Beneath your roof.

Rom.
And thou thoughtst justly too.
In cooler blood so ought I to have felt.
Beshrew me! whither fled my wits the while?
I have most freely given what is not mine.
(To Guzman.)
Do thou, my friend, untie this ravell'd knot.
(Turning again to Maurice.)
I'll plead thy cause, at least, and prove, perhaps,
A powerful advocate.—Speak to them, Guzman;
And promise in my name, without reserve,
All that my honour warrants. I, meantime,
Must make my peace where I have need of pardon.

[Exit in eager haste.
Maur.
How placable and kind beyond belief!
Would I had fairly own'd to him my love,
Since he is thus inclined! But he appear'd
Hostile, and stern, and fretful at my stay,
Unreasonably prolong'd. I had not courage
To risk my happiness, which his caprice,
Stern sense of honour—call it as you please—
Might in a moment blast.

Guz.
I blame thee not; hadst thou at first declared it,
Thou wouldst have found him hostile.

Maur.
Then, pray, Don Guzman, what strange freak hath changed him?

Guz.
That he is changed, is your good luck; improve it,
Without inquiring why you are so favour'd.

Maur.
And so we will, sweet Beatrice; we will
Delay our happiness, to make it surer.

Bea.
Yes, Maurice; run no further risk; we'll both
Return again and bide within the castle.

Guz.
No; be advised. (To Beatrice.)
Do thou return alone;
Some foolish freak may yet disturb his mind.
I know he'll favour Maurice most when absent.
(To Maurice.)
Dost thou not comprehend me?

Maur.
Not very clearly: jealousy of one
Whose love is fix'd on an acknowledged mistress,
So fair, so lovely, were absurd—impossible.

Guz.
Nay, only say absurd; for there be husbands,
Ay, lovers too, who, should you cross their way,
New-mated with the Queen of Love herself,
And their own dame or mistress were in form
Black as an Ethiop, would ne'ertheless
Suspect you of designs against their peace.
Then wonder not, Zorada being fair,
If fanciful conceits disturb his brain.

Maur.
But I'll be circumspect.

Guz.
Go, foolish boy!
Thy very shadow on the wall will show
Some indication of sinister wishes.
School thou the substance as thou wilt. Go, go!
And be assured I'll prove thy friend when absent,

Maur.
(to Beatrice).
And must we part?

Bea.
We shall not part for long.

Maur
No, not for long, sweet maid: beneath thy window
I'll hold my midnight watch; and when thy casement
Moves slowly on its hinges, I'll look up,
And see thy beauty, by the moon's pale light,
Sending sweet smiles to bless me.—
When thou walkst forth, I'll in some thicket lurk,
To see thee pass—perhaps to touch thy robe.
Wilt thou not give me, dear, before we part,
Some token of thy love?

Bea.
Yes, gentle Maurice, thou shalt have a token,
Which every hour thou'lt look upon, and think
How dear, how true—

Guz.
I'll leave you for awhile
To settle all this nonsense as you will;
That done, we'll meet again in yonder alley,
And I'll conduct the lady to the castle.

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The apartment of Zorada.— She enters with nurse, who carries a basket in her hand.
Zor.
(speaking as she enters).
And see, good nurse, that where the cold wind enter'd
Thou stop the crevice well. Oh! that his head,
His dear and honour'd head, should so be laid,
While I am couch'd on down! Thou sayst his face
Look'd not so sadly as before.

Nurse.
Indeed I thought so, madam: he spoke cheerily,
And listen'd to my stories of past days,
As if he liked to hear them.

Zor.
Alas! the very sound of human words,
Address'd to him in peace, is now a solace
Enjoy'd but rarely.—I must talk and smile,
And keep my station at the social board,
While my sad heart is thinking of his silent
And lonely state.—There is my picture then,
Since he desires to have it.

[Giving her a picture, which she puts into the basket.
Nurse.
Yes, madam, he did earnestly desire it.
He bade me say to you, no lover ever
Gazed on the features of a plighted mistress
With such intense and yearning love, as he
Will gaze upon this image.

Zor.
Yes; he will look, and think that in return
It looks with love on him; but woe is me!
He cannot know how dearly in my heart
His image is impress'd. I call to mind
His kind caresses in my infant years;
His noble form in warlike harness braced,
When he returning caught me to his heart,
And heard my simple welcome with delight,
Filling his eyes with tears. I well remember—
Dost thou not also, nurse? the voice of fondness
With which, e'en when I cross'd his graver mood,
He call'd me little Zada. O 'twas sweet!
I thought so then; but now it haunts mine ear
Like portion of some broken melody,
Which mocking bird is so enamour'd of,
He will not learn the whole.—And say, good nurse,
That I will surely see him ere he go,
If it be possible. [Exit nurse.
(After a thoughtful pause.)

“My little Zada! tush, my little fool!
I will not have thee for my playfellow,
If thou be so perverse.”
No more than this; this was my worst rebuke.
He set no heartless stepdame o'er my head,
Though many ladies strove to win his love.
He was both sire and mother to his child,
Gentle as her I lost.
Then for his sake I'll willingly endure
The present misery. O, my Romiero!
Wilt thou not trust my conduct for a day?—
Absent all night! To what a state of passion
His brooding fancy must have work'd his mind!
Alas, alas; 'tis his infirmity.

Enter Romiero.
Rom.
My dear Zorada! dear, dear wife! thy pardon:
I crave it on my knees. O pardon one
Who has offended from excess of love.
I might have thought all eyes that look'd upon thee,
With more than admiration look'd; but, Oh!
To think that thy pure mind could e'er be moved
To aught which blessed saints might not approve,
Was monstrous, vile—yea a most vile suggestion—
Though all the while 'twas an offence of love.
Thou art amazed, I see, and well thou mayst.
I have but now discover'd what my fears—

Zor.
Fears! What hast thou discover'd?

Rom.
Be not alarm'd; nought that can injure thee.
For if thou hast been privy to their love,
Though I might chide thee as a cunning wife,
Who from her husband hath a secret kept,
The bane of confidence; yet being myself
So deep in trespass, I must needs be meek,
And say thou art not very, very naughty.

Zor.
Thy words are wild; I do not comprehend them.

Rom.
Dost thou not know thy fair but thoughtless friend
Has to young Maurice's suit such favour given,
That she this morning, short while since, was caught
Escaping in his company?
I watch'd and stopp'd them in the grove of pines.
How glad a sight it was to me, when, wild,
With terror wild, she rush'd between our weapons
To find it was but Beatrice!

Zor.
But Beatrice? whom didst thou fear to find?

Rom.
Oh! spare me! Crimson shame upon my cheek,
Betrays too plainly that for which already
I've craved forgiveness.

Zor.
(drawing herself up proudly).
Yes, I comprehend thee.

Rom.
Oh! but that look, that air, that flush of anger
Which ne'er before so stain'd thy lovely face,
Speak not of pardon.
[She turns away, and he follows her.
I have much offended.
But he who like offence hath ne'er committed:
Who ne'er hath look'd on man's admiring eye
Fix'd on the treasure of his heart, till fear,
Suspicion, hatred hath bereft his soul
Of every generous feeling; he who never
Hath, in that state of torture, watch'd her face
Till e'en the traits of saintly innocence
Have worn the shade of conscious guilt; who never
Hath, in his agony, for her dear sake
Cursed all the sex;—may, as the world conceives,
Be a most wise, affectionate, good husband;
But, by all ecstacy of soul, by all
That lifts it to an angel's pitch, or sinks it
E'en to perdition, he has loved but slightly—
Loved with a love, that is, compared to mine,
As cottage hearth where smould'ring embers lie
To the surcharged unquenchable volcano.

Zor.
What creed is this which thy perturbed mind
Repeats so boldly? Good my lord, discard it,
As a false faith. I have believed true love
Of such a noble, high, confiding nature,
That neither scandal's breath, nor seeming show
Of fitful change, could shake its gen'rous trust.
'Twere agony for me to think thee false;
But till thou front me with a rival—yea,
Till thine own words have own'd that thou art faithless—
I will believe thee true.

Rom.
Believe, believe it! and on these dear hands,
A thousand times caress'd, let me be vow'd
Ne'er to offend again thy noble nature
With e'en the slightest movement of suspicion!
Dost thou relent, Zorada? Dost thou love me?

Zor.
Indeed I do; have I not often said it?
And yet, it seems, thou didst mistrust my words.

Rom.
Fye on that gibe! let me have perfect pardon.

Zor.
(embracing him).
Thou art forgiven. Now; art thou satisfied?

Rom.
I were a Tartar else, or sullen Turk.
Sweet partner, lovely mate, my gentle wife!
O the soft touch of this dear hand thrills through me,
So dear! as dear as when thou first wert mine.
[Stroking her hand, and then pressing it to his forehead and cheek.
If word, or look, or circumstance, again
E'er tempt me to conceive unworthy thoughts,
I am a vulgar wretch, debased and mean,
Unworthy even to look thee in the face,
Or hold myself akin to virtue. No;
I will no more offend. Re-enter Nurse, who is busy arranging her basket, and then looking up, starts on seeing Romiero.

Nay, start not, worthy nurse; pray thee advance.

Nurse.
I came—I thought my lady was alone.

Rom.
And so she is; for we are so united
In every thought and wish, that thou shouldst reckon
When with each other, we are still alone.
Is it not so?—Thou comest for some good purpose,
I'll swear. To whom bearst thou that tempting fruit?

Nurse.
To no one, sir; I come to show its beauty; It is my lady's basket.

Rom.
Thou'st cull'd the best: my lips are parch'd and dry.
May I—

[Putting his hand to the basket.
Nurse.
Nay, good my lord, I'll choose you one.

Rom.
(rejecting what she offers).
Not that: the further peach my fancy pleases.
[Putting his hand into the basket.
But there be dainty viands and cakes besides!

Zor.
A charitable dole for age and want.
[Looking to the nurse significantly.
That is the reason why I bade her show it,
Ere she should take it to the poor distress'd.

Rom.
Ha! let me then restore my robbery;
And here, to make amends.
[Putting money into the basket.
What have we here?
[Taking out a picture.
Is this a present for your villager?

Nurse.
Yes, please you.—No, she but desired to see it.

Rom.
(with bitter irony).
A most refined and sentimental gossip!
Or does she mean to use it as a charm
To cure old aching bones?

Nurse.
You've guess'd it well, my lord. Quoth she to me,
Could I but see your lady's blessed face!
Quoth I to her, thou canst not, by good reason:
My lord is now return'd. Quoth she again,
Could I but see her picture, lack a day!

Rom.
Have done: I see thy drift. Be not so eager
To tell me how it is. I'm satisfied.

Zor.
Come to my closet, nurse; there is besides
What I must charge thee with.
[Exeunt Zorada and nurse, the last speaking loudly as she retires.
Ay, ay, quoth she, poor soul! I have a longing
To see that picture. Foolish man, quoth I,
'Tis but a painted—

[Her voice still heard as she retires.
Rom.
Foolish man, quoth I!—The cunning jade
Hath made a slip: it was a woman first.
[A pause, and he stands musing and muttering to himself before he speaks aloud, then in a low smothered voice.
Ay, and such thoughts
Which in the breast had perish'd unreveal'd.
Are by these cunning beldames brought to utterance.
Words follow thoughts, acts follow words, and all
The steps of infamy, from which the mind
By nature shrinks, are thus familiar made:
A blighting bane, corroding to their core
Beauty and innocence.
[Mimicking the voice of a nurse
“My dearest child!
Thou needst not fear to tell thy thoughts to me;
I know thy tender heart, I know thy fears.”
Would the whole race were blasted from the earth! [In his own voice, and stamping on the ground.
Enter Jerome.

What brings thee here?

Jer.
Old Pietro is below,
And craves to speak with you.

Rom.
The irksome fool!
He trows that I am always in the humour
To hear his prosing proverbs.

Jer.
He does, my lord; and oft presuming on it,
Has grown familiar.

Rom.
Art thou his judge?
Tell him I cannot see him now. To-morrow
I'll find him in his cottage.

Jer.
But what he has to tell you, please you, sir,
He bade me further add is of importance,
And may not be delay'd.

Rom.
I'll see him, then, since it must needs be so.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An antechamber. Enter Pietro and a domestic.
Pie.
(speaking as he enters).
A blessing on thy simple head! impatient!
I have, good sooth! been wont to speak with him
As though he were my fellow. Much shrewd counsel
He hath received from me right pleasantly.
He looks not grave or proud when poor men speak;
At least I'm sure he was not so inclined
Before he married.
Enter Jerome behind him, and listens archly.
Ay, he knows mankind,
With all their knavish arts; ay, and he knows
I know them also. Bless the day! full often
He listen'd to me with a merry face:
Much shrewd discoursing we have had together.

Jer.
(advancing).
True, but such shrewd discoursing, as thou callst it,
Should only upon rainy days take place,
When idle folk, from field and sport debarr'd,
Are glad to while away the weary time
With aught to save the kicking of their heels.

Pie.
Will he not see me then?

Jer.
I said not so.
He'll see thee presently; but do not tease him
With a long-winded tale, choked up with saws;
He is not in the humour for it now.
It would, to say the least on't, be a present
More prized by him who gives than who receives it.

Pie.
Go to! I have no need of thee to school me:
I know as well as thou dost when to speak,
And when to hold my tongue.

Enter Romiero and Guzman, and the domestics withdraw.
Rom.
Good morrow, Pietro! thou wouldst speak with me.

Pie.
Yes, please your honour, I'm a simple man;—
That is to say, I am not school'd or learn'd
As many be, who set great store by it;
But yet I think I can, as well as others,
Scent mischief in its covert. Ah, good lack!
This is a wicked world.

Rom.
I know it well.
Thou'st told me so a thousand times, good Pietro.
What is the matter now? Rehearse it briefly,
And plainly too, my friend: enough of comment
Will follow after. Speak,—what is the matter?

Pie.
Ay, something is the matter, take my word for't.
For there be ill enough in this sad world,—
In court and cot, in city and in village.

Rom.
(interrupting him impatiently).
There is among your villagers, I hear,
A person much afflicted.

Pie.
We were all well, both young and old of us,
When I left home scarce half an hour since. No;
My story is of other matters; villagers
Are not therein concerned, unless it be
As hired emissaries: for, I trow,
No wealthy devil e'er lack'd poorer imp.
No rich man ever wants—

Rom.
A truce with proverbs!
What is it thou wouldst tell me?

Pie.
Marry, that mischief, in or near your castle,
Is hatching secretly.

Rom.
Why dost thou think so?

Pie.
A ghost was seen by some benighted fools,
As they report it, near the ancient chapel,
Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely vanish'd
They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts.
'Tis said they're ominous of death; but weddings,
Or worse than weddings oft'ner follow after.
You have a rich and beauteous ward: Don Maurice
Is young, ambitious, and cunning:—No!
It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods.

Rom.
Was it a female form those fools beheld?

Pie.
Yes, by Saint Jago! and it wore, they say,
Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know,
Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice.

Guz.
We know all this already, worthy Pietro;
Nought ill will follow it; be thou content.

Rom.
If Beatrice hath in the shades of night
Gone forth to meet her lover, she hath err'd
Beyond what we believed. (Calling loud.)
Ho! Jerome there! Re-enter Jerome.

Thou wert the secret agent of Don Maurice;
In this thou'st sinn'd against thy master! Say,
And I'll forgive thee all if thou speak truly,
Did Donna Beatrice e'er, by night, steal forth
To meet him in the forest?

Jer.
No, good my lord; that I will answer truly;
She never did.

Rom.
Good Pietro tells a story
Of frighten'd villagers, who have, at night,
Seen wand'ring in the wood a female form.
Thou seem'st confused; thou, too, hast heard of this?

Jer.
Not heard of it, my lord.

Rom.
Then thou hast seen it.

Jer.
I must confess I saw a form, last night,
Glide hastily before me, through the wood:
The face I could not see.

Rom.
It was a woman?

Jer.
It was, my lord.

Rom.
Its stature tall or short?

Jer.
Neither, my lord.

Pie.
Did I not say it seem'd—

Guz.
(pulling Pietro back).
Hush, thou art wise, and shouldst not waste thy words.

Rom.
(to Jerome).
Did it resemble any female figure
Familiar to thine eye? Why dost thou hesitate?
Speak truth; speak freely; think not to deceive me:
Seem'd it a form familiar to thine eye?

Jer.
I was confused—I knew not. No, my lord,
It was no well-known form.

Rom.
Thy words are false!
[Walks perturbedly to and fro, then returning to them.
Why stand ye here to gaze upon me? Go!

Guz.
(to Pietro).
Retire, and do not speak to him again.
Save thee, good Pietro; and thou, too, Jerome.
[Exeunt Pietro and Jerome. (Going up to Romiero.)
Thou art bereft of reason. In the dark
A gliding form is seen, nor tall, nor short,
Nor having any mark by which to prove
It is, or is not any woman breathing;
And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped—

Rom.
Thou speakst in ignorance: I have good cause—
Cause which thou knowst not of. I'll tell thee more
When I have breath to speak.—
My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife,
Hath secret myst'ries—hath a beldame nurse—
Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends—O shame!—
Outrageous, frontless shame! the very picture
Which I have gazed upon a thousand times,
Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips.
How little thought I once—vain, vain remembrance!
It is a thing most strange if she be honest.

Guz.
How strange?—that thou thyself shouldst be deceived
As many men have been, which is a marvel
Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam?

Rom.
Deceived! be there witch-powder in mine eyes,
To make that seen which is not; in mine ears,
To make them hear false sounds? I've seen; I've heard:
I am deluded by no gossip's tale.—
O would I were! I loved—I worshipp'd her;
She was the thing that stirr'd within my soul,
Which had no other life. Despise me not;
For tears will force their way.—She was to me—
When I have power to speak, I'll tell thee all.

Guz.
Yes; pause awhile, my friend. Thou art too vehement.

Rom.
(lowering his voice).
Have they o'erheard me? Has it come to this,
That such as they should know my misery?
I will match wiles with wiles, and borrow of her
That damn'd hypocrisy. Come thou with me,
And give me counsel: thou thyself wilt own
It is no weak conceit disturbs me thus.
But stop, and stand aside.

[Stops on seeing nurse pass by a low window on the outside.
Guz.
What wouldst thou now?

Rom.
Here comes the beldame nurse of whom I spoke;
Returning from her mission, as I guess.
Stand thou aside whilst I engage with her,
And, with her own deceits, deceive the witch.
Do thou observe her visage as I speak.

Guz.
Nay; trust not to deceit; for at this moment
Thou hast not o'er thyself as much control
As would deceive the simplest soul on earth.
She will outwit thee; leave the task to me,
And do thou stand aside.—I hear her steps. Enter Nurse, while Romiero goes behind the arras.

Ha! my good nurse; thou art a stirring person,
And one of service in this family,
If I mistake it not. How could fair damsels,
And dainty dames, and other tender souls,
Endure the thraldom of stern lords and masters,
Brothers, and jealous guardians, and the like,
Were it not for such useful friends as thou?

Nurse.
I know not what you mean by service, sir;
I serve my mistress honestly and fairly.

Guz.
And secretly, when it must needs be so.
Do I not know it well, and well approve
Thy wary vigilance? Take this broad piece;
(giving gold)
A token of respect for all thy virtues.
Thou art, I know, the agent of Zorada
In all her secret charities: how fares it
With that poor invalid?

Nurse.
What invalid?

Guz.
To whom thou tookst that basket of fair fruit.
Let me attend thee when thou goest again;
I have some skill in med'cine.

Nurse.
I thank you, sir; I have some skill myself,
And that suffices. She will soon be well.

Guz.
It is a woman, then.—Look in my face:
Look at me steadfastly.—I know it is not.
It is a man; ay, and a man for whom
Thy lady hath some secret, dear regard.
And so, perhaps, hast thou: where is the harm?

Nurse.
And if there be, where is the harm of loving
Those near akin to us?

Guz.
Yes, fairly said! Who can find harm in that?

Nurse.
Whom should we love—I mean, whom should I love,
But mine own flesh and blood?

Guz.
Thy flesh and blood! lies flesh and blood of thine
So near us, and conceal'd?—A son, perhaps?

Nurse.
I have a son; but where he is conceal'd,
Or far, or near, I know not.

Guz.
Nay, nay, good nurse; think of next month's confession,
When lying must be paid for. Father Thomas
For a small penance will not let thee off.

[Here Romiero appears from behind the arras, with gestures of impatience, but draws back again.
Guz.
Knowst thou not where he is, this son of thine?
A handsome youth, no doubt.

Nurse.
As ever stepp'd upon the blessed earth.
When but an infant, he with fair Zorada
Play'd like a brother. Such a pretty pair!
And the sweet children loved each other dearly.
Would he were here! but where he is I know not.

Rom.
(bursting out upon her).
Vile wretch! thou liest; but thou shalt tell the truth.
I'll press the breath from out thy cursed body,
Unless thou tell me where thy son is hid.

Nurse.
My son, my lord!

Rom.
Ay, witch; I say thy son;
The ugliest hound the sun e'er looked upon.
Tell me, and instantly, if thou wouldst breathe
Another moment. Tell me instantly.

[Shaking her violently, while Guzman interposes, and Romiero, struggling with him, falls to the ground, and nurse escapes off the stage.
Guz.
(endeavouring to raise him).
I pray thee, pardon me, my noble friend!
When passion led thee to disgrace thyself,
This was an act of friendship.—Rise, Romiero.

Rom.
No; here upon the ground, my bed of agony,
I will remain. Sunk to this deep disgrace,
The centre of the earth were fitter for me
Than its fair surface, and the light of heaven.
Oh! this exceeds the worst imagination
That e'er found entrance to this madden'd brain!
That he—this hateful, vulgar, shapeless creature— Fy, fy.

Guz.
If thou canst harbour such a thought,
Thou art in verity beside thyself.
It is not possible that such a one
Could please Zorada, were she e'en unfaithful.

Rom.
(rising fiercely).
Not please her! every thing will please a woman
Who is bereft of virtue, gross, debased.
Yea, black deformity will be to her
A new and zestful object.

Enter Zorada behind him.
Guz.
(making her a sign to retire).
O lady! come not here.

Zor.
I heard Romiero loud; what is the matter?

Rom.
O nothing, madam; pray advance. O nothing!
Nothing that you should be surprised to hear.
That ladies can be fair and delicate,
And to the world's eye e'en as saints devout,
Yet all the while be coarse, debased, and stain'd
With passions that disgrace the vulgar kmd.

Zor.
Alas! what mean you?

Rom.
Thou'st played me false; thou art a worthless woman;
So base, so sunk, that those whose appellation
Brings blushes to the cheeks of honest women
Compared to thee are pure.—Off! do not speak!
It is a sick'ning sight to look upon thee,
Fair as thou art. Feign not to be surprised:
Begone, I say, I cannot for a moment
Say what I may not do.
[Taking his dagger from his side, and giving it to Guzman, who snatches it hastily from him.
Now thou art safe; but go, thou shameless creature

Guz.
Madam, I pray you go, for he is furious,
And would not listen to a saint from heaven.
[Exit Zorada, wringing her hands.
Come, leave this spot, Romiero; some few hours,
I am persuaded, will reveal this mystery.
Meantime, let me constrain thee as a friend;
Thou art not fit to speak or act with reason.

Rom.
Thinkst thou to bind and lead me like a maniac?

Guz.
Like what thou art: but here comes Beatrice.
Wouldst thou to her expose thy sorry state?

Enter Beatrice.
Rom.
To her or any one, what boot they now,
Fair seemings and fair words?

Bea.
Are you not well, my lord?

Rom.
No, damsel; well was banish'd from the world,
When woman came to it.

Bea.
Fy! say not so.
For if deprived of women, what were men?
Like leafless elms stripp'd of the clasping vine;
Like unrigg'd barks, of sail and pennant bare;
Like unstring'd viols, which yield no melody.
Banish us all, and lay my life upon it,
You will right quickly send for us again.

Rom.
Ay, as for parrots, jays, and kirtled apes,
To make vain sport withal. It makes me sick
To think of what you seem and what you are.

Bea.
But say not all, because there are a few.

Guz.
Fair lady, hold no further parley now.
(To Rom.)
And come with me, my friend.

[Exeunt Romiero and Guzman.
Bea.
(looking after him).
What strange tormenting fancy haunts him now?
She leads a life worse than an Eastern slave,
Who weds with such as he. Save me from that!

Enter Maurice by the window, having previously peeped in to see if she were alone.
Maur.
Dear Beatrice! to find thee thus alone—

Bea.
Good heaven preserve us! What has brought thee back?

Maur.
To see and hear thee, love, and yet again
To touch thy fair soft hand.

Bea.
An errand, truly,
To make thee track thy steps so many miles!

Maur.
An errand worth the toil e'en ten times told.
To see thy figure moving in thy veil,
Is worth a course of five good miles at least;
To see thy glowing face of welcome is,
At lowest reck'ning, worth ten score of leagues
By sea or land; and this soft thrilling pressure,—
O! 'tis worth all the leagues that gird the globe.

[Taking her hand.
Bea.
What idle words! how canst thou be so foolish?
I needs must chide thee for it, thoughtless boy!

Maur.
Chide me, indeed, who am two years thy elder,
And two good months to boot!—Such high pretension!
Have sixteen summers and a woman's robe
Made thee so very wise and consequential?

Bea.
(giving him two mock blows on his shoulder).
Take that, and that, for such discourteous words.

Maur.
(catching both her hands and kissing them separately).
Ay, marry will I, and right gladly too,
When this and this are added to the gift.

Bea.
Forbear such idle rapture, 'tis a folly:
So tell me truly what has brought thee back
To this disturb'd and miserable house.

Maur.
What, miserable still? Not yet convinced
That thou, and not Zorada, art the queen
Of my impassion'd heart?

Bea.
Of this, indeed,
He is convinced; but what doth it avail?
Some other fancy, yet I know not what,
Again possesses him. Therefore depart;
Quickly depart, nor linger longer here,
When thou hast told me wherefore thou art come.

Maur.
When some way off, it came into my head
That Don Romiero—the occasion past,
Which has excited him to favour us—
May be remiss, or may repent his promise.
I therefore quickly turned my horse's head,
Nor drew I bridle till within the forest
I found me once again, close to the postern.

Bea.
What wouldst thou do? for in his present state
Thou mayst not speak to him.

Maur.
But I would speak to Guzman; he has power
To keep Romiero steadfast in his promise.
I should have thought of this before I went,
And urged him earnestly that no remissness
With thy relations may retard our bliss.

Bea.
Are we not happy now? Is marriage bliss?
I fear to think of it.

Maur.
Why shouldst thou fear?
Shall I be jealous? O, my gentle Beatrice!
I never will believe thee false to me,
Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright
Shall flash upon me, and the agony
Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding.

Bea.
And art thou, then, so tender in thy nature?
In truth it makes me weep to think thou art.

Maur.
Let me wipe off those tears, my gentle love.
Think hopefully and cheerfully, I pray thee.
I feel within my breast a strong assurance
Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious.
Where may I find Don Guzman?

[Exeunt.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The scene dark; the forest. Enter Jerome and another domestic, by opposite sides of the stage.
Jer.
Hast thou seen any thing?

Dom.
No; but I spy a distant moving light
Far to the left.

Jer.
Then run and see who bears it.
[Exit domestic.
Here come my lord and Guzman, slow and silent.
Surely they have not seen it; and, perhaps,
My comrade is deceived.

Enter Romiero and Guzman.
Rom.
Ha! Jerome! is it thou!

Jer.
It is, my lord:

Rom.
Hast thou seen aught? hast thou heard any sound?

Jer.
Nothing, my lord.

Rom.
Yet still be on the watch:
Revisit every path; let nought escape thee.

Jer.
No, nothing shall. I'll use both eyes and ears
Intently; nothing shall unnoted be.
An owlet shall not turn him in his nest
But I shall be aware of it, nor hare
Scud 'cross the path without my observation.

Rom.
Well, say no more: I trust thee. To thy duty!

[Exit Jerome.
Guz.
I am persuaded we shall range this wood
The livelong night, nor meet with any thing
But such small denizens as Jerome mention'd,
Or these benighted trees that skirt our path,
So black and motionless.

Rom.
Oh! if the light of day return again,
Nought being found to justify my fears,
I'll hail it as the wretch whose op'ning dungeon
Receives the light, as through its portal passes
Some glad friend, bearing his reprieve. Oh, Guzman!
The felon, chain'd to meet his shameful doom,
Hath not more agony of thought, nor starteth
With greater horror from the brink of death,
Than I do from that moment of despair
Which shall make manifest the thing I dread.

Guz.
I trust that moment never will arrive.

Rom.
Dost thou, my friend? dost thou, in very truth?
I bless thee for that noble confidence:
Would I could feel it too! Repeat thy words.

Guz.
I do believe that moment will not come.

Rom.
No, no! it was not thus: thy words are changed;
Thy tone of voice is changed; thoughts of recoil
Pass o'er thy mind, and turn their force to weakness.
Thou dost not trust,—no, nor believe it neither.

Guz.
Indeed, I think—I hope thou art deceived.

Rom.
Shame on such timid tamp'ring with my passion,
Provoking it the more! If she be guilty,
I am prepared with dreadful preparation.
If she be innocent,—tears choke my voice:
To say, “if she be innocent!”—
Her look, her smile, her easy lightsome gait,—
She was th'embodied form of innocence;
The simple sweetness of a cottage child,
Join'd to a lady's grace.

Guz.
Hers seem'd, indeed, the loveliness of virtue.

Rom.
Even so; but that is changed. She cannot now
So look, so smile, so step; for if she could,
I should defy all proof of circumstance
To move me to suspicion.

Guz.
Nay, good Romiero, know thy nature better,
A circumstance as trivial as the glance
Or meaning smile of some young varlet page
Would tempt thee to suspect a saint of heaven.
But cease debate; your scout returns in haste.

Enter Domestic.
Dom.
My lord, they're in the wood: I've seen them.

Rom.
Whom?

Dom.
The nurse, my lord, went first, and close behind her
Donna Zorada stole like one afraid.

Rom.
(seizing him by the throat).
Hell choke thy blasted breath, thou croaking fiend!
Thou darest not say 'twas she.

Dom.
I did not say so, certainly.

Rom.
Thou didst.

Dom.
I spoke unwittingly; I will unsay it.

Rom.
(casting him away from him with violence).
And be a damned liar for thy pains.
All that my darkest fancy had conceived!
Uncover'd shame, degrading infamy!—
Come quick, unstinted, terrible revenge!
If the base wantons live another hour,
I am as base as they.

Guz.
Be not a maniac: think before thou act,—
Before thou do what cannot be undone.

Rom.
Think ere I act! Cool, sober, gentle friend!
Hadst thou not better say, “Good sir, be patient.
Thy wife is faithless, and her minion bless'd;
But pray, good sir, be patient.”—Oh, my heart!
The seat of life will burst ere it be done:
Hold, hold till then! (To domestic.)
Where were they? near the castle?

Dom.
No; in the beechen grove beyond the chapel,
To which we did suspect their steps were bent,
Taking, no doubt, that further winding path
The better to avoid detection.—See,
There's light now faintly peering from its window.
They must be there already. (To Guzman.)
Look, Don Guzman!

Guz.
I do; it vanishes and re-appears,
And vanishes again, and all is dark.

Rom.
Yes; all shall soon be dark:
That flame of guilt, those glow-worms of the night,
That bright deceitful sheen of foul corruption,
Shall be extinct, trod out, earth bray'd with earth.
Which of these paths leads to th' accursed spot?
[Rushing into a path, and then turning back and taking another.
I am bewilder'd! this will lead me right.

[Exit.
Guz.
We must pursue his steps, and try, if possible,
To keep his unrein'd ire from desp'rate acts.

[Exeunt.
Enter, by the opposite side, Beatrice and her woman.
Bea.
He should be here, or somewhere near this spot.
I am afraid in these dark forest paths.
Each crooked leafless stump or dwarfish bush
Seems beast or man prepared to pounce upon us;
And then to make a vain and short amends,
Each slender, graceful sapling is my Maurice.
I dare not venture further.

Woman.
Perhaps we're wrong, and have mista'en the place;
Let us turn back, and try some other alley!

Bea.
Turn not; I hear his foot.

(Listening.)
Woman.
My ears then must be dull, for I hear nothing.

Bea.
Yes, they are dull; thou hast not in thy heart
That which doth quicken mine.—It is his footstep;
I know it well!

Woman.
Indeed, I should have guess'd—

Bea.
Nay, hush, Theresa;
I love to bend mine ear and listen to it.
[Listens again as before, and presently enter Maurice.
Is't thou, my friend?

Maur.
Yes, dearest; further on
I waited for thee, and became impatient.

Bea.
How glad I am to hear thy voice again!

Maur.
What hast thou done? How hast thou sped with Guzman?
Since thou wouldst take that office on thyself,
I trust thy parley with him was successful.

Bea.
As heart could wish, although it was but short.
He'll be our friend, and keep Romiero so;
And will, besides, to my stern uncle speak,
Who, as thou knowst—But here comes one in haste.

Enter Jerome.
Jer.
Remain no longer here; for Don Romiero,
And Guzman with him, wanders through the wood;
You may encounter him in any path.

Maur.
What shall we do?

Jer.
Be still, and follow me,
And I will lead you to a safer spot,
Free from intrusion, near the ruin'd chapel.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The inner porch of a ruined chapel. Enter Nurse and a Sea Captain, meeting.
Nurse.
Are all things ready then?

Capt.
The breeze is faint,
But it is fair; my seamen are on board;
We shall weigh anchor by the early dawn,
And bear us out to sea. Go, tell my passenger
To join us presently upon the beach.

Nurse.
I will, good captain: 'tis no thoughtless youth,
Who trows the very winds should wait his bidding;
He will be punctual. He hath seen good days,
Although I may not tell thee who he is.

Capt.
Nor do I ask thee.

Nurse.
He hath seen good days,
And evil too, and hath been buffeted
By wayward fate.

Capt.
Good mother, so have I.
But what of that? The foul, the fair will blow,
And we must weather it even as we may.
Speak not in such a lamentable tone;
I will be kind to him.

Nurse.
I hope thou wilt.
Heaven will reward thee, and Saint Jago too.

Capt.
Tut, woman! wherefore make so much ado
About some kindness to a fellow sinner?
I shall expect him ere the morning break;
And give him notice, for the time is near.

[Exit.
Nurse
(alone).
I will not yet break on their sad farewell,
But in the outer porch remain on watch.
Ah, woe the day! that they must thus, by stealth,
Take their last leave. I fear 'twill be their last.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

An old Gothic chapel: Sebastian and Zorada are discovered in earnest conversation.
Seb.
And wilt thou bear these lessons in thy mind?

Zor.
I shall forget to say my daily prayers
When I forget to think of thee, dear father!
And, when I think of thee, thy words of kindness,
And words of counsel too, shall be remember'd.

Seb.
Sweet child! stand back and let me look upon thee.
Ay; so she look'd. O! it is sweet in thee
To look so like thy mother, when mine eyes
Must take their last impression, as a treasure
Here (his hand on his heart)
to be cell'd for ever. Many looks
Thy varying face was wont to wear, yet never,
But in some sad or pensive mood, assumed
The likeness of that countenance;—to me
Thy loveliest look; though, to all other eyes,
Thy mother's beauty never equall'd thine.

Zor.
I still remember her: the sweetest face
That e'er I look'd upon. I oft recall it,
And strive to trace the features more distinctly.

Seb.
Be good as she was; and when I am gone,
Never again let myst'ry and concealment,
Tempting the weakness of thy husband's nature,
Which but for this were noble, break the peace
And harmony of marriage.—For this oath—
This fatal oath—he was constrain'd to take it.
Then so consider it, nor let it rankle
Within thy gentle breast: that were perverse.
When I am gone, all will again be well,
And I will write to thee and comfort thee.
Our minds shall still hold intercourse, dear Zada,
And that should satisfy.

Zor.
Alas! alas!
When I shall read thy letters, my poor heart
Will but the more yearn after thee, dear father!
And pine to see thee. Suffer me to hope
That we shall meet again.—Call it not vain,
But suffer me to think— Enter Nurse in alarm.

What is the matter?

Nurse.
You are discover'd: Don Romiero comes;
I heard his voice approaching through the trees.
I heard the hollow tread of many feet.

Zor.
(to Sebastian).
O fly! farewell!

Seb.
Farewell, my dearest child!
Heaven bless and guard thee ever! O farewell!

[Embraces her, and exit.
Zor.
If he should be discover'd!

Nurse.
Fear it not.
He knows the nearest path, and on the beach
The captain will receive him. Ere 'tis light,
He will be safely in the vessel lodged.
O all good saints of heav'n! he's here already.

Enter Romiero.
Rom.
Most wretched and degraded woman! Now
Thy shameful secret is discover'd. Now,
Vice unveiled and detestable must have
Its dreadful recompense. Where is thy minion?

Zor.
O cease! you frighten me with such fierce looks.
I have done thee no wrong.

Rom.
Provoke me not with oft-repeated words,
Which I do know are false as his who fell
Apostate and accursed. Where is thy minion?
[In a still louder voice, and stamping on the ground.
Tell me without delay: speak briefly, truly,
If thou hast hope to live another hour.

Zor.
O pity, pity! be not so enraged!
Thou shalt be told the truth a few hours hence;
Then, to that time, detest me as thou wilt,
But spare my life.

Re-enter Sebastian, while Romiero has, in his rage, stridden to the front of the stage. Zorada, uttering a shriek, runs to her father, and throws her veil over his face, endeavouring to push him back.
Seb.
What! fly and leave thee in a madman's power?
I heard his stormy voice, and could not leave thee.

[Romiero turns round, and, running furiously at them, stabs Zorada in aiming at Sebastian; Guzman, who enters in alarm, followed by Maurice and Beatrice, endeavouring, in vain, to prevent him.
Guz.
Hold! hold! thou wilt not strike a cover'd foe!

Zor.
(still clinging round her father).
Strike me again; I will not quit my hold.
I'll cling to him; within my dying grasp
I'll hold him safe: thou wilt not kill him there.

[Sinking to the ground, while the veil drops from the face of Sebastian.
Rom.
Her father!

Zor.
Yes; my father, dear Romiero!
Thou wilt not slay us both. Let one suffice!
Thou lovedst me once; I know thou lovest me now;
Shall blood so dear to thee be shed in vain?
Let it redeem my father!—I am faint,
Else I would kneel to thee.

[Endeavouring to kneel, but prevented and supported by nurse and Beatrice.
Nurse.
Do not, dear murder'd child!

Bea.
My dear, dear friend, forbear. He heeds thee not.

Guz.
Romiero, dost thou hear her sad request?

Rom.
I hear your voices murm'ring in mine ear
Confused and dismal. Words I comprehend not.
What have I done? Some dreadful thing, I fear.
It is delusion this! she is not slain:
Some horrible delusion.

Zor.
(aside to Sebastian).
Fly, fly, dear father, while he is so wild.
He will not know and will not follow thee.

Seb.
No, dearest child! let death come when it will,
I'll now receive it thankfully. Romiero,
Thou wretched murd'rer of thy spotless wife—
Romiero de Cardona!

Rom.
Who is it calls me with that bitter voice?
[Gazing on him; and then with a violent gesture of despair.
I know thee;—yes, I know what I have done.

Guz.
Forbear such wild and frantic sorrow now,
And speak to her while she is sensible,
And can receive thy words. She looks on thee,
And looks imploringly.

Rom.
Zorada, my Zorada! spotless saint!
I lov'd thee far beyond all earthly things,
But demons have been dealing with my soul,
And I have been thy tyrant and destroyer,
A wretch bereft of reason.

Bea.
She makes a sign as if she fain would speak,
But her parch'd tongue refuses. (To Maurice.)
Fetch some water
To moisten those dear lips and cool that brow.
[Exit Maurice.
She strives again to speak.

Rom.
(stooping over her.)
What wouldst thou say?
What means that gentle motion?

Zor.
Come close to me; thou'rt pardon'd, love, thou'rt pardoned.

Rom.
No, say that I am blasted, ruin'd, cursed,
Hateful to God and man.

Re-enter Maurice with water, which she tastes.
Zor.
Thou art not cursed; O no! then be more calm.
(Endeavouring to raise herself up.)
Look here; he is my father: think of that.
Thou'rt pardoned, love; thou'rt pardoned.

Rom.
She call'd me love. Did she not call me so?

Guz.
Yes, most endearingly.

Rom.
And she is gone, and I have murder'd her!
[Throws himself on the body, moaning piteously; then starts up in despair, and looks furiously at Sebastian.
Thou restless, selfish, proud, rebellious spirit!
Thy pride has work'd our ruin, been our bane;
The bane of love so bless'd! Draw, wretched man!
I've sworn an oath, which I will sacred hold,
That when Sebastian and myself should meet,
He should to royal justice be deliver'd,
Or, failing that, one of the twain should die.

[Drawing his sword fiercely upon him.
Guz.
(holding him back).
Hold, madman, hold! thy rage is cruel, monstrous,
Outraging holy nature.

Rom.
(breaking from him.)
Off! thinkst thou to restrain or bind despair
With petty strength like thine?—Proud rebel, draw!
I am thy daughter's murderer, and thou
Destroyer of us both.

Seb.
Yes, Don Romiero, we are match'd in ruin,
And we will fight for that which cures despair.
He who shall gain it is the conqueror.

[They fight, each exposing himself rather than attacking his adversary.
Rom.
No; to't in earnest, if thou wouldst not have me
Deliver thee a felon to the law.
Defend thine honour, though thou scorn thy life!
[They fight again, and Romiero falls.
I thank thee, brave Sebastian: O forgive
Harsh words that were but meant to urge contention.
Thou'rt brave and noble; so my heart still deem'd thee,
Though, by hard fate, compelled to be thy foe.—
Come hither, Guzman: thou hast sworn no oath.
Give me thy hand; preserve Sebastian's life,
And lay me in the grave with my Zorada.

[The curtain drops.