 | The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie
|  |
|
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.
| The Dramatic and Poetical Works of Joanna Baillie
| |
|
