University of Virginia Library

RAYNER:

A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

MEN

• Rayner.
• Count Zaterloo, a worthless dissipated nobleman of ruined fortune, and chief of a band of lawless ruined men, like himself.
• Bernard gentlemen and followers of Zaterloo.
• Sebastian, gentleman and follower of Zaterloo.
• Hardibrand, an old general.
• Mardonio, a monk.
• Old man of the wood.
• Ohio, a negro attached to the prison.
• Herman, servant to Rayner.
• Richard.
• Bertram.
• Gobus.
• Keeper of the prison, clown, executioners, turnkey, gaoler, messenger, landlord, confessor, crowd, &c.

WOMEN

• Elizabeth.
• Countess Zaterloo, mother to Zaterloo.
• Mira, a courtezan.
• Alice, friend to Mira.

Scene, Germany, near the frontiers of Poland and Silesia.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A noise of voices and unruly merriment is heard, whilst the curtain draws up, and discovers Count Zaterloo, Bernard, Sebastian, and others of their band, seated round a table with wine, &c.
Zat.
Ha, ha, ha, ha! with all this noisy mirth,
Should some grave stranger, on his way misled,
Now push the door ajar, and look upon us
Thus set, what class of men should we be deem'd?
A set of light hearts, snug in fortune's lap,
Who will not go to bed because we may?
Or club of sharpers, flush'd with full success,
New from the spoiling of some simple fool?
Or troop of strolling players, at our ease,
After the labours of our kingly sorrows,
With throats new cool'd at as great charge of wine
As our tough lungs have cost of lady's tears?

Ber.
No, no, thou hast not hit upon it yet:
He'd take thee for the heir of some old miser,
Treating thy friends, as first fruits of thy kingdom,
With flowing bumpers to the quiet rest
Of thy good kinsman's soul.

Zat.
Yes, Bernard, thou sayst well: and thy dark visage,
Lank and unsuited to all mirth, would mark thee
The undertaker, who amongst the guests
Had come on matters of his sable trade,
Grinning a strange, uncomely, jaw-bone smile
O'er the near prospect of his future gains.

Seb.
Methinks, at least, in this gay, jolly band,
He scarcely would discover needy men,
Who better days have seen.

Zat.
Tut, man! thou art too grave; thou art too grave—
Which of you sung that song with merry lay,
Some few nights since? Come, let us have it now.

Zat.
It is a song of Halbert's, is it not?
He was a social jolly-hearted mate,
And had a knack of making ready rhymes.

Ber.
I knew him well: what has become of him?

Zat.
(pretending not to hear).
Fill up your glass, and let the flask go round.

Ber.
What has become of Halbert, dost thou know?

Zat.
(still pretending not to hear).
This wine is richly flavour'd, is it not?

Ber.
It is.—But Halbert; know ye aught of him?

Zat.
The devil take thy question, asking spirit!
For when thou getst a notion by the skirt,
Thou, like an English bull-dog, keepst thy hold,
And wilt not let it go.—
He shot himself in prison some months since:
Now, there's thine answer for thee; art thou satisfied?

[A deep and long pause; then Zaterloo starts up as if he recollected something.
He will be with us ere I've pav'd his way.
Seb.
Hast thou some new associate to propose?

Zat.
Know ye the younger branch of Valvo's house?
Whose valiant father left him but his sword
And his proud spirit, through this changeful world
To shape his way, with heart as truly temper'd
To all the softest witch'ries of refinement
As e'er own'd cherish'd heir of wide domains,
In palace nurs'd.

Seb.
I've seen him when a youth.
But he since then has of a foreign state
The soldier been; and had not now return'd,
But in the hope, 'tis said, of being heir
To his great uncle's vast and rich possessions,
Of which that villain Hubert has depriv'd him
With treach'rous wiles. Poor heart! he has my pity.
'Tis said a ling'ring fever seiz'd upon him
From disappointment; and I marvel not;
The stroke was most severe.

Zat.
And felt more keenly,
For that he left behind him, in the country
To which he now belongs, a gentle maid
And his betroth'd, with whom he thought to share
His promis'd wealth.
But these things rest.—Thus driven as we are
To this uncertain, daring course of life,
The stronger and the more respectable
Our band, the greater chance of prospering.
Our number is too small; and, by my soul,
To see a mean, plebeian, vulgar knave,
Admitted of our fellowship, still rubs
Against my nature. Such a man as Rayner
Is precious, and, once gain'd, is sure and steadfast.
But few days since I met him, dark and thoughtful,
With melancholy and unwonted gait
Slow saunt'ring through lone, unfrequented paths,
Like one whose soul from man's observing eye
Shrinks gall'd, as shrinks the member newly torn
From every slightest touch. Seeing him thus,
I mark'd him for my man.

Ber.
Didst thou accost him?

Zat.
Yes; when to my greeting,
“Thou seest I am unhappy, go thy ways,”
He fretful said, and turn'd. I still persisted,
With soothing words which thrill'd against his heart,
(For in our youthful days we once were playmates,)
Like the sweet tones of some forgotten song,
Till, like a pent-up flood swoln to the height,
He pour'd his griefs into my breast with tears,
Such as the manliest men in their cross'd lives
Are sometimes forced to shed.

Seb.
And spoke he of his love?

Zat.
Nay, there indeed
He was reserv'd; but that part of his story,
Which I from sure authority have learnt,
I still through broken words could shrewdly read,
Although he named it not.

Ber.
Hast thou explain'd to him our course of life?

Zat.
No, that had been too much; but canst thou doubt,
Suff'ring such wrongs as Hubert's artful baseness
Has put upon him, he will scruple long,
Thus circumstanced, to join his arm with ours
In murd'ring the rich villain?

Ber.
(looking at Sebastian, who shrinks back).
I pray thee call it shooting! that plain word
Still makes Sebastian, like a squeamish dame,
Shrink and look lily-faced. To shoot a man
As one in battle shoots a fronted foe;
As from the tavern's broil, in measured field,
One shoots a friend, is nought: — but that word murder—
It hath a horrid sound; pray thee, good captain,
Remember 'tis a band of gentlemen
Thou dost command, and let such gentle phrase
Fall from thy tongue as gentle ears may suit.

[Omnes laughing loud at Sebastian.
Zat.
Hush! Rayner is at hand, I hear his steps. Enter Rayner.

I give you welcome, Rayner, with my heart:
These are my friends, of whom I well might boast,
But that it seems like boasting of myself.
Here, take your place, and join our fellowship.
There is but little need of ceremony
With those whom like misfortunes bring together.

Ray.
I take my seat, honour'd in such a place;
And so far to misfortune am indebted,
Which has procur'd it for me.

[Sits down.
Ber.
(drinking to Rayner).
This do I fill to future fellowship:
To that which makes, at fortune's lowest ebb,
A few brave men united, mock the world
And all its plodding rules; enabling them
Boldly to seize their portion of life's feast,
Which griping av'rice or unjust oppression
Would from them snatch, whilst with insulting scorn
It scoffs at poverty and patient want.

Ray.
Thou truly sayst; at least I have observ'd
That those who bear misfortunes over meekly
Do but persuade mankind that they and want
Are all too fitly match'd to be disjoin'd,
And so to it they leave them.

Ber.
'Tis ever so:
E'en good men then neglect them; but the base,
They, who by mean and undermining arts
To o'ergrown wealth attain, like the ass's heel
'Gainst the sick lion's low and lanken breast,
Spurn at them.

Zat.
Yes, good Bernard, thou speakst truly.
For I myself, who, as thou knowst right well,
Am not too meekly to misfortune bent,
Have somewhat of the worthless ass's kick
Against my bosom felt.—'Lone and unarm'd—
Had but one brave companion by my side
My anger shared, full dearly had the knave—
But let it pass,—he had a brave man's curse,
And that will rest upon him.

Ber.
But, pray thee, count, tell us the circumstance:
Thou speakst in mystery.

Zat.
A few days since, returning near my home,
Upon a narrow path raised from a road
With mud choked up, behind me trampling came,
A band of liv'ried rascals at his heels,
In all his awkward state, a puff'd-up worldling,
And rode me off my way; whilst looking back,
He turn'd his head with a malicious grin
At the poor spatter'd wretch, who in the mud
Stood showering curses on him.

Ray.
Ay, 'tis the cursed insolence of wealth
That makes the poor man poor. Thou wast unarm'd?

Zat.
I was; or by this hand, poor as I am,
I should have spent a brace of bullets on him
With much good-will.

Ray.
Knowst thou the villain's name?

Zat.
Faith, I'm almost ashamed to tell it thee.
Thou knowst him well: he is a rich man now;
His name is Hubert.

Ray.
There lives no blacker villain on the earth
Than he who bears it.—But thou knowst it all.
When from a distant country, where with honour
I earn'd a soldier's pittance, the fair promises
Of a near kinsman tempted me, and I,
Though by my nature most incautious,
And little skill'd to gain by flatt'ring arts
An old man's love, high in his favour stood;
That villain Hubert roused his jealous nature
With artful tales of slights and heir-like wishes,
And covert mock'ry of his feeble age,
Till, in the bitterness of changed love,
All his vast wealth he did bequeath to him,
And left me here, e'en in this stranger's land
(For years of absence makes it so to me),
A disappointed, friendless, unknown man,
Poor and depress'd, such as you see me now.

Ber.
Double, detested, cruel-hearted villain!

Zat.
(starting up with affected vehemence).
By heaven he dies, as I do wear this arm!
[They all start up.
Defended by a host of liv'ried knaves,
I'd seek him out alone.

Ber.
Thou shalt not go alone; here, heart and hand
We will all join thee in so good a cause.

1st gent.
My arm is at thy will.

2d gent.
Take my aid too;
We never can be bold in better cause.

3d gent.
(on receiving a sign from Zaterloo).
Then, sirs, you must be speedy with your vengeance,
For I am well inform'd that on to-morrow,
With all his treasure, for a distant province
He will begin his journey towards eve.

Zat.
Ha! then good fortune leads him to our hands;
How goes he guarded?

3d gent.
With a slender train.

Zat.
Then thanks to fortune's fav'ring smiles, which thus,
Whilst we but seek revenge for a friend's wrongs,
So kindly throws into our heedless way
The easy cure of our necessities.
Yes, let us seize the greedy glutted villain!
Let us disgorge him of his ill-got gains!
He long enough has rioted in ease,
Whilst better men have felt the gripe of want.

Ber.
Yes, let it be so, let the villain die!

Zat.
What sayst thou, Rayner? thou alone art silent.

Ray.
The wrongs are mine, and if with indignation
They fill your breasts, in strong desire of vengeance
Ye well may guess I am not far behind:
But there's a law above all human bonds,
Which damps the eager beating of my heart,
And says, “do thou no murder.”

Zat.
Well, clear thy knitted brows, nor look thus strangely.
We both are form'd, my friend, to know like feelings,
Like wants and wishes, and from better days
Both are reduced to fortune's lowest ebb:
And I as well as thou, standing thus singly,
Can feed my fancy up with strong conceits
Of what in letter'd lore is virtue term'd,
And bear its darkest frowns. There was a time,
When sharing ev'ry wish and ev'ry view
With one of weaker frame and softer soul;
Yet forced by the dark frowns of adverse fortune
To live a willing outlaw from her presence,
Because I could not bear to come before her
A poor despised man, reft of that comeliness
And honest grace which independence gives,
To bid her throw aside her flowing robes
And decent ornaments of maiden pride,
Unveil the sweetness of her shelter'd beauty
To beating mid-day heats and chilling winds,
And be a wand'ring vagrant by my side;—
There was a time, my friend, when, thus beset,
At view of any means to better fortune,
A stronger pow'r had ris'n within my breast
And mock'd at law. But, standing thus alone,
I can as well as thou forego the gain
Which this occasion offers.—Let it pass!
There is within us, be it superstition,
Th'unscann'd opinions from our childhood cherish'd,
Or natural instinct, still a strong aversion
To ev'ry act of blood. Let us yield to it:
We will not strain our nature from its bent:
We'll do no violent deed.

Ray.
(catching hold of Zaterloo with great agitation).
O thou hast moved me! thou hast conjured thought!
Wast thou — wast thou indeed thus circumstnaced?
And thy deserted love; what was her fate?

Zat.
She felt not long the cruel separation:
One lovely bush of the pale virgin thorn,
Bent o'er a little heap of lowly turf,
Is all the sad memorial of her worth;
All that remains to mark where she is laid.

Ray.
Oh! Oh! and was it thus!

Zat.
But let us now shake off these dismal thoughts,
This hour was meant for social fellowship:
Resume your seats, my friends, and, gentle Rayner,
Clear up thy cloudy brows and take thy place.

Ray.
I fain would be excused.

Zat.
(gently forcing him to sit down).
Nay, no excuse:
Thou must perforce a social hour or two
Spend with us. To ye all, my noble friends, Drinks.
I fill this cup.
— Bernard, how goes thy suit?
Hast thou yet to thy greedy lawyer's pocket
Convey'd thy hindmost ducat? Ha, ha, ha!
Had he, with arms in hand, ta'en from thee boldly
Half of the sum, thou wouldst have called him robber.
Ha, ha, ha!

[Laughing heartily.
Ber.
Yes, thou mayst laugh:
We nice distinctions make.—I had an uncle,
Who once upon a time—

Zat.
I hope, good Bernard,
Thy story will be shorter than thy suit.

[Rayner, who has been sitting in gloomy thoughtfulness, without attending to any thing around him, whilst Zaterloo has been keeping an eye of observation on him, now rises up in great agitation to go away.
Zat.
What is the matter, Rayner?

Ray.
I am disturb'd—I know not how I am—
Let me take leave, I pray you.

Zat.
Thou shalt not quit us thus. What is the matter?

Ray.
Question me not: my thoughts are all confused:
There is a strong temptation fasten'd on me.
I am not well.

Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Ay, now it works upon him:
This will do—
[Aloud, and preventing Rayner from going.
If thou'rt unwell, art thou not with thy friends?

Ray.
If ye indeed are friends, not spirits enleagued
To force me to my ruin, let me go—
Let me go to my home.

Zat.
What, dost thou call a bare unfurnish'd chamber,
With griping landlord clam'ring in thine ears
For what he knows thou canst not give, thy home?

Ray.
(sighing deeply).
I have no other.

Zat.
Stay thou here with us:
In the next chamber thou shalt rest awhile.
Lead him, my kind Sebastian, by the hand:
There is a sort of woman's kindliness
About thy nature, which befits thee best
To be a sick man's friend. I'll follow you.
[Exit Rayner, leaning on Sebastian; turning about to his friends triumphantly as they go off.
I have secured my man.
[A voice heard without.
But hark! a voice without! It is my mother's.
Secure the latticed door. Plague on her kindness
To haunt me here! I have forgot my promise.
(To Bernard.)
Make fast the latticed door and answer for me.

Ber.
(after fastening a door of lattice work through which the countess is seen).
Who's there? what want ye?

Countess
(without).
I want my son: I pray you is he here?

Ber.
He is not here.

Countess
(without).
Nay, say not so, I think he is with you.
O tell him I have sate these three long hours,
Counting the weary beatings of the clock,
Which slowly portion'd out the promised time
That brought him not to bless me with his sight.
If he is well, why does he thus forget?
And if he is not, as I fear he is not,
Tell me the worst, and let me be with him
To smooth his couch and raise his sickly head.

Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Tell her it is unseemly for a mother
To run about like a new foolish wife.

Ber.
If you complain thus movingly, fair widow,
We shall believe you seek a second husband
In lieu of your good son; and by my truth
It were a better errand.

Countess.
O base of thought, as most unblest of speech!
My son is not with you: it cannot be:
I did him wrong to seek him in such company.

Ber.
(speaking loud after her as she retires from the door).
Not far from hence, there is a nightly meeting
Of worthy, sober, well-disposed folks,
Who once a week do offer up their prayers
And chant most saintly hymns till morning dawn,
It is more likely you will find him there.

[Omnes laughing.
Zat.
She's gone.

Ber.
Yes, yes; come from thy hiding place.

Zat.
Now what a most unreasonable woman!
Thinks she, thus ripen'd to these manly years,
That I must run whene'er my finger aches
To lean my silly head upon her lap?
'Tis well I have no wife.

Ber.
Ay, so it is.
There is no pleasing those high legal dames
With endless claims upon a man's regard:
Heaven save us from them all!

Zat.
Well, this I drink to precious liberty:
He is a fool indeed who parts with that.
[A loud voice and bustling heard without.
What's this comes next to plague us?

Ber.
'Tis Mira's voice.

Zat.
Hast thou not sent to say, that urgent bus'ness
Detains me from her banquet?

Ber.
I have; I sent to her a written message.

Zat.
Keep fast the door, and I will stand conceal'd.

[Conceals himself, and Mira appears through the latticed door.
Mira
(without.)
Where is Count Zaterloo? Let me pass on.

Ber.
Affairs of greatest consequence detain him.
My beauteous Mira; and I needs must say
That now you may not pass.—
He's much concern'd: early upon the morrow
He will be with you.

Mira.
Upon the morrow! prate not thus to me!
He shall to-night go with me where I list,
Or never see my face again. To-morrow!
Open the door, I say! this weakly barrier
Shall not oppose my way.

[Beating violently against the door.
Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Faith, I believe we must e'en let her in:
She may do some rash thing, if we persist.

[Bernard unbolts the door; Zaterloo comes from his concealment; and enter Mira, superbly dressed, and in a violent passion.
Mira.
Is this the way you keep your promises?
Is this your faith? is this your gallantry?

Zat.
Mira, my gentle love, I pray thee hear me!
I sent to tell thee business of great moment.

Mira.
Yes, yes! I have received your scurvy message,
And well I know that ev'ry paltry matter
Is cause sufficient for neglecting me.

Zat.
Thou knowst to be from thee is painful to me.

Mira.
So it should seem, by taking so much care
To comfort you the while.
[Pointing to the wine, &c.
You do your bus'ness jovially, methinks.

Zat.
Thou art too warm: accuse me as thou wilt
Of aught but want of love.

Mira.
O, thou deceitful man! I know thee well:
Thou talkst of love and thou wouldst break my heart.

Zat.
Indeed I am to blame, my gentle love;
Yet be not thus: in token of forgiveness
This friendly cup receive, and smile upon me.

[Offering her a cup, which she dashes to the ground.
Mira.
Off with thy hateful gifts! nought from thy hands
Will I receive; I scorn thy offering.
E'en the rich robe thou hast so often promised,
Ay and so oft forgot, so I must call it,
I would now scorn, since thou dost slight my love.

Zat.
Indeed, my Mira, thou shalt have that robe
Before two days be past: I swear to thee.
Then do not look so frowningly, my love;
I know thou hast a soft relenting nature;
Smile my forgiveness.

Mira.
O thou provoking man! thou knowst full well
It is thyself and not thy gifts I prize:
Thou knowst too well how my fond doating heart
Is moved with the soft witch'ry of thy tongue;
Yet thou wilt vex me thus, and break my heart.
Oh! 'tis too much!

[Pretending to burst into tears.
Zat.
I cannot see thee weep: what wouldst thou have?

Mira.
I will have nought, unless you go with me.

Zat.
I cannot now, for I have urgent bus'ness.

Mira.
Then stay, and never see my face again.
O that some friendly hand would end my days,
Since I have lived to see me thus despised.

Zat.
(aside to Bernard).
Bernard, I think I must e'en go with her.
See thou to Rayner: I will soon return.
(Aloud.)
Then let us go, my love, thou dost compel me.
Thy hand, sweet Mira.

[Exeunt Zaterloo and Mira.
Ber.
Well, gentle friends, it is blest liberty
Our noble chief enjoys. I must to Rayner.
Stay if you will, and keep you merry here.

Omnes.
No, we are tir'd, we will retire to rest.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Rayner's lodgings. Enter Rayner alone.
Ray.
Be still, ye idle thoughts that toss me thus,
Changing like restless waves, but ever dark;
Or one of you above his fellows rise,
And bear a steady rule. Adversity!
Thou'st come upon me like an ambush'd foe
In armed strength. If I had mark'd thy course,
I might have girt myself for thine approach,
While distant still, and met thee like a man.
But when new-fetter'd in a lover's bonds,
And dazzled too with hope's deceitful brightness,
Cam'st thou like a thick cloud of desert sand,
And in dark night o'erwhelm'd me: deepest night,
Through which no waking vision ever gleams,
Save thy grim visage only, loathly want,
In all thy varied forms of misery.
My night, my day dreams, ah! how are ye changed,
Since in the new-betroth'd, the lover's fancy,
Ye wove your sheeny maze of mingled thoughts,
Like sparkling dew-webs in the early sun!
[After a pause.
Elizabeth! methinks e'en now I see her.
As in the horrors of my last night's dream,
When, after following her through flood and fire,
She turn'd to me, and her weak arms stretch'd forth.
But ah! how changed, how pale, and spent, and keen!
As if already blighting poverty,
That portion which her love must share with me,
Had marr'd—cease, cease, base thought, it shall not be! Enter Herman with a knapsack on his back, as if prepared for a journey.

What, my good Herman, art thou so soon ready?

Her.

Yes, my dear master, but if you think it too soon, I will not go to-day. Nay if it were not that you force me to go, I should as soon have thought of deserting my friend (pardon my boldness, sir) in a wild wood amongst savages, as leaving you here in this strange place in the state you are in at present. Pardon my boldness, sir.

Ray.

Thou hast no boldness to pardon, Herman: thou art well entitled to call thyself my friend; there is not one amongst those who have borne that name, who would have done more for me than thou hast done.

Her.

Ah, sir!

Ray.

(assuming a look of cheerfulness).
Fy, do not look so sadly upon me, man; thanks to thy good nursing and the good broth thou hast made me, I am getting strong again: and as for the state of my coffers, for which thou so much concernest thyself, do not let that disturb thee. My tide of means is, to be sure, pretty well ebbed just now; but some wind or other will spring up to set it a flowing again. In the mean time thou knowest I would travel alone: perhaps I may ramble about a little while mysteriously, like the wandering Jew-or some of those lonely philosophers which thy old stories tell thee about, and there is no knowing what I may find out to do me good. The philosopher's stone, thou knowest, may as well fall into my hands as those of any other wanderer: so pray thee, man, don't look so ruefully upon me.

Her.

Ah, my dear master! there is something here that hangs heavy on my heart, and says, if I leave you now, some evil will befall you: I beseech you let me stay with you, I shall find something to do in this town, and I can—

Ray.

No, no, no! Speak of this no more—we have argued this point already. And what is this which thou puttest down so slily upon the table? [Taking up a little packet which Herman has put secretly upon the table.
Ha! the jewels I have given thee in room of thy wages! out upon it! thou wilt make me angry with thee now, and it grieves me to be angry with thee. Put it up, put it up: I command thee to do it; and thou knowest I have not often used this stern word.

Her.

O no, sir! You have not indeed used it; and I shall never meet with another master like you.

Ray.

Thou wilt meet, I hope, my dear Herman, with a far better master than I have been to thee, though not with one for whom thou wilt do so much kindly service as thou hast done for me; and for this cause, perhaps, thou wilt not love him so much. God prosper thee for it, wherever thou goest!— Take this embrace and blessing for all thou hast done for me. Farewell! farewell! thou must be gone now, indeed thou must. God bless thee, my good Herman.

[Pushing Herman gently off the stage, who wipes his eyes and seems unwilling to go.
[Exit Herman.
Ray.
(alone).
Now, am I left alone: there's no one near me
That e'er hath loved or cared for me. Methinks
I now can better look i' th' surly face
Mine alter'd state, and bear to be in want.
I am alone, and I am glad of it.
Alas! changed heart of mine! what is that state
Which gives to thee such thoughts?—Elizabeth—
Again, again! This strong idea still!
I am distracted when I think of this:
Therefore I must not, if I would be honest.
Those men—or are they men or are they devils?
With whom I met last night; they've fasten'd on me
Fell thoughts, which, though I spurn them, haunt me still.
Would I had never met them!
Here comes my landlord with his surly face
Of debts and claims, and ev'ry irksome thing. Enter Landlord with a letter.

Good morrow, landlord.

Land.

I thank you, sir; I am glad to hear you call me landlord; for I began to be afraid you had mistaken me for your host.

Ray.

I understand you well enough, and indeed I have proved your patience, or rather your impatience, much longer than I wished. You have a letter in your hand.

Land.

(giving it).
There, sir; if it bring you the news of any good luck, I shall be glad of it.

Ray.

(agitated).
From Elizabeth, Good morning —good morning to you.

Land.

Read it, sir, and see if it bring you any good news; it is time now to look for some change in your favour.

Ray.

I cannot open it whilst thou art here. Have the goodness at least not to stand so near me.

Land.

So I must not occupy a place in my own house, forsooth, for fear of offending the good folks who do me the honour to live in it.

[Retires to the bottom of the stage, muttering to himself.
Ray.
(after opening the letter with great emotion and reading it).
O What is this?—
Abandon'd by the friend with whom she liv'd,
And coming here to join me with all speed!
O God! O God!

[Sinks down upon a chair in violent agitation.
Land.
(running up to him).
What is the matter now?

Ray.
Begone, begone! I cannot answer thee.

Enter Count Zaterloo.
Zat.
Ha, Rayner! how is't with thee? thou lookst wildly.
(To landlord.)
Speak to me, friend: he heeds not what I say:
Has any new misfortune happen'd to him?

Land.
I fear there has, sir.

Zat.
Rouse thee up, brave Rayner,
A friend is come to thee.

Ray.
(starting up).
Ha, is it thou?
Com'st thou upon me now, my tempter? now,
E'en in my very moment of distraction?
Thou knowst thy time: some fiend has whisper'd to thee.
Ay, ay! say what thou wilt.

Zat.
Thou'rt surely mad; I came not, on my word,
To say aught to thee which an honest ear
Might not receive; nor will I even speak,
Since it so moves thee—

Ray.
(interrupting him eagerly).
Ah, but thou must!
Thou must speak that, which, in its darkest hour,
Push'd to extremity, 'midst ringing dizziness
The ear of desperation doth receive,
And I must listen to it.

Zat.
What, sayst thou so? 'Tis well (aside)
, but be more prudent,
We are o'erheard.
[Looking suspiciously to landlord, who has retired a few paces behind.
Come with me to my lodgings;
There wait my friends; all things shall be concerted:
Come with me, instantly; the time is precious.

Ray.
(in a tone of despair, clasping his hands vehemently).
Ay, ay! I'll go with thee.

[Exeunt Count Zaterloo and Rayner: Manet landlord.
Landlord

(coming forward).
What's this I've overheard? Is this devil now going to tempt the poor distressed young man to do some foul deed in his necessity?—I have tempted him too, with my hard-hearted murmuring about the few wretched pounds that he owes me. I'll run after him and say, I don't care whether he pay me or not. (Running to the door and then stopping short.)
No, no! softly, softly! I dare say it is only some sharping business they have got on hand, such as needy gentlemen are sometimes forced to follow: I have got my conscience newly cleared off at confession last week, and I am to make an offering next holy-day to the shrine of our patron St. Bernard; this is no time, good sooth, to lose such a sum upon scruples.

[Exit.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

A wood: dark night, with a pale gleam of distant lightning seen once or twice on the edge of the horizon. Advancing by the bottom of the stage, a few moving lights, as if from lanterns, are seen, and at the same time several signal calls and loud whistles are heard, with the distant answer returned to them from another part of the wood. Enter Count Zaterloo, Rayner, Sebastian, and others of the band, armed, and a few of them bearing in their hands dark lanterns. It is particularly requested, if this play should ever be acted, that no light may be permitted upon the stage but that which proceeds from the lanterns only.
Zat.
(to Seb.).
They must be near: didst thou not hear their call?

Seb.
Methought I did; but who in this wild wood
May credit give to either eye or ear?
How oft we've been deceiv'd with our own voices,
From rocky precipice or hollow cave,
'Midst the confused sound of rustling leaves,
And creaking boughs, and cries of nightly birds,
Returning seeming answer!

Zat.
Rayner, where standest thou?

Ray.
Here, on thy left.

Zat.
Surely these wild scenes have depriv'd thy tongue
Of speech. Let's hear thy voice's sound, good man,
To say thou art alive. Thou'rt marvellous silent:
Didst thou not also hear them?

Ray.
I know not truly if I did. Around me,
All seems like the dark mingled mimicry
Of fev'rish sleep; in which the half-doubting mind,
Wilder'd, and weary, with a deep-drawn breath,
Says to itself, “Shall I not wake?”

Zat.
Fy man!
Wilt thou not keep thy soldier's spirit up?
To-morrow's sun will be thy waking time,
And thou wilt wake a rich man and a free.

Ray.
My waking time!—no, no! I must sleep on,
And have no waking.

Zat.
Ha! does thy mind misgive thee on the brink?

Ray.
What passes in my mind, to thee is nothing,
If my hand do the work that's fasten'd on me.
Let's pass to it as quickly as thou wilt,
And do not speak to me.—

Enter Bernard and others, armed, &c.
Zat.
Well met, my friends! well met! for we despair'd
Of ever seeing you.

Seb.
Yet we have heard your voices many times,
Now calling us on this side, now on that,
As though you had from place to place still skipp'd,
Like Will o'the Wisp, to lose us on our way.

Ber.
We've fared alike: so have we thought of you.

Zat.
Have you discover'd aught of those we seek?

Ber.
No; all is still, as far as we have traversed:
No gleaming torch gives notice from afar,
Nor trampling hoofs sound on the distant road.

Zat.
Then must we take again our sev'ral routes,
That haply we may learn, ere he approach,
What strength we have to face, and how he travels:
And that we may not wander thus again,
This aged oak shall be our meeting place;
Where having join'd, we'll by a shorter compass
Attack them near the centre of the wood.

Seb.
The night grows wondrous dark: deepswelling gusts
And sultry stillness take the rule by turns;
Whilst o'er our heads the black and heavy clouds
Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm.

Zat.
I hope the devil will raise no tempest now,
To save this child of his, and from his journey
Make him turn back, crossing our fortunes.

Ber.
Fear not!
For, be the tempest of the devil's raising,
It will do thee no harm. To his good favour
Thou hast (wrong not thy merit) claims too strong.

Zat.
Then come on, friends, and I shall be your warrant!
Growl sky and earth and air, ne'er trouble ye;
They are secure who have a friend at court.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A different part of the wood, wild and savage: the scene still darkened, and a storm of thunder and lightning, accompanied with hail. Enter Rayner.
Ray.
I know not where these men have shelter'd them.
I've miss'd their signal: this loud stunning din
Devours all other sounds. Where shall I go?
Athwart this arch of deep embodied darkness,
Swift shiv'ring lightnings glare, from end to end
Mantling the welkin o'er in vivid flames;
Or from aloft, like sheeted cataracts
Of liquid fire, seem pour'd. E'en o'er my head
The soft and misty-textured clouds seem changed
To piles of harden'd rocks, which from their base,
Like the up-breaking of a ruin'd world,
Are hurl'd with force tremendous. Patt'ring hail
Beats on my shrinking form with spiteful force:
Where shall I shelter me? Ha! through the trees
Peers, near at hand, a small but settled light:
I will make quickly towards it; perhaps
There may be some lone dwelling in the wood.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The inside of a cave: an old man discovered sitting by a small table made of coarse planks, with a lamp burning dimly upon it: the thunder heard still very loud.
Old man.
Doth angry heav'n still roll its loudest peal
O'er th' unblest head? Ay, through its deaf'ning roar
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice,
And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength,
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm
Their distant growl.
'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up
To lord it in the air. The very wind,
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds,
Like bursts of damned howlings from beneath.
Is this a storm of nature's elements?
O, no, no, no! the blood-avenging spirits
Ride on the madding clouds: there is no place,
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest
The unblest head.
[Knocking heard without.
—Ha! knocking at my door!
[Pauses and listens, much alarmed: knocking heard still louder.
Say, who art thou that knockst so furiously?
Thinkst thou the clouds are sparing of their din,
That thou must thunder too? Say who thou art,
And what thou wouldst at such an hour as this,
In such a place?

Ray.
(without).
I am a lone and tempest-beaten traveller,
Who humbly begs a shelter from the night.

Old man.
Then art thou come where guest yet never enter'd.

Ray.
(without).
I do not ask admittance as a guest.
Wouldst thou not save a creature from destruction,
E'en a dumb animal? unbar the door,
And let me lay my body under shelter.

[Old man makes no answer; the storm heard very loud.
Ray.
(without).
If thou'rt a man in nature as in voice,
Thou canst not sit at peace beneath thy roof,
And shut a stranger out to the rude night.
I would, so circumstanced, have shelter'd thee.

Old man.
He tries to move me with a soothing voice.
(Aloud.)
Thou art a knave; I will not let thee in.

Aside.
Ray.
(without).
Belike I am, yet do not fear my wiles:
All men are honest in a night like this.

Old man.
Then I will let thee in: whoe'er thou art:
Thou hast some sense, shouldst thou lack better things.

[He unbars a small door, and Rayner enters, much ruffled and exhausted by the storm, and without his hat.
Ray.
I'm much beholden to thee.

Old man.
No, thou art not.

Ray.
The violence of the night must plead my pardon,
For breaking thus unask'd upon your rest.
But wand'ring from my way, I know not how,
And losing my companions of the road,
Deep in the 'tangled wood the storm o'ertook me;
When spying through the trees this glimm'ring lamp,
And judging it, as now it doth appear,
The midnight taper of some holy man,
Such as do oft in dreary wilds like this
Hold their abode, I ventured onwards.

Old man
(offering him bread and dried fruits).
Perhaps thou'rt hungry.

Ray.
I thank you gratefully.

Old man.
There is no need.
Fall to, if thou hast any mind to it.

Ray.
I thank you truly, but I am not hungry.

Old man.
Perhaps thou'rt dainty: I've nought else to give thee.

Ray.
I should despise myself, if any food
Could bear such value in my estimation,
As that it should to me a straw's worth seem,
To feed on homeliest, or on richest fare.

Old man.
So much the better.

[They sit down.
Ray.
If I may guess from all I see around me,
The luxuries and follies of the world
Have long been banish'd here.

[Old man looks sternly at Rayner, who looks fixedly upon him again, and both remain for some time silent.
Old man.
Why lookst thou so?
What is there in my face that thou wouldst scan?
I'm old and live alone: what wouldst thou know?

Ray.
I crave your pardon, and repress all wishes
That may disturb you.

Old man.
The night wears on, let us both go to rest.

Ray.
I thank you, for in truth I'm very tired.

Old man
(pointing to his couch).
There is thy place.

Ray.
Nay, I am young; the ground shall be my couch.
I will not take your bed.

[Old man then gives Rayner a cloak, which he wraps about him, laying himself down in a corner of the cave. The storm now heard at a distance. After walking up and down for some time, the old man goes close up to Rayner, who appears asleep, and looks earnestly upon him; Rayner, openign his eyes, seems surprised.
Old man.
Be not afraid, I will not cut thy throat.

Ray.
(starting half up from the ground).
Nay, heaven such deed forefend! I fear thee not.
I can defend myself.

[Grasping his sword.
Old man.
Be not offended; but methought thy looks
Did seem as though thou wert afraid of me.
Rest thou in peace—rest thou in peace, young man:
I would not do thee harm for many worlds.

Rayner goes to rest again, still keeping his drawn sword in his hand. The old man goes to rest likewise, but shortly after starts from his couch in great agitation.
Old man.
It is mine hour of horror: 'tis upon me!
I hear th' approaching sound of feet unearthly:
I feel the pent-up vapour's chilly breath
Burst from the yawning vault:—It is at hand.
[Turning towards the door as if he saw some one enter.
Ha! com'st thou still in white and sheeted weeds,
With hand thus pointing to thy bloody side?
Thy grave is deep enough in hallow'd ground!
Why com'st thou ever on my midnight rest?
What dost thou want? If thou hast power, as seeming,
Stretch forth thine arm and take my life; then free
From fleshy fears, in nature as thyself,
I'll follow thee to hell, and there abide
The searing flames: but here, upon this earth,
Is placed between the living and the dead
An awful mystery of separation,
Which makes their meeting frightful and unhallow'd.
[In the vehemence of his agitation he throws out his arm, and strikes it against Rayner, who, alarmed at his ravings, has left his resting-place, and stolen softly behind him.
Ha! what art thou?

[Starting, and turning round to Rayner.
Ray.
Nay, thou with bristling locks, loose knocking joints
And fixed eyeballs starting in their sockets,
Who speakst thus wildly to the vacant space,
Say rather, what art thou?

Old man.
I am a murderer.
[Rayner starts back from him, and drops his sword.
Ah! wherefore dost thou stare so strangely on me?
There's no blood on me now! 'tis long since past.
Hast thou thyself no crime, that thus from me
Thou dost in horror shrink?

Ray.
Most miserable man!

Old man.
Thou truly sayst, for I am miserable.

Ray.
And what am I?
[After a disturbed pause.
The storm did rage and bellow through the air,
And the red lightning shiver'd:
No traveller would venture on his way
In such a night.—O, blessed, blessed storm!
For yet it hath not been, and shall be never.
Most Great and Merciful! saved from this gulf,
May I to thee look up?—No: in the dust—
[As he bows himself to the earth, and is about to kneel, the report of fire-arms is heard without, and he starts up again.
'Tis done!—O, it is done!—the horrible act!

[Exit, beating his forehead violently.
Old man.
What may this be? Some band of nightly robbers
Is near my cave, committing violent deeds.
Thy light, weak flame, shall not again betray me,
And lure unwelcome visitors.

[Puts out the lamp; and, after a dark pause, enter Count Zaterloo, supporting himself an first gentleman, who bears a dark lantern, which he sets down on the ground, and fastens the door of the cave carefully behind them.
Zat.
I am wounded grievously: who would have thought
Of such a powerful guard of armed men
Attending on his journey. He is slain:
Didst thou not see him fall?

1st gent.
Yes; we have kill'd our bird, but lost the eggs.
Fortune has play'd us false, yet we've escaped:
Here we may rest; this cave is tenanted
With some lone being whom we may control,
And take possession—
[Discovering old man.
Something living here!
What art thou?

Old man.
I am a thing no better than yourselves.

1st gent.
The better then for thee that thou art so.

Zat.
Conduct me onward: I perceive an opening
Which leads, I guess, to some more close recess:
Lay me down there, for I am very faint.

1st gent.
I will obey thee,—Come thou too, old man;
Not from my sight one moment must thou budge.
Come on; for, mark me well, shouldst thou betray us,
Though fetter'd down with chains in grated dungeons,
Our arms were long enough to reach to thee.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Another part of the wood. At a distance, on the background, are discovered two men watching a dead body by the light of a torch stuck between the boughs of a tree: the stage otherwisc perfectly dark. Enter Gobus on the front of the stage.
Gobus.

I fear they will all escape from us amongst these 'tangled paths and vile perplexing thickets. A man cannot get on half a dozen paces here but some cursed clawing thing catches hold of him, and when he turns round to collar his enemy, with a good hearty curse in his mouth, it is nothing but a thorn-bush or a briar after all. A plague upon't! I'll run no more after them if they should never be taken. — Who's there?

Enter a Companion.
Com

What, are you here, Gobus? I thought you had been in search of the robbers.

Gobus

So I was; but what does it signify? they have all got the start of us now, and we can scarcely expect they will have the civility to wait till we come up with them.

Com.

Ay, ay, Gobus, that is a lazy man's argument. Why, there was one of them seen by Bertram not five minutes since, with his head uncovered, stalking strangely amongst the trees like a madman, and he vows he will follow the scent through every path of the wood but he will have him, either alive or dead.

Gobus.

But if he be a young stout robber, he may knock Bertram on the head in the mean time, and relieve him from the obligation of keeping his vow.

Com.

Never fear that: his bugle-horn is by his side, and as soon as he comes up with him he will give his companions notice, and they will run to his assistance.

Gobus.

Well, well, let them manage it the best way they can, and let us join our friends yonder, who keep watch by the body; there is good store of dried sticks in that corner, we may make a fire, and warm ourselves till they return.

[Horn heard without.
Com.

Ha! there is the signal, and close at hand too. He has caught his man and wants assistance; let us run to him, or the villain will escape.

[Exeunt companion and Gobus, who follows rather unwillingly, whilst the men who were watching the body run eagerly to the front of the stage.
1st man.

It sounded to the right hand of us; let us strike into this path.

[Horn sounds again.
2d man.

Ay, there it sounds again; it is to this hand of us, but it is so dark, there is no finding our way.

1st man.

We have been so long by the torch-light that the darkness is darker to us: run back and fetch the light with thee.

[Several other attendants from different parts of the wood run across the stage, calling to one another with great eagerness, whilst the 2d man, running back again to the bottom of the stage, snatches the torch from the tree, and comes forward with it.
Enter Bertram, Gobus, and others, with Rayner as their prisoner.
Gobus

(speaking as they enter).
Here is light! here is light, friends! bring him near it, I pray you, that we may see what kind of a fish we have caught in our net. Ay, just as I said now, as hanged a looking villain as ever scowled through the grates of a dungeon. See what a wild murderous look he has with his eyes! this is the very man that did the deed, I warrant ye. Let us pull the cords faster round his arms though: if he get one of his mischievous hands loose again, there is no knowing which of our brains he may knock out first.

1st man.

It will never be thine, I am sure, thou'rt always safe when the knocking out of brains is going on.

Gobus.

As I'm a sinner he'll get one of his hands loose if we do not take care of him.

(Attempting to tighten the cords round Rayner's arms.)
Ber.

(putting him away with indignation).
For shame, man, he is bound tight enough; I will not suffer thee to lay a finger upon him; and as for the hanged face thou talkst of, alack a-day! it goes to my heart to see him, such a goodly-looking gentleman, for such I'll be sworn he is.

Gobus.

Ay, no doubt! it is ever thus with thee. Thou didst never in thy life see a thief go to the gallows without crying out, “alack a-day! what a fine looking fellow it is!” Ay, and if he could but make shift to howl out half a verse of a psalm along with his father confessor, thou wert sure to notch him down upon thy holiday tables as one of the new made saints. Ay, there be no such great saints now-a-days as those who pass, with the help of a Dominican, through the hangman's hands to the other world; he beats your pope and your cardinals all to nothing in smuggling a sinner cleverly in by the back door to heaven.

Ber.

So much the better for thee; it is the only chance thou hast of ever getting there.—Stand off, I say (pushing Gobus away)
, and do not stare thus upon the prisoner! art thou not ashamed to stare in an unhappy man's face after this fashion? we don't know what hard fate may have brought him into these circumstances. (To the attendants.) Move on: we are losing time here.

Gobus.

What, will you not pinion him more closely?

Ber.

No, beast! I would rather flay the skin off

that fool's back of thine than gall a hair's breadth of his body. (In a softened voice to Rayner.)
Speak, sir, if the rope hurts your arms; we will not use you cruelly.

Ray.

What didst thou say to me? was there kindness in thy voice?

Ber.

Yes, sir, there was kindness in it. Do the ropes hurt your arms? if they do we will loosen them a little.

Ray.

I wist not that my arms were bound: but if thou hast any kindness in thee, give me a drink of water when thou canst get it, for my mouth is very parched.

Ber.

Yes, sir, that you shall not want, though I should pay gold for it.—Move on, comrades: the night is far advanced, and we must guard the prisoner and the dead body of our master back to the city before the morning break.

[Exeunt.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

A spacious court with a magnificent building in front; a great concourse of people are discovered as if waiting in expectation of some sight.
1st crowd.

The court is marvellously long of breaking up; I'm tired of waiting; and yet I don't like to lose the sight, after having stayed so long for it.

2d crowd.

I fear it will go hard with the young man.

3d crowd.

I fear it will, poor gentleman!

Woman crowd.

Ah! poor young man! it is an awful end.

2d crowd.

Ay, I remember well the last criminal that was condemned here; a strong-built man he was, though somewhat up in years. O, how pale he looked as they led him out from court! I think I stood upon this very spot as he passed by me; and the fixed strong look of his features too—it was a piteous sight!

3d crowd.

Ah, man! but that was nothing to the execution. I paid half a dollar for a place near the scaffold; and it would have made any body's heart drop blood to have seen him when he lifted up the handkerchief from his eyes, and took his last look of the day-light, and all the living creatures about him.

2d crowd.

Ay, man, that a human creature should be thus thrust out of the world by human creatures like himself; it is a piteous thing?

Enter a man from the court.
Omnes (eagerly).

What news? what news of the prisoner?

Man.

He has just finished his defence, in which he has acquitted himself so nobly, setting off his words too with such a manly grace, that it is thought by every body he will be set free.

2d crowd.

Indeed! I should not have expected this now; spoke so nobly, sayst thou?

1st crowd.

Yes, yes, noble blood makes noble speaking.

Woman crowd.

Well, and is it not best so? poor young man! I'm sure I'm glad of it.

1st crowd.

And aint I so too, milk-faced doll! though I hate to be kept so long staring for nothing. I wonder what brought me here in a murrain to it!

2d woman.

La! then we sha'n't see him pass by with the chains upon his legs.

1st crowd.

No, no! nor nothing at all. Come, let me pass, I have been too long here. (Pressing through the crowd to get out.)

Woman crowd.

O, you tread upon my toes!

1st crowd.

Devil take you and your toes both! can't you keep them out of people's way then?

Woman crowd.

Plague take it! what had we all to do to come here like so many fools!

Enter a second man from the court.
2d crowd.

Here comes another man from the court. (Calling to the man.)
Ho, friend! is he acquitted yet?

2d man.

No, nor like to be; the judge is just about to pronounce sentence upon him, but something came so cold over my heart, I could not stay to hear it.

[Several of the mob climb eagerly up upon the walls of the building, and look in at the uindows.
Crowd (below).

What do you see there, sirs?

Crowd (above).

The judge is just risen from his seat, and the black signal is lifted up.

Omnes.

Hush! hush! and let us listen!

[A deep parst.
Crowd

(above).
Sentence is passed now.

Crowd

(below).
God have mercy on him!

3d crowd.

I would not wear my head upon his shoulders for all the prince's coffers.

1st crowd.

Alas! poor man! he is but a youth.

2d crowd.

Yet he must be cut off in the flower of his days.

1st crowd.

It is an awful thing!

Woman crowd.

Ah! but a youth, and a goodly-looking youth too, I warrant ye.

2d woman.

Alack a-day! many a one falls into crimes, but all do not pay the forfeit.

3d crowd.

Ha! who comes this way so fair and so gentle in her mien; thus toss'd and 'tanglel amidst the pressing crowd, like a stalk of will flower in a bed of nettles? Come, clear the way there, and let the lady pass.

Enter Elizabeth, attended by Richard, the crowd making way for her.
Eliz.

I'm much obliged to you.

Richard.

We thank you, good sirs! My mistress and I are both strangers in this town, and the nearest way to your best inn, as we are told, is through this court; but the crowd is so great I think we had better turn back again.

Eliz.

What is the meaning of this eager multitude, So gather'd round the entry to this palace?

3d crowd.

It is no palace, madam, but a public court: there is a gentleman of noble birth who is just now condemned to death for murder, and we are waiting to see him led forth from his trial; you had better stop a little while and see the sight too.

Eliz.

O, no! I'm come here in an evil hour!— A gentleman of noble birth—Alas! but that the crime is murder, 'twere most piteous.

Omnes

(eagerly).
There he comes! see, see! there he comes!

Enter Rayner, fettered and guarded, from the court, followed by Bertram and others, and advances slowly towards the front of the stage, the crowd opening and making a lane for him on every side.
1st crowd.
What a noble gait he has even in his shackles!

2d crowd.
Oh! oh! that such a man should come to this!

Eliz.
(after gazing eagerly at the distant prisoner).
Merciful heaven! the form has strong resemblance.

Rich.
Sweet mistress, be not terrified with forms;
'Tis but a distant form.

Eliz.
Ha! then it strikes thee too!—Merciful God!

Rich.
Patience, dear madam! now as he advances,
We shall be certified of the deception.
Rayner is not so tall as this young man,
Nor of a make so slender; no, nor yet—

Eliz.
Peace, peace! for he advances.

[Watching the prisoner as he advances with a countenance of distracted eagerness, till he comes near her; then, uttering a loud shriek, falls down, and is supported by Richard and several of the crowd.
Offi.
(conducting Rayner).
What fainting maid is this obstructs the way?
Let not the crowd so closely press around her.
Open the way, and let the pris'ner pass.

Ray.
(upon the crowd opening and discovering Elizabeth).
O, sight of misery! my Elizabeth!
The last and fellest stroke of angry heav'n
Falls on this cursed head.

Offi.
What may this mean? let us pass on: we stop not,
Whate'er betide.

Ray.
Nay, but you do: for here there is a power
Stronger than law or judgment. Give me way:
It is permitted me by ev'ry sense
Of human sympathy, were I e'en bound
With chains tenfold enlock'd.
[Bending over Elizabeth.
Thou loveliest and thou dearest! O thou part
Of my most inmost self! art thou thus stricken?
Falls this stroke on thee?
[Kneeling down and endeavouring to support her, but finding himself prevented by his chain.
Is there not strength in the soul's agony
To burst e'en bands of iron?
[Trying furiously to burst his fetters, but cannot; then, with a subdued voice,
Am I indeed a base condemned wretch,
Cut off from ev'ry claim and tie of nature?
[Turning to the officer.
Thou who dost wear the law's authority,
May it not be permitted for the love
Of piteous charity?—Shall strangers' hands
Whilst I am thus—O, do not let it be!

Offi.
No, no! move on: it cannot be permitted.

Ray.
(fiercely roused).
What, sayst thou so?
[Turning to the crowd.
Ye who surround me, too,
Each with the form and countenance of a man,
Say ye 'tis not permitted?
To you I do stretch forth these fetter'd hands,
And call you men: O, let me not miscall you!

Voices from the crowd.
Fie on't! unbind his hands, unbind his hands,
And we will stand his sureties.

Ber.
(stepping forward in a supplicating posture to the officer).
Do but unbind his hands a little space,
And shoot me through the head if he escape.
My arm secured him; be my recompense
This one request.

Offi.
(to Bertram).
Go to; thou art a brave man, but a weak one.
(To the guard.)
Move on: we halt no longer.

Crowd.
By all good saints we stand by the brave Bertram,
And he shall be unshackled.

[Menacingly.
Offi.
Soldiers, present your muskets to these madmen,
And let them speak; the pris'ner halts no longer;
Move on.

[A tumult between the crowd and the guard, and Rayner is forced off the stage by the soldiers.
1st crowd.

Shame light on such hard-hearted cruelty!

2d crowd.

If there had been but six of us with arms in our hands he durst not have put this affront upon us.

3d crowd.

But who looks to the lady? She is amongst strangers it seems, and has only this poor old man to take care of her.

Omnes.

We will take care of her then; we will take care of her: ay, and she shall be waited upon like an empress.

2d crowd.

Ay, so she shall, let the cost be what it will. I am only a poor cobbler, God knows, yet I will pawn the last awl in my stall but she shall be waited upon like an empress. See! see! she begins to revive again.

Eliz.
(opening her eyes with a heavy sigh).
Is it all vanish'd? 'twas a dreadful vision!
[Looking on the crowd around her.
O, no! the crowd is here still—it is real;
And he is led away—horrible! horrible!

[Faints again, and is carried off the stage by Richard and the crowd.

SCENE II.

A square court, surrounded on all sides by the gloomy walls of a prison, the windows of which are narrow and grated, and the heads of one or two of the prisoners seen looking ruefully through the grates. Enter Hardibrand, and looks round him for some time without speaking.
Har.
Gloomy enough, gloomy enough, in faith!
Ah! what a wondrous mass of dreary walls,
Whose frowning sides are riv'n in narrow slips,
As I have seen full oft some sea-worn cliff,
Pierced with the murky holes of savage birds.
Ah! here the birds within are clipt o' wing,
And cannot fly away. Enter Ohio with a tankard in his hand, crossing the stage.

Holla, my friend! I pray thee not so fast;
Inform me, if thou canst, where I may find
The keeper of the prison.

Ohio.
Know you what prince you speak to? saucy knave!
I'll have thee scorch'd and flay'd, and piece-meal torn,
If thou dost call me friend.

Har.
Good words at least; I meant thee no offence.
I see thou hast a tankard in thy hand,
And will not question thy high dignity.
Softly; here's money for thee.

[Giving him money.
Ohio.
Silver pieces!
He! he! he! he! hast thou got more of them!

Har.
Nay, thou art greedy; answer first my question;
Tell me at which of all these gloomy doors
I needs must knock to find out the chief gaoler.
Thou lookst like some fetch-carry to the prisoners;
Dost understand me?

Ohio.
Ay, there's the place, go knock at yonder door.

Har.
(after knocking).
This door is close nail'd up, and cannot open.

Ohio
(grinning maliciously, and pointing to another door).
No, thou art wrong; it is the door hard by,
With those black portals.
[Hardibrand knocks at the other door.
Knock a little louder.

Har.
(after knocking some time).
A plague upon't! there is no one within.

Ohio
(still grinning maliciously).
No, thou art wrong again: it is not there:
It is that door upon the other side.

[Pointing to the opposite wall.
Har.
What, dost thou jest with me, malicious varlet?
I'll beat thee if thou tell me false again.

Ohio.
Negroes be very stupid, master friend.

Enter the Keeper of the prison.
Keeper
(to Ohio).
Thou canker-worm! thou black-envenom'd toad!
Art thou a-playing thy malicious tricks?
Get from my sight, thou pitchy viper, go!

[Exit Ohio.
Har.
What black thing is it? it appears, methinks,
Not worth thine anger.

Keeper.
That man, may't please you, sir, was born a prince.

Har.
I do not catch thy jest.

Keeper.
I do not jest; I speak in sober earnest;
He is an Afric prince of royal line.

Har.
What sayst thou? that poor wretch who sneaketh yonder
Upon those two black shanks?

[Pointing off the stage.
Keeper.
Yes, even he:
When but a youth, stol'n from his noble parents,
He for a slave was sold, and many hardships
By sea and land hath pass'd.

Har.
And now to be the base thing that he is!
Well, well, proceed.

Keeper.
At last a surly master brought him here,
Who, thinking him unfit for further service,
As then a fest'ring wound wore hard upon him,
With but a scanty sum to bury him,
Left him with me. He ne'ertheless recover'd;
And though full proud and sullen at the first,
Tamed by the love of wine which strongly tempts him,
He by degrees forgot his princely pride,
And has been long establish'd in these walls
To carry liquor for the prisoners.
But such a cursed, spite-envenom'd toad!—

Har.
Out on't! thou'st told a tale that wrings my heart.
Of royal line; born to command, and dignified
By sufferings and dangers past, which make
The meanest man ennobled: yet behold him;
[Pointing off the stage.
How by the wall he sidelong straddles on
With his base tankard!—O, the sneaking varlet!
It makes me weep to hear his piteous tale,
Yet my blood boils to run and cudgel him.
But let us on our way.

Keeper.
You are a noble stranger, as I guess,
And wish to be conducted through the prison.
It is an ancient building of great strength,
And many strangers visit it.

Har.
It is indeed a place of ancient note.
Have you at present many criminals
Within these walls?

Keeper.
Our number is, thank God! respectable,
Though not what it has been in better days.

Har.
In better days!—Well, do thou lead the way.

[As they are about to go off the stage, they are stopped by a voice singing from one of the highest windows.
Har.
Alas, poor soul! I would that thou wert free!
What weary thrall is this that sings so sweetly?

Keeper.
A restless, daring outlaw;
A fellow who hath awed the country round,
And levied contributions like a king,
To feast his jolly mates in wood and wild;
Yea, been the very arbiter of fortune,
And as his freakish humours bit, hath lifted
At one broad sweep the churl's saved store to leave it
In the poor lab'rer's cot, whose hard-worn palm
Had never chuck'd a ducat 'gainst its fellow.

Har.
'Tis a brave heart! has he been long confined?
But list! he sings again.

Har.
Poor pent up wretch! thy sou roves far from home.

Har.
'Tis even so, brave heart, or blunt or keen,
Thy measure has its stint. Enter Bertram from one of the doors of the prison.

I think thou hast the air of an old soldier:
[To Bertram as he is burrying past him.
Such, without greeting, never pass me by.
Ha, Bertram! is it thou?

Ber.
What, mine old general?

Har.
Yes, and mine old soldier.
How dost thou, man? how has it fared with thee
Since thou hast left the service?

Ber.
I thank your honour; much as others find it;
I have no cause to grumble at my lot.

Har.
'Tis well, but what's the matter with thee now?
Thine eyes are red with weeping, and thy face
Looks ruefully.

Ber.
I've been to visit, here, a noble youth,
Who is condemn'd to die.

Har.
A noble youth!

Ber.
Yea, a soldier too.

Har.
A soldier!

Ber.
Ay, your honour, and the son
Of a most gallant soldier.

Har.
But he is innocent?

Ber.
He is condemn'd.

Har.
Shame on it! were he twenty times condemn'd,
He's innocent as are these silver'd locks.
[Laying his hand vehemently on his head.
What is his name?

Ber.
Rayner.

Har.
Ha! son to my old comrade, Rayner!
Out on the fools! I would as soon believe
That this right hand of mine had pilfer'd gold
As Rayner's son had done a deed of shame.
Come, lead me back with thee, for I must see him.

Ber.
Heav'n bless your honour! O, if by your means
He might have grace!

Har.
Come, let us go to him.

Ber.
Not now, an' please you: he is now engaged
With one most dear to him. But an hour hence
I will conduct you to his cell.

Har.
So be it!
Mean time, stay thou with me, and tell me more
Of this unhappy youth: I have a mind,
With the good keeper's leave, to view the prison.

[Exeunt.
Enter Mira and Alice by opposite sides, both muffled up in cloaks and their faces concealed.
Mira
(stopping Alice).
Nay, glide not past me thus with muffled face:
'Tis I, a visitor to these grim walls,
On the same errand with thyself. How goes it
With our enthralled colleague? doth he promise
Silence to keep in that which touches us
Of this transaction, for the which he's bound?

Alice.
He is but half persuaded; go thyself
And use thy arts—hush, here's a stranger near us.
[Enter a man who gives a letter mysteriously to Mira, and upon her making a sign to him, retires to the bottom of the stage whilst she reads it.
What readst thou there, I pray thee, that thy brows
Knit thus ungraciously at ev'ry line?

Mira.
Knowst thou that I must doff my silken robes,
Despoil my hair of its fair ornaments,
And clothe me in a gown of palmer's grey,
With clouted shoon and pilgrim's staff in hand
To bear me o'er rude glens and dreary wastes
To share a stony couch and empty board,
All for the proving of my right true love
For one in great distress. Ha! ha! ha! ha!
So doth this letter modestly request:
I pray thee read it.

Alice
(reading the letter).
“A deadly wound rankles in my side, and I have no skilful hand to dress it, and no kind friend to comfort me. I am laid upon the cold earth, and feel many wants I never knew before. If thou hast any love for me, and as thou hast often wished to prove that love, come to me quickly: but conceal thyself in the coarse weeds of a pilgrim; my life is a forfeit to the law if any one should discover where I am. A friend in disguise will give into thy hands this letter, and conduct thee to thy miserable Zaterloo.”
(Returning the letter.)
And what sayst thou to this?

Mira.
I have, in truth, upon my hands already
Troubles enough; this is, thou knowst, no time
To take upon me ruin'd men's distresses.

Alice.
But 'tis thyself hast brought this ruin on him:
'Twas thy extravagance.

Mira.
Thou art a fool!
His life's a forfeit to the law: 'tis time,
Good time, in faith! I should have done with him.
Why dost thou bend these frowning looks on me?
How many in my place would for the recompense
Betray him to the officers of justice!
But I, thou knowst right well, detest all baseness,
Therefore I will not.

Alice.
Hush, hush! thou speakst too loud:
Some one approaches.

Enter Countess Zaterloo.
Countess
(to Mira).
I pray you, madam, pardon this intrusion;
Tracing your steps, I have made bold to follow you.
I am the mother of an only son,
Whom for these many days I have not seen:
I know right well nought is conceal'd from you
Of what concerns him; let me know, I pray you,
Where I may find my child.

Mira.
Madam, you speak to one who in his secrets
Has small concern.

Countess.
Nay, now, I pray you, do not keep it from me:
I come not with a parent's stern rebuke:
O tell me where he is, for love of grace:
But, if you will not, say if he is sick,
Or if he is distress'd with any want.
Tell, for love's sake! I have no child but him.

Mira
(giving her the letter).
There, madam; this is all I know of him.
'Twas yonder stranger gave it to my hand;
[Pointing to the man.
We need not interrupt you with our presence;
And so good day.

[Exeunt Mira and Alice.
Countess
(after reading the letter).
Alas, my son! and art thou low and wounded?
Stretch'd on the cold ground of thy hiding place
In want and fear? Oh art thou come to this?
Thou who didst smile in thy fair op'ning morn,
As cherubs smile who point the way to heaven.
And wouldst thou have a stranger come to thee?
Alas! alas! where can thy aching head
So softly rest as on a parent's lap?
Yes, I will wrap me in the pilgrim's weeds,
Nor storm nor rugged wild shall bar my way.
And though declining years impair my strength,
These arms shall yet support thy feeble frame,
When fairer friends desert thee.
(To the messenger, beckoning him to come forward.)
Good friend, this is no place to question thee!
Come with me to my home.

[Exeunt.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

The inside of the prison. Rayner and Elizabeth are discovered sitting sorrowfully by one another in earnest discourse.
Ray.
Thou sayest well, my sweet Elizabeth;
In this I have against thy love offended.
But in the brightness of fair days, in all
The careless gaiety of unruffled youth,
Smiling like others of thy sex, I loved thee;
Nor knew that thou wert also form'd to strive
With the braced firmness of unyielding virtue
In the dark storms of life—alike to flourish
In sunshine or in shade.—Alas! alas!
It was the thoughts of seeing thee—but cease!
The die is cast; I'll speak of it no more:
The gleam which shows to me thy wondrous excellence
Glares also on the dark and lowering path
That must our way divide.

Eliz.
O no! as are our hearts, one is our way,
And cannot be divided. Strong affection
Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things.
I will unto thee cling with strength so terrible,
That human hands the hold will ne'er unlock.

Ray.
Alas, my love! these are thy words of woe,
And have no meaning but to speak thy woe:
Dark fate hangs o'er us, and we needs must part.
The strong affection that o'ercometh all things,
Shall fight for us indeed, and shall o'ercome:
But in a better world the vantage lies
Which it shall gain for us; here, from this earth
We must take different roads and climb to it,
As in some pitiless storm two 'nighted travellers
Lose on a wild'ring heath their 'tangled way,
And meet again.

Eliz.
Ay, but thy way, thy way, my gentle Rayner—
It is a terrible one.
Oh flesh and blood shrinks from the horrid pass!
Death comes to thee, not as he visiteth
The sick man's bed, pillow'd with weeping friends:
O no! nor yet as on the battle's field
He meets the blood-warm'd soldier in his mail,
Greeting him proudly.—Thou must bend thy neck,
This neck round which mine arms now circled close
Do feel the loving warmth of youthful life:
Thou must beneath the stroke—O horrid! horrid!

Ray.
(supporting her from sinking to the ground).
My dear Elizabeth, my most beloved!
Thou art affrighted with a horrid picture
By thine own fancy traced; look not upon it:
All is not dreadful in the actual proof
Which on th' approach frowns darkly. Rouse thy spirit;
And be not unto me at this dark push
My heaviest let; thou who shouldst be my stay.
[She groans heavily.
What means that heavy groan? I'll speak its meaning,
And say, that thou to nature's weakness hast
The tribute paid, and now wilt rouse thyself
To meet with noble firmness what perforce
Must be; and to a lorn and luckless man,
Who holds in this wide world but thee alone,
Prove a firm, gen'rous, and heart-buoyant mate,
In the dark hour. Do I not speak it rightly?

Eliz.
Thou dost, thou dost! if nature's weakness in me
Would yield to the heart's will.

[Falling on his neck in a burst of sorrow.
Enter Father Mardonio.
Mar.
My children, ye have been in woful conference
Too long: chide not my zeal that hither brings me
To break upon it. On you both be shed
Heav'n's pitying mercy!

Ray.
Amen, good father! thou dost call us children
With a most piteous and kindly voice:
Here is a daughter who in this bad world
Will yet remain to want a father's care;
Thus let me form a tie which shall be sacred;
[Putting Elizabeth's hand into Mardonio's.
She has no parent.
Enter Keeper of the prison.
What brings thee here? We would be left in peace.

Keeper
(to Rayner).
I am by a right noble stranger urged,
Who says he has in many a rough campaign
Served with your valiant father in the wars,
To let him have admittance to your presence.
Bertram conducts him hither.

Ray.
Served with mine honour'd father! and thus circumstanced,
Now comes to see his son! Well, be it so:
This is no time for pride to wince and rear,
And turn its back upon the patt'ring hail,
Bearing the thunder's shock. Let it e'en be:
Admit him instantly.
[Calling him back.
Nay, ere thou goest,
What is he call'd?

Keeper.
The Gen'ral Hardibrand.

Ray.
An honour'd name. [Exit Keeper.
(To Elizabeth.)

Retire, my love:
I cannot bear to have thy woes exposed
Before a stranger's gaze.

[She retires with Mardonio to an obscure part of the prison at the bottom of the stage.
Enter Hardibrand and Bertram.
Har.
(to Bertram: stopping short as he enters, and gazing upon Rayner, who is turned away from them, and looking after Elizabeth).
It is the son of Rayner: in his form
And face, though thus half turn'd from us, I see
His father. Still a soldier and a gentleman
In ev'ry plight he seem'd. A clown or child
Had sworn him such clad in a woollen rug.
[Advancing to Rayner.
Young soldier, I did know your gallant father;
Regard me not as an intruding stranger.

Ray.
I thank you, courteous sir: in other days
Such greeting to my heart had been most welcome.
A gallant father and condemned son
May in the letter'd registers of kindred
Alliance have; but in the mind's pure record,
They no relation bear: let your brave friend
Still be to you as one who had no son.

Har.
No, boy; that sentiment bespeaks thy blood.
Heed not those fetter'd hands: look in my face,
Look in my face with the full confidence
Of a brave man; for such I'll swear thou art.
Thinkst thou that I am come to visit thee
In whining pity as a guilty man?
No, by the rood! if I had thought thee such,
Being the son of him whose form thou wearst,
I should have cursed thee. Thou by mis'ry press'd,
Hast strongly tempted been, I know thy story:
Bertram has told it me: and spite of courts,
And black-robed judges, laws, and learn'd decisions,
I do believe it as I do my creed.
Shame on them! Is all favour and respect
For brave and noble blood forgotten quite?

Ray.
Ah, do not fear! they will remember that,
And nail some sable trappings to my coffin.

Har.
I would that to their grave and pompous chairs
Their asses' ears were nail'd! Think they that men,
Brave men, for thou thyself—What corps, I pray thee,
Didst thou belong to in thy prince's service?

Ray.
The first division of his fourth brigade
Was that in which I served.

Har.
Thou hast companion been to no mean men.
Those six brave officers of that division,
Upon the famed redoubt, in his last siege,
Who did in front o' th' en'my's fiercest fire
Their daring lodgement make, must needs of course
Be known to thee.

Ray.
I knew them well; five of them were my friends.

Har.
And not the sixth?

Ray.
He was, alas! my greatest enemy;
To him I owe these bonds.

Har.
A curse light on his head, brave though he be!

Ray.
O curse him not, for woes enough already
Rest on his wretched head.

[Bowing low, and putting his hand on his head.
Har.
Ha! thou thyself,—thou wast thyself the sixth!
Thank heav'n for this! Then let them if they will
Upon a thousand scaffolds take thy life,
And spike thy head a thousand feet aloft;
Still will I say thy father had a son.
[Rushing into his arms.
Come to my soldier's heart, thou noble bird
Of a brave nest!—must thou indeed be pluck'd
And cast to kites? By heav'n thou shalt not die!
Shall such a man, as thou art, from his post
Be shamed and push'd for one rash desp'rate act?
It shall not be, my child! it shall not be!

Ray.
(smiling).
In faith, good gen'ral, could your zeal prevent it,
I am not yet so tired of this bad world,
But I could well submit me to the change.

Har.
I'll with all speed unto the governor,
Nor be discouraged, though he loudly prate
That grace and pardon will but leave at liberty
The perpetrators of such lawless deeds
To do the like again, with such poor cant.

[Elizabeth, who has been behind backs, listening eagerly to their conversation, and stealing nearer to them by degrees in her eagerness to hear it, now rushes forward, and throws herself at Hardibrand's feet.
Eliz.
We ask not liberty; we ask but life.
O grant us this, and keep us where they will,
Or as they will. We shall do no disquiet.
O let them grant us life, and we will bless them!

Ray.
And wouldst thou have me live, Elizabeth,
Forlorn and sad, in loathly dungeon pent,
Kept from the very use of mine own limbs,
A poor, lost, caged thing?

Eliz.
Would not I live with thee? would not I cheer thee?
Wouldst thou be lonely then? wouldst thou be sad?
I'd clear away the dark unwholesome air,
And make a little parlour of thy cell:
With cheerful labour eke our little means,
And go abroad at times to fetch thee in
The news and passing stories of the day.
I'd read thee books: I'd sit and sing to thee:
And every thing would to our willing minds
Some observation bring to cheer our hours.
Yea, e'en the varied voices of the wind
O' winter nights would be a play to us.
Nay, turn not from me thus, my gentle Rayner!
How many suffer the extremes of pain,
Ay, lop their limbs away, in lowest plight
Few years to spend upon a weary couch
With scarce a friend their sickly draughts to mingle!
And dost thou grudge to spend thy life with me?

Ray.
I could live with thee in a pitchy mine;
In the cleft crevice of a savage den,
Where coils the snake, and bats and owlets roost,
And cheerful light of day no entrance finds.
But wouldst thou have me live degraded also;
Humbled and low? No, liberty or nought
Must be our boon.

Har.
And thou shalt have it too, my noble youth:
Thou hast upon thy side a better advocate
Than these grey hairs of mine.
(To Elizabeth.)
Bless that fair face! it was not made for nothing.
We'll have our boon; such as befits us too.
No, hang them if we stoop to halving it!
[Taking her eagerly by the hand.
Come with me quickly; let us lose no time:
Angel from heaven thou art, and with heav'n's power
Thou'lt plead and wilt prevail.

Ray.
In truth thou wilt expose thyself, my love,
And draw some new misfortune on thy head.

[Endeavouring to draw her away from Hardibrand.
Eliz.
(to Hardibrand).
What new misfortune? can they kill thee twice?
We're tardy: O move quickly! lose no time!

Har.
Yes, come, and Bertram here will guide our way:
His heart is in the cause.

Ber.
Yes, heart and soul, my gen'ral. Would my zeal
Could now make some amends for what those hands
Against him have unwittingly committed.
O that the fellest pains had shrunk their nerves
Ere I had seized upon him!

Ray.
Cease, good Bertram!
Cease to upbraid thyself. Thou didst thy duty
Like a brave man, and thou art in my mind:
Not he who seized, but he whose gen'rous pity
Did, in my fallen state, first show me kindness.
[Bertram kisses his hand.
Go go! they wait for thee.

Ber.
They shall not wait. Would that we were return'd,
Bearing good tidings!

Har.
O fear it not, my heart says that we shall.

[Exeunt Elizabeth, Hardibrand, and Bertram. Manent Rayner and Mardonio.
Mar.
Hope oft, my son, unbraces the girt mind,
And to the conflict turns it loosely forth,
Weak and divided. I'm disturb'd for thee.

Ray.
I thank thee, father, but the crime of blood
Your governor hath ne'er yet pardon'd; therefore
Be not disturb'd for me; my hopes are small.

Mar.
So much the better. Now to pious thoughts
We will direct—Who comes to interrupt us?

Enter the Turnkey.
Ray.
It is the turnkey; a poor man who, though
His state in life favours not the kind growth
Of soft affections, has shown kindness to me.
He wears upon his face the awkwardness
And hesitating look of one who comes
To ask some favour; send him not away.
(To turnkey.)
What dost thou want, good friend? out with it, man!
We are not very stern.

Turnkey.
Please you, it has to me long been a priv'lege
To show the curious peasantry and boors,
Who from the country flock o' holy days,
Through his strait prison bars, the famous robber,
That overhead is cell'd; and now a company
Waits here without to see him, but he's sullen
And will not show himself. If it might please you
But for a moment opposite your grate
To stand, without great wrong to any one,
You might pass for him, and do me great kindness.
Or the good father there, if he be willing
To doff his cowl and turn him to the light,
He hath a good thick beard, and a stern eye,
That would be better still.

Ray.
(laughing).
Ha! ha! ha! what say ye to it, father?

[Laughing again more violently than at first.
Mar.
(turning out the turnkey in a passion, and returning sternly to Rayner).
What means this wild and most unnatural mirth;
This lightness of the soul, strange and unsuited
To thy unhappy state? it shocks me much.
Approaching death brings nought to scare the good,
Yet has it wherewithal to awe the boldest:
And there are seasons when the lightest soul
Is call'd on to look inward on itself
In awful seriousness.

Ray.
Thou dost me wrong; indeed thou dost me wrong.
I laugh'd, but, faith! I am not light of soul:
And he who most misfortune's scourge hath felt
Will tell thee laughter is the child of mis'ry.
Ere sin brought wretchedness into the world,
The soberness of undisturbed bliss
Held even empire o'er the minds of men,
Like steady sunshine of a cloudless sky.
But when it came, then came the roaring storm,
Lowering and dark; wild, changeful, and perturb'd;
Whilst through the rent clouds ofttimes shot the gleam
More bright and powerful for the gloom around it.
E'en 'midst the savage strife of warring passions,
Distorted and fantastic, laughter came,
Hasty and keen, like wild-fire in the night;
And wretches learnt to catch the fitful thought
That swells with antic and uneasy mirth
The hollow care-lined cheek. I pray thee pardon!
I am not light of soul.
Death is to me an awful thing; nay, father,
I fear to die. And were it in my power,
By suffering of the keenest racking pains,
To keep upon me still these weeds of nature,
I could such things endure, that thou wouldst marvel,
And cross thyself to see such coward-bravery.
For oh! it goes against the mind of man
To be turn'd out from its warm wonted home,
Ere yet one rent admits the winter's chill.

Mar.
Come to my breast, my son! thou hast subdued me.
[Embracing him.
And now we will lift up our thoughts to Him
Who hath in mercy saved thy hands from blood.

Ray.
Yes, in great mercy, for the which I'd bow
In truer thankfulness, my good Mardonio,
E'en with these fears of nature on my mind,
Than for the blessing of my spared life,
Were it now proffer'd me.

[They retire into the obscurity of the dungeon, at the bottom of the stage, and the scene closes on them.

SCENE II.

A small apartment in a solitary cottage in the country. Enter Count Zaterloo, supported by an attendant, and followed by the Countess in the disguise of a pilgrim; both of them wearing masks. She places a pillow for his head on a couch or sickchair, and he is placed upon it, apparently with pain.
Countess
(to attendant).
There, set him gently down; this will support him.
(To Count Zaterloo.)
How art thou now? I fear thou'rt very faint
After so long a journey.
(To attendant.)
We have no farther need of thine assistance:
Thou wilt retire, but be upon the watch.

[Exit attendant.
Zat.
(unmasking).
Now, charming Mira, lay disguise aside;
Speak thine own natural voice, and be thyself:
There is no eye to look upon us now;
No more excuse for this mysteriousness.
Let me now look upon thy face and bless it!
Thou hast done well by me: thou'rt wondrous gentle.
I knew thee fair and charming, but I knew not
Thou wast of such a soft and kindly nature.
[The countess unmasks and looks at him sorrowfully.
Ha, mother! is it you?

Countess.
Who should it be? where shouldst thou look for kindness?
When we are sick, where can we turn for suecour;
When we are wretched, where can we complain;
And when the world looks cold and surly on us,
Where can we go to meet a warmer eye
With such sure confidence as to a mother?
The world may scowl, acquaintance may forsake,
Friends may neglect, and lovers know a change,
But when a mother doth forsake her child,
Men lift their hands and cry, “a prodigy!”

Zat.
(taking hold of both her hands and kissing them.)
O mother! I have been a thankless child!
I've given thee hoary hairs before thy time;
And added weight to thy declining years,
Who should have been their stay.

Countess.
Be calm, my son, for I do not upbraid thee.

Zat.
Wretch that I am! I was an only son,
And therefore bound by no divided tie
To be to thee thy hold and thy support.
I was a widow's son, and therefore bound
By every generous and manly tie
To be in filial duty most devoted.
O I have vilely done! I feel it now;
But if I live to be a man again,
I'll prove a better son to thee, dear mother.

Countess.
I know thou wilt, my dearest Zaterloo;
And do not thus upbraid thyself too sharply;
I've been a foolish mother to thy youth,
But thou wilt pardon me.

Zat.
Of this no more—How came you by my letter?
If you did intercept it on its way,
Mira is faithful still.

Countess.
It was from Mira's hand that I received it.
She toss'd it at me with a jeering smile
When I with anxious tears inquired for thee.

Zat.
(rising half from his seat in great passion).
O faithless, faithless woman! she it was,
Who made of me the cursed thing I am!
I've been a fool indeed and well requited.
Base, avaricious, and ungrateful—oh!

[Putting his hand on his side, as if seized with sudden pain.
Countess.
Such agitation suits not with thy state:
What ails thee now?

Zat.
The pain, the pain! it has return'd again
With increased violence.

Countess.
God send thee ease! why dost thou look so wildly,
And grasp my hand so hard? What is't disturts thee?

Zat.
My time on earth is short.

Countess.
Nay, say not so: thou mayst recorer still.
O why this seeming agony of mind?
'Tis not the pain that racks thee.

Zat.
There's blood upon my head: I am accursed.

Countess.
Good heaven forefend! thou wand'rest? in thy speech.
Thy life I know is forfeit to the law
By some unlawful act, but oh no blood!

Zat.
O for a short respite! but 'twill not be:
I feel my time is near.

Countess.
Thou wand'rest much: there's something on thy mind,
Dark'ning thy fancy.

Zat.
'Twas I that did it—I that murder'd him:
He who must suffer for it did it not.

Countess.
What words are these? my blood rans cold to hear them.

Zat.
(alarmed).
Be still, be still! there's some one at the door:
All round me is exposed and insecure.

[Countess Zaterloo goes to the door and receives something from a servant, shutting the door immediately.
Countess.
It is a servant come to fetch me something.

Zat.
Has he not heard it? he has heard it all!

[In violent alarm and agitation.
Countess.
Be still, be still! it is impossible.
Thou'st waked the pain again; I see thee tremble.

Zat.
(writhing as if in great pain).
Ay, this will master me: 'twill have me now:
What can be done? O for a short reprieve!

Countess.
Alas, my child! what wouldst thou have me do?

Zat.
I would have time turn'd backward in its course,
And what is past ne'er to have been: myself
A thing that no existence ever had.
Canst thou do this for me?

Countess.
Alas! I cannot.

Zat.
Then cursed be thy early mother's cares!
Would thou hadst lifted up my infant form
And dash'd it on the stones! I had not lived—
I had not lived to curse thee for thy pains.

Countess.
And dost thou curse me then?

Zat.
(softened).
O no! I do not!
I did not curse thee, mother: was it so?

Countess.
No, no, thou didst not: yet I have deserved—
I was a mother selfish in my fondness;
And with indulgence, senseless and extreme,
Blasted the goodly promise of thy youth.

Zat.
(rising half up alarmed from his couch).
Hark! there's a noise again! hast thou more servants
Coming with errands to thee?—We're discover'd!

Countess.
Be not so soon alarm'd: it is impossible.

Zat.
Is there an inner chamber? lead me there;
[Pointing to a door.
I cannot rest in this.
[Stopping short eagerly as she is leading him out with great difficulty.
—Thine absence haply
From thine own house, suspicion may create:
Return to it again, and through the day
Live there as thou art wont; by fall of eve
Thou'lt come to me again.—I'm very weak;
I must lean hard upon thee.

[Exit, looking suspiciously behind him as if he heard a noise, and supported with great difficulty by his mother.

SCENE III.

The Countess Zaterloo's house. Enter Countess and a female attendant.
Att.
Ah! wherefore, madam, are you thus disturb'd
Pacing from room to room with restless change,
And turning still a keen and anxious ear
To every noise? What can I do for you?

Countess.
Cease, cease! thou canst do nothing, my good girl:
I have a cause, but do not seek to know it.

Enter a Servant.
Serv.
There is a stranger—

Countess
(starting with alarm).
Ha! what dost thou say?
A stranger! what appearance does he wear?
Is there but one? Looks he suspiciously?

Serv.
Be not alarmed, madam; 'tis a woman.

Countess
(feigning composure).
Thou art a fool to think I am alarm'd:
Or man or woman, whosoe'er it be,
I am unwell, and must not be disturb'd.

Serv.
It is a lady of distinguish'd mien,
Though much in grief, and she so earnestly
Pleads for admittance that I am compell'd—
Pardon me, madam; but to look upon her
Would move your heart to pity.

Countess.
Let her enter.
[Exit servant.
Who may this be? why do I tremble thus?
In grief!—the wretched surely will not come
In guileful seeming to betray the wretched.
(To attendant.)
Knowst thou who this may be?

Att.
Indeed I do not.

Countess.
Retire then to a distance: here she comes:
But do not leave the chamber.

[Attendant retires to the bottom of the stage, and enter Elizabeth with her hair and dress disordered, like one distracted with grief.
Eliz.
Madam, I come a stranger to your presence,
By misery embolden'd, and urged on
By desperation. In your pity only
Lives all the hope of my most wretched state:
O kill it not! push me not to the brink
Of misery so deep and terrible!
Have pity! O have pity on my woe!
Thou art a woman, and a woman's heart
Will not be shut against a wretched woman.

Countess.
What wouldst thou ask? thou dost with too much grief
Conceal the point and object of thy suit.

Eliz.
There is in prison bound, condemn'd to die,
And for a crime by other hands committed,
A noble youth, and my betrothed love:
Your son—O shrink not back, nor look so sternly!
Your son, as secret rumour hath inform'd me,
Mortally wounded and with little hope
Of life, can ample testimony give,
Being himself of those who did the deed,
That Rayner did it not:—O let him then,
In whate'er secret place he lies conceal'd,
In pity let him true confession make;
And we will bless him—Heav'n will pardon him!

Countess.
Despair hath made thee mad! art thou aware
What thou dost ask of me? Go to our governors;
They may have pity on thee; but from me
It were an act against the sense of nature.

Eliz.
Nay, say not so! I have for mercy sued
At the proud feet of power, and been rejected:
What injury can reach a dying man?
Can his few hours of breathing poise the scales
'Gainst the whole term of a man's reckon'd life
In youth's best strength?

Countess.
Go, thou hast been deceived with a false tale:
And, were it true, hope ends not but with life;
Heav'n only knows who is a dying man.

Eliz.
For blessed charity close not your pity
Against all other feelings but your own!
[Clasping the countess's knees and kissing her hand.
Sweet lady! gentle lady! dearest lady!
O be not ruthless to a soul bow'd down
In extreme wretchedness!

Countess.
Cease, cease! unlock thy hold: embrace me not!
Has he for whom thou pleadst from out o' thyself
Received his being? press'd with infant lips
Thy yearning bosom? smiled upon thy knees,
And bless'd thine ear with his first voice of words?
Away, away! despair has made thee mad,
That thus thou hangst upon me.

Eliz.
O he for whom I plead is to my soul
Its soul: is to my fancy its bound world,
In which it lives and moves; all else beyond
Darkness, annihilation. O have pity!
For well thou sayst, despair has made me mad.

Countess.
Let go, let go! thou with a tigress strivest,
Defending her bay'd whelp: I have no pity.
Heav'n will have pity on thee! let me go;
Unlock thy desp'rate hold!

[Breaks from her and runs out, and Elizabeth, quite overcome, sinks upon the ground, the attendant rushing forward from the bottom of the stage to support her.
Enter Father Mardonio.
Mar.
(raising her).
My daughter, heaven will send in its good time
The aid that is appointed for thy state.
Contend no more, but to its righteous will
Submit thyself. Let me conduct thee hence.

[Exeunt, Mardonio and attendant supporting her. Re-enter the countess, looking fearfully round her as she enters.
Countess.
She is gone now: thank God that she is gone!
There is a horrid conflict in my mind.
What shall I do? I strongly am beset.
I will go quickly to some holy man,
And ghostly counsel ask.

[Exit, crossing the stage with a quick, irresolute step, sometimes stopping to consider, and then hurrying on again.

ACT V.

SCENE I.

A spacious outer room in the prison. Enter an Under-Gaoler and a Clown.
Clown.

I pray thee now, my good friend, here is a piece of money for thee—very good money too; thou mayst look o' both sides of it an' thou wilt: it has been wrapped up in the foot of my old holiday stockings since last Michaelmas twelvemonth, and neither sun nor wind has blown upon it. Take it, man, thou art heartily welcome to it if thou canst put me into a good place near the scaffold; or a place where I may see him upon the scaffold; for I am five-and-thirty years old next Shrove Tuesday when the time comes round, and I have never yet seen in all my born days so much as a thief set i' the stocks.

Gaoler.

Poor man! thou hast lived in most deplorable ignorance indeed. But stand aside a little, here is the famous executioner of Olmutz acoming, who has been sent for expressly to do the job; for our own is but a titulary hangman; he has all the honours of the office, but little experience in the duties of it.

Clown.

O dickens, I'll creep into a corner then, and have a good look of him. A man that has cut off men's heads, save us all! he must have a strange bloody look about him for certain.

Enter two Executioners, speaking as they enter.
1st ex.

What! no execution in this town for these ten years past? Lord pity you all for a set of poor devils indeed! Why, I have known a smaller town than this keep ye up a first executioner for the capital business, with a second man under him for your petty cart-tail and pillory work; ay, and keep them handsomely employed too. No execution in such a town as this for these ten years past! One might as well live amongst the savages.

2d ex.

It is a pitiful thing to be sure, but don't despise us altogether, Mr. Master: we shall improve by-and-bye; and here is a fair beginning for it too, if heaven prosper us.

1st ex.

Ay, thou wilt, perhaps, have the honour of hanging a thief or two before thou art the age of Methuselah; but I warrant ye, the beheading of this young nobleman here by the famous executioner of Olmutz will be remembered amongst you for generations to come. It will be the grand date from which every thing will be reckoned; ay, your very grandchildren will boast that their fathers were present at the sight.

2d ex.

I make no doubt on't, my master, but you are a very capital man in your way: heaven forbid that I should envy the greatness of any one; but I would have you to know that there have been

others in the world as good as yourself ere now. My own father cut off Baron Koslam's head upon this very scaffold that we now hear them hammering at.

1st ex.

Some wandering hocus-pocus baron, I suppose, that sold nostrums for the toothache. I always put such fellows into the hands of my underling to operate upon; I never count the dealing with them as your prime work, though for certain we must call it your head work; ha! ha! ha! (Holding out his axe in a vain-glorious manner.)
Seest thou this axe of mine? The best blood of the country has been upon its edge. To have had one's father or brother under its stroke, let me tell thee, is equal to a patent of nobility.

2d ex.

Well, be it so. I envy no man, though thou art set over my head upon this occasion. I have whipped, branded, and pilloried in great meekness and humility for these seven years past; but the humble shall be exalted at last, and I shall have better work to do by-and-bye. Let us have no more contention about it.—Who's there? (Observing gaoler and clown.)
Ay, gaoler, do thou go and kick up the black prince, he is snoring in some corner near us, and send him for some brandy.

[Gaoler coming forward, with the clown creeping after him, half afraid.
Gaoler.

The black prince is nowhere to be found; he has not been seen since the cells were locked.

2d ex.

Go fetch us some liquor thyself then.

1st ex.

But who is this sneaking behind thee, and afraid to show his face?

Gaoler.

Only a poor countryman, a friend of mine, who wanted to look at you as you passed.

1st ex.

Yes, yes, everybody has a curiosity to look at extraordinary persons. (To clown.)
Come forward, man, and don't be afraid. Didst thou ever before see any thing better than a poor parish priest, or a scrubby lord of the village? didst thou, eh?

Clown

(abashed).
I don't know, please you: my brother did once stand within a team's length of the Prince of Carrara, when he passed through our village on his way to Franconia.

1st ex.

So then thou art not the first of thy family that has seen a great man. But don't be afraid, my good fellow, I a'n't proud nor haughty as many of them be: thou shalt even shake hands with me an' thou wilt.

[Holding out his hand to clown, who shrinks from him, and puts his hands behind his back.
Clown.

No, I thank you; I ben't much of a hand-shaker: I have got a little sore on my thumb, may it please you: I thank you all the same as though I did.

1st ex.

Ay, thou art too mannerly to call it the thing that we wot of. Well, thou art a good sort of fellow; don't be abashed: thou seest I am very condescending to thee. Come, then, thou shalt drink a cup of liquor with me. Follow us into the next ward, my good friend.

Clown

(shrinking from him again).
O na, save your presence! I'll go with the gaoler here.

1st ex.

(to 2d executioner).
Ay, he is but a poor bashful clown, and don't know how to behave himself in good company. [Exeunt executioners.

Clown.

Shake hands with him, Mary preserve us! it sets the very ends of my fingers a-dingling. Drink out of the same mug with him, too! (sputtering with his lips)
poh! poh! poh! the taste of raw heads and carrion is on my lips at the thoughts of it. (To gaoler.)
Come, let us go out of this place; I be long enough here. (Stepping short as he goes off.)
What noise and hammering is this we hear?

Gaoler.

It is the workmen putting up the scaffold.

Clown

(starting).
What, are we so near to it? mercy on us! let me get out of this place, for it puts me into a terrible quandary.

Gaoler.

If this be the mettle thou art made of, thou hadst better take thy money again, and I'll give thy place for the sight to somebody that has got a stouter heart than thou hast.

Clown.

Na, na, I won't do that neither; I have a huge desire to see how a man looks when he is going to have his head cut off, and I'll stay for the sight, though I should swoon for it. Poor man! poor man! what frightful things there be in this world, when one's mind sets a-thinking upon it!—Is he a tall man, now (to gaoler)
, or a short man? a palefaced man, or—ay, pale enough, I warrant. Mercy on us! I shall think of him many a night after this, before I go to sleep. Poor man! poor man! what terrible things there be in this world, if a body does but think of them.

[Exeunt clown and gaoler.

SCENE II.

A dungeon; Rayner discovered sitting at a table by the light of a lamp, with a book in his hand; the clock from a neighbouring steeple strikes three, and he, roused by the sound, lays down the book.
Ray.
This bell speaks with a deep and sullen voice:
The time comes on apace with silent speed.
Is it indeed so late?
[Looking at his watch.
It is even so.
[Pausing, and looking still at the watch.
How soon time flies away! yet, as I watch it,
Methinks, by the slow progress of this hand,
I should have lived an age since yesterday,
And have an age to live. Still on it creeps,
Each little moment at another's heels,
Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up
Of such small parts as these, and men look back,
Worn and bewilder'd, wond'ring how it is.
Thou trav'llest like a ship in the wide ocean,
Which hath no bounding shore to mark its progress,
O Time! ere long I shall have done with thee.
When next thou leadest on thy nightly shades,
Though many a weary heart thy steps may count,
Thy midnight 'larum shall not waken me.
Then shall I be a thing, at thought of which
The roused soul swells boundless and sublime,
Or wheels in wildness of unfathom'd fears:
A thought; a consciousness; unbodied spirit.
Who but would shrink from this? It goes hard with thee,
Social connected man; it goes hard with thee
To be turn'd out into a state unknown,
From all thy kind, an individual being.
But wherefore shrink? came we not thus to earth?
And He who sent, prepared reception for us.
Ay, glorious are the things that are prepared,
As we believe!—yet, heaven pardon me!
I fain would skulk beneath my wonted cov'ring,
Mean as it is.
Ah, Time! when next thou fillst thy nightly term,
Where shall I be? Fy! fy upon thee still!
E'en where weak infancy, and tim'rous age,
And maiden fearfulness have gone before thee;
And where, as well as he of firmest soul,
The meanly-minded and the coward are.
Then trust thy nature, at th'approaching push,
The mind doth shape itself to its own wants,
And can bear all things.
[Rising from his seat, and walking several times backward and forward.
I know not how it is, I'm wondrous heavy;
Fain would I rest awhile. This weary frame
Has but a little more to do for me,
And yet it asks for rest. I'll lay me down:
It may be possible that I shall sleep,
After these weary tossings of the mind;
I feel as though I should.

[Goes to sleep, covering himself with a cloak.
Enter Ohio, creeping out from a hiding-place at the bottom of the stage, and going softly up to Rayner, looks for some time upon him with a malicious grin.
Ohio.
Thou hast loved negroes' blood, I warrant thee.
Dost sleep? ay, they will waken thee ere long,
And cut thy head off. They'll put thee to rest;
They'll close thine eyes for thee without thy leave;
They'll bloat thy white skin for thee, lily-face.
Come, less harm will I do thee than thy fellows:
My sides are cold: a dead man needs no cloak.

[Beginning gently to pull off Rayner's cloak, who starts from his sleep, and looks at him in amazement.
Ray.
Ha! what hole of the earth hath cast thee up?
What thing art thou? and what wouldst thou with me?

Ohio.
My sides are cold; a dead man needs no cloak.

Ray.
'Tis true indeed, but do not strip the living.
Where dost thou run to now? where wast thou hid?

Ohio
(after running to his hiding-place, and fetching out a stick, which he presents to Rayner).
Beat me thyself, but do not tell of me.

Ray.
I would not harm thee for a greater fault.
I'm sorry thou art cold; here is my cloak:
Thou hast said well; a dead man needs it not.
I know thee now; thou art the wretched negro
Who serves the prisoners; I have observ'd thee:
I'm sorry for thee; thou art bare enough,
And winter is at hand.

Ohio.
Ha! art thou sorry that the negro's cold?
Where wast thou born who art so pitiful?
I will not take thy cloak, but I will love thee.
They shall not cut thy head off.

Ray.
Go thy ways;
Go skulk within thy hiding-place again,
And, when the cell is open'd, save thyself.

Ohio.
They sha'n't cut off thy head.

Ray.
Now, pray thee go.

Ohio.
I'll kiss thy feet; I'll spend my blood for thee.

Ray.
I do beseech thee go! there's some one coming:
I hear them at the door.

[Pushes him hastily off.
Enter Hardibrand, advancing slowly to Rayner, his eyes cast upon the ground.
Ray.
Good morrow, general: where's thy friendly hand?
Why dost thou turn thine eyes aside, and fear
To look me in the face? Is there upon it
Aught that betrays the workings of the mind
Too strongly mark'd? I will confess to thee
I've struggled hard, I've felt the fears of nature;
But yet I have the spirit of a man
That will uphold me: therefore, my brave friend,
Do me the grace to look upon me boldly;
I'll not disgrace thee.

Har.
No, my valiant boy!
I know thou'lt not disgrace me, nor will I
Put shame on thee by wearing on this morn
A weeping face: I will be valiant too.
We will not, Rayner, though thou'rt thus—Oh! oh!

[Bursting into tears.
Ray.
My gen'rous friend, my second father, why
Wilt thou oppress me thus?

Har.
Bear with me, bear with me; I meant to brave it,
And I will brave it. But to thee, my son,
In thy distress, encompass'd as thou art,
My heart so strongly has enlink'd itself,
That to part from thee, boy, is—

[Falling on his neck, and bursting again into tears.
Enter Mardonio.
Mar.
(after looking at them for some time, and in a solemn imposing tone of voice).
The strength of man sinks in the hour of trial;
But there doth live a pow'r that to the battle
Girdeth the weak: heaven's vivifying grace,
And strength, and holy confidence be thine,
Who art in mercy stricken!

[Holding up his right hand to heaven, whilst
Rayner, approaching with reverence, bows himself beneath it very low.
Ray.
Thanks to thee, father! these are words of power,
And I do feel their strength. Beneath that hand,
Which hath in mercy stricken me, I bow;
Yea bow, the nobler and the bolder grown
For such humility.—(Familiarly.)
How goes the time?
Does day begin to dawn?

Mar.
Grey light peeps faintly o'er the eastern towers.

Ray.
The time is then advanced; we'll husband it.
Come close to me, my friends.
[Taking Hardibrand and Mardonio each by the hand, and pressing them close to his breast.
Of worldly cares, upon my mind there rest
But only those which I have mention'd to you.
Yet, in this solemn hour, let me remind you:—
My poor Elizabeth—

Har.
(eagerly).
Thou'st said enough:
She is my child and heiress of my lands
To the last rood.—Ah! what avails it now!

Ray.
How shall a dying man find thanks for this,
Whose day is closed? I will attempt no thanks.
The other wish that closely presses on me:—
Mardonio, upon thee must hang this boon:—
That miserable man of whom I've told you;
Now living in the hell of his remorse,
Cut off from human intercourse; whose vision
Of midnight horrors saved this hand from blood:
I fain—

Har.
(again eagerly interrupting him).
Fear not! fear not! he shall be saved;
And shall with human beings yet consort
In blessed charity, if ghostly care
From holiest men procured, or off'rings made
To ev'ry sacred shrine on christian ground
Can give him peace.

Ray.
(smiling and pressing Hardibrand to his bosom).
With all the prompt and gen'rous profusion
Of eager youth dost thou, mine aged friend,
Take every thing upon thee. Be it so.
And good Mardonio with his sober counsel
Will aid thy bounty. Here I join your hands:
My worldly cares are closed.

Enter
Elizabeth, followed by Richard and Bertram, who remain on the background whilst she comes slowly forward; Rayner turning round on hearing them enter.
Ah! who is this?
Alas! alas! it is Elizabeth.
[Holding out his hand to her.
Advance, my love; thou'rt ever welcome here.
How does it fare with thee?

Eliz.
It is all mist and darkness with me now;
I know not how it fares with me.

Ray.
Alas!
Thou gentle soul! a dark cloud o'er thee hangs,
But through the gloom the sun again will break,
And, in the soberness of calm remembrance,
Thou wilt look back upon misfortunes past
Like tempests that are laid. Thou dost not heed me:
Thou dost not speak to me. Alas! Alas!
What shall I say to thee?
I've loved thee well, and would have loved thee long,
Had it so been—but thou shalt be beloved!
Heav'n will take charge of thee when I'm at rest:
The kindly and the good shall be thy kindred,
[Putting her hand in Hardibrand's.
And ev'ry sorrowful and gentle heart
Shall knit itself to thee, and call thee sister.
[Elizabeth makes a motion with her hand as if she would speak, and he pauses, but she is silent.
What meant, my love, that motion of thy hand?

Mar.
She fain would speak to thee, but has no voice.

Ray.
I know it well, Elizabeth; no voice
Needst thou to tell me how thou'st dearly loved me,
And dearly do I prize it; 'tis my pride;
E'en humbled as I am, it is my pride.
Heav'n's dearest blessings rest upon thy head!—
And now, since we must part, do in thy love,
Do for me this last grace; bid me farewell,
And let my earthly sorrows now be closed.
Heav'n's blessing rest upon thee!

[He kisses her, and she turns to go away, Rayner looking after her as she goes, but presently returns again.
Ray.
Thou art return'd, my soul, what wouldst thou have?

Eliz.
(in a broken voice).
A thought—a wish did press upon my heart,
But it is gone.

Ray.
I thank thee for thy wish;
It is a good one, though thou canst not speak it,
And it will do me good. But leave me! leave me!
Thou wilt unfit me for a task of strength.
[Elizabeth again attempts to go away, but still returns.
Ah, wherefore still! wilt thou be cruel to me?

Eliz.
O, no! O, no! I know not what I do:
It is all mist and darkness with me now:
I look upon thee, but I see thee not.
Let me once more but feel thy hand in mine
And send me where ye will: my being then
Is at an end.

[They embrace again, and she still continues to hang upon him.
Ray.
(to Bertram and Richard).
O, lead her hence, and have some mercy on me!
My father died i' the field a valiant death,
And shall his son upon the scaffold die
O'ercome and weak, reft of that decent firmness
Which e'en the base and vulgar there assume?
O lead her hence! in mercy lead her hence!

[Bertram and Richard tear her from him, and lead her away, whilst he turns his back, and hides his face with his hands.
Eliz.
(stopping short, and tossing up her arms distractedly as they are leading her out).
Reprieve, reprieve! I hear a voice i' the air!
I hear it yet again!

Ray.
(uncovering his face, and looking about eagerly, whilst Hardibrand rushes forward impetuously from the bottom of the stage, where he has been pacing backward and forward with hasty strides).
Is't any thing?

Mar.
Alas, no! all is silent: 'tis the fancy
Of fond distraction list'ning to itself.

Har.
Nay, it was something: Bertram, thou didst hear it?

Ber.
No, I heard nothing.

Har.
What, nor thou, good Richard?

Rich.
No, nothing.

Eliz.
(holding up her arm distractedly as Richard and Bertram lead her off).
And is it nothing? no redemption near!

[Exeunt Elizabeth, Richard, and Bertram, whilst Rayner, uttering a deep groan, hides his face, and Hardibrand returns with hasty strides to the bottom of the stage.
Ray.
(uncovering his face).
Is she gone now?

Mar.
She is.

Ray.
Thank God for it! Now to our task:
[Stepping forward with assumed firmness.
What of it now remains we shall o'er-master.
Pray thee how goes the time? But pardon me!
I have too oft inquired how goes the time:
It is my weakness.

Mar.
The morning now advances.

Ray.
So I reckon'd.
We too shall put ourselves in forwardness:
And so, good father, to your ghostly guidance
I do commend myself.

Enter Gaoler.
Gaoler.
The officers of justice are arrived,
And wait the presence of the prisoner.

Ray.
They come upon us sooner than we wist;
But 'tis so much the better.
(To Mardonio, aside.)
Shall we have time allow'd us for retirement,
Before they lead me forth?

Mar.
'Tis ever so allow'd.

Ray.
Come then, I feel me stronger than I was:
'Twill soon be past; the work goes on apace.
[Taking hold of Hardibrand and Mardonio as he goes out.
Your arm, I pray:—I know not how it is;
My head feels dizzy, but my limbs are firm.
Good Hardibrand, thinkst thou I shall disgrace thee?

Har.
No, by the mass! I'll give them this old carcase
To hack for crow's meat if thou shrinkst one hair's breadth
From the comportment of a gallant soldier,
And of a brave man's son.

Ray.
(smiling with a gratified look).
I thank thee.
Methinks I tread now, as I onward move,
With more elastic and dilating step,
As if a spirit of pride within me stirr'd
Buoying me up on the swoln billow's ridge.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

An outer garden-room or portico in the house where
Zaterloo is concealed. Enter Countess and a confessor, with two attendants bearing Zaterloo on a small couch, which they set down on the middle of the stage; the attendants retire.
Countess.
The air revives him: look, I pray thee, father,
How the fresh air revives him: say not then
All hope is banish'd quite.—Thou shak'st thy head:
But whilst I see upon his moving breast
One heave of breath, betok'ning life within,
I'll grasp at hope, and will not let it go.
(Bending over the couch.)
My son, my son! hearst thou my voice, my son?

Zat.
Yes, mother: I have had a fearful struggle.
'Tis a strong enemy that grapples with me,
And I must yield to him.—O pious father!
Pray thou for mercy on me.

Countess.
Yes, my son,
This holy man shall pray for thee; the shrines
Of holiest saints be gifted for thee; masses
And sacred hymns be chanted for thy peace:—
And thou thyself, even 'midst thine agony,
Hast spoken precious words of heav'nly grace;
Therefore be comforted.

Zat.
(shaking his head).
There is no comfort here: dark, veil'd, and terrible,
That which abides me; and how short a space—

Countess.
O thou mayst yet recover!

Con.
Lady, forbear! this is no time to soothe
With flatt'ring hopes: his term is near its close;
Therefore, I do again entreat it of you,
Sond off the messenger with his confession,
Lest it should be too late to save the innocent,
And he be sent unto his long account
With a most heavy charge upon his head.

Countess.
Thou mak'st me tremble.—Ho! There, you without!
Send here the messenger.
(Calling off the stage.)
—His steed is ready:
He shall forthwith depart.

Enter Messenger.
Con.
(to messenger).
Take thou this packet, and with full-bent speed
Go to the city to the governor,
And see that into his own hand thou give it,
With charges that he read it instantly.
It is of precious moment to his life
Who on the scaffold should this morning suffer.
Quick mount thy horse: few minutes' goaded speed
Will take thee to the gates.

Mes.
Few minutes' goaded speed, five leagues to master!

Con.
Five leagues! thou'rt mad.

Mes.
No, marry! know ye not
The flooded river hath last night broken down
The nearer bridge?

Con.
What, art thou sure of this?

Mes.
I am now come from gazing on the sight.
From bank to bank the red swoln river roars;
And on the deep and slowly-rolling mass
Of its strong centre-tide, grumly and dark,
The wrecks of cottages, whole ricks of grain,
Trunks of huge trees, torn by the roots,—ay, save us!
And floating carcases of perish'd things,
Bloated and black, are borne along; whilst currents
Cross-set and furious, meeting adverse streams
On rude uneven surface, far beyond
The water's natural bed, do loudly war
And terrible contest hold; and swelt'ring eddies
With dizzy whirling fury, toss aloft
Their surgy waves i' the air, and scatter round
Their ceaseless bick'ring gleams of jagged foam,
All fiercely whit'ning in the morning light.
Crowds now are standing upon either shore
In awful silence; not a sound is heard
But the flood's awful voice, and from the city
A dismal bell heard through the air by starts,
Already tolling for the execution.

Con.
What's to be done? fate seems to war against us.
No, no! we'll not despair! Mount thy fleet horse,
Life and death's in thy speed:—
Let nought one moment stop thee on thy way:
All things are possible to vig'rous zeal:
Life and death's in thy speed: depart! depart!
And heaven be with thine efforts.

[Exit messenger, after receiving the packet.
Zat.
Is he gone? is it done?

Con.
Yes, he is gone: God grant he be in time,
For unto human reck'ning 'tis impossible!
[To countess, with an upbraiding look.
Half an hour sooner—

Countess.
Oh, torment me not!
Who could foresee this hind'rance?—O, good father!
Look to thy penitent. Upon his count'nance
There's something new and terrible. Speak to him:
Go close to him, good father. O my son!

Zat.
I feel within me now—this is the feeling:
I am upon the brink, the dreadful brink:
It is a fearful gulf I have to shoot.
O yet support me! in this racking pain
I still may hold a space the grasp of life,
And keep back from the dark and horrid—Oh!
(Uttering a deep groan.)
It is upon me!

[Struggles and expires with a faint groan. Countess, wringing her hands in agony of grief, is hurried off the stage by the Confessor and attendants, who rush in and take hold of her.

SCENE IV.

An open square before the great gate of the prison: a crowd of spectators, with guards, &c., are discovered, waiting for the coming forth of Rayner to his execution, and a solemn bell is heard at intervals. The gate opens, and enter Rayner walking between Mardonio and Hardibrand, and followed by Richard and Bertram, preceded and followed by guards, officers, &c. The procession moves slowly over the stage, and exeunt, followed by the greater part of the crowd, though a good many of them still remain upon the stage. Then re-enter Hardibrand and Richard, followed by one or two of the crowd: Hardibrand walking up and down in a perturbed manner, and Richard leaning his back against the side-scene, where he continues motionless with his eyes fixed on the ground. The murmur of the multitude is heard for some time without, and then ceases, followed by a dead silence.
1st crowd.

The sound of the multitude is still now.

2d crowd

(looking out).
I fancy, by the crowd who stand all gathered round yonder in dead silence, he is now preparing for the block.

3d crowd.

It must be so: mercy on us, what a mantle of human faces there be spread round on every side, and not one sound of voice amongst them all!

Har.

(starting and stopping suddenly, to 1st crowd). A long pause.
Didst thou hear aught?

1st crowd.

No, they are still silent.

Har.

Look out, I pray thee, and tell me what thou seest. What dost thou gaze at with so broad an eye? 1st crowd looks out.

1st crowd.

The executioner is now mounted upon the platform, and the prisoner—O! I cannot look any more!

[A loud confused noise is heard without.
Har.

What's that?

2d crowd.

It is like the cry of a great multitude, when they look upon something that is terrible.

1st crowd.

Then the stroke is given, and it is all over now.

[Hardibrand turns hastily away, and rushes to the other end of the stage, whilst Richard gives a heavy groan, and still remains motionless. A shout is heard without.
Har.

(returning furiously from the bottom of the stage).
More of that horrible din!— May they bring down the welkin on their heads!

2d crowd

(to 1st crowd).
What art thou looking at now?

1st crowd.

Nay, there is nothing to look at now: the platform is down, and the crowd is returning home again.

Enter Ohio, running across the stage.
Ohio.

I've done it! I've done it! I've done it!

[Exit.
Enter a messenger in great haste, followed by a civil Officer.
1st crowd.
Where are you running to so fast?

Mes.
Is the execution over?

1st crowd.
Yes, it is over.

Mes.
Ah! then I am too late.

1st crowd.
What mean ye by that?

Mes.
I brought a pardon for him.

Har.
(rushing upon the messenger and collaring him).
A pardon! O confound your tardy speed!
Had you upon some paltry wager striv'n,
You had run faster. O, thou cursed fool!
O hadst thou sped, I'd make a rich man of thee!

Mes.
(disentangling himself).
My steed and I across the high-swoln flood,
Those on the shore shrieking to see our boldness,
Have fearless swum some miles short of the pass
Which we must else have gain'd, or, by my faith,
I had been later.

Har.
Thou liest, thou cursed fool! thou shouldst have sped
Swift as a bullet from the cannon's mouth.

[Collaring him again.
Enter Rayner, Mardonio, Bertram, and crowd.
Mar.
(to Hardibrand, pulling him back from the messenger).
Hold, general! what hath the poor man done?

Har.
What has he done! he's brought a pardon, fiend!
[The crowd give a great shout, crying out “Pardon, pardon,” and Hardibrand, turning round at the noise, and seeing Rayner, springs forward, and catches him in his arms.
God bless us all, and let us keep our wits!
Is this true seeing that my eyes are blest with?
O welcome, welcome! this is wonderful!
My boy! my noble boy! my gallant boy!
Thou art a man again, and I—I'm mad:
My head wheels round, but 'tis a blessed madness.
What sayst thou? art thou silent?
Hast no voice?

Ray.
To be upon the verge of death is awful;
And awful from that verge to be recall'd.
God bless you! O God bless you! I am spent;
But let me draw my breath a little while,
And I will thank you—I will—Bear with me:
I cannot speak.
[Recovering himself, and seeing the crowd gather round him with joyful and sympathising looks.
Surely 'tis a kind world I have return'd to;
There's sympathy and love in ev'ry heart.

Mar.
(to messenger).
Where is the pardon? let me have it, friend,
That I may read it.
[Messenger gives him a paper, which he reads.
We charge thee upon our authority to set the—
[Reading the rest low to himself.
What! call ye this a pardon which acquits
The prisoner as guiltless of the crime?
May God be praised! how has all this been?

Mess.
Count Zaterloo, who on his death-bed lies,
In deep remorse, a paper of confession,
Attested by a priest and his own mother,
Caused to be drawn, which to the governor
I've brought, I wot, as quickly as I might,
Though (pointing to Hardibrand)
this good gentleman—

Har.
(embracing the messenger).
O no! O no! thou'rt a brave fellow now,
And, as I've said, I'll make a rich man of thee.
But I'm bewilder'd still: how hath it been
That he is saved, seeing no pardon reach'd him?

Mar.
Yes, thou mayst wonder! for some unknown friend
Had sawn across the main prop of the scaffold,
So that the headsman mounting first, the platform
Fell with a crash; and he, all maim'd and bruised,
Unfit to do his office, was perforce—

Har.
Ay, ay, 'tis plain, thou needst not tell me more.—
But he, the unknown friend—

Enter Ohio, running exultingly.
Ohio.
'Twas I that did it!
Beat me and scourge me as ye list: I did it!
He offer'd me his cloak: he pitied me;
And I have paid him back.

Har.
Ha! well done and well said, my brave black thing!
Art thou a prince? in faith I think thou art.
I'll take thee home, and make a man of thee.
No, no!
(Pointing to Rayner.)
Here is my son, my heir, my child:
All that I have is his: he will reward thee.
Thou hast a gen'rous mind, although debased
With vile oppression and unmanly scorn.

Ray.
(taking Ohio and Hardibrand both by the hand).
What shall I say to you? my heart would speak
What my voice cannot. O! and here comes one
Who mocks all power of words.

[Enter Elizabeth running, and rushes into Rayner's arms; the crowd then eagerly gathers round them, and closes upon them.
Mar.
(stepping out from the crowd, and looking upon them).
Yes, gather round him, kindly souls, though rude,
In the true artless sympathy of nature;
For he is one o'er whom the storm has roll'd
In awful power, but spared the thunderbolt.—
When urged by strong temptation to the brink
Of guilt and ruin, stands the virtuous mind
With scarce a step between; all pitying heaven,
Severe in mercy, chast'ning in its love,
Ofttimes, in dark and awful visitation,
Doth interpose, and leads the wand'rer back
To the straight path, to be for ever after
A firm, undaunted, onward-bearing traveller
Strong in humility, who swerves no more.

[Exeunt.