University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in the Castle.
Enter Lord Hildebrand and Saint Valori.
Hildebrand.
Ah, father Carmelite! where hast thou been?
Was it well done to leave thy wretched friend
To be devour'd by heart-consuming anguish?

Saint Valori.
I left you to repose.

Hildebrand.
I know it not:
Sleep is my horror; then the furies rise;
Then pale Saint Valori appears before me:
Trembling I wake, cold damps bedew my limbs,
And my couch floats with tears.—Is this repose?

Saint Valori.
No; yet it moves my wonder why your conscience,
Mute for so many years, shou'd on the sudden
Break into voice, and cry so loud against you.—
I found you lull'd in a luxurious calm,
Feasting upon the spoils of him you stabb'd;
Your castle flow'd with revelry and wine,
And you the loudest of the sons of riot:
Where was your conscience then?

Hildebrand.
With you it came;
You are the father of my soul's repentance:
Your fascinating eye pervades my breast;
Conscious, abash'd, uncover'd to the heart,
I stand before you—to your ear confide
Things unreveal'd to man. Now, as I see you,
Tho' in religion's peaceful garment cloath'd,
Saint Valori methinks appears before me,
Dreadful in arms, and braves me to the lists.

Saint Valori.
Take food and rest, recruit your body's strength,
And you'll forget these fears.

Hildebrand.
I'll die with famine
Before I'll eat the charitable bread
Of her I made a widow; and for sleep,
I tell thee once again sleep is my horror.
Methought but now by shipwreck I was plung'd
Into the foaming ocean; on the shore
Your figure stood with beck'ning hand outstretch'd
To snatch me from the waves; chear'd with the sight,
Thro' the white surf I struggled; with strong arm
You rais'd me from the gulph; joyful I ran
T'embrace my kind preserver—when at once
Off fell your habit, bright in arms you stood,
And with a voice of thunder cried aloud,
“Villain, avaunt! I am Saint Valori!”—
Then push'd me from the cliff: down, down I fell,
Fathoms on fathoms deep, and sunk for ever!

Saint Valori.
This was your dream.

Hildebrand.
Now hear my waking terrors.—
Rous'd by this dream I started; to the wall
Furious I rush'd, to dash my desperate brains:
Burst with the force, a secret door flew open,
Where full in view a lighted altar blaz'd
With holy tapers bright; around it hung
The funeral trophies of Saint Valori;
Red gleam'd the banner of the bloody Cross,
And on a tablet underneath was written,
“Pray for the peace of his departed soul!”
Upon my knees I dropt, and would have pray'd,
When soon, behold! the Lady Widow enter'd,
Led by the generous youth who sav'd our lives:
I rose, made low obeisance, and retir'd.

Saint Valori.
You left them there.—Did all this pass in silence?

Hildebrand.
All; not a word was spoken.

Saint Valori.
Did you note
Her look, her action?—How did she dismiss you?
Abruptly, eagerly?

Hildebrand,
With matron grace,
Her hand thus gently waving, she dismiss'd me;
The other hand most lovingly was lock'd
In his on whom she lean'd.

Saint Valori,
No more of this.
Hark! you are summon'd—rouse from this despair;
Shake off your lethargy!

[Trumpet.
Hildebrand.
What trumpet's that?

Saint Valori.
To you, or to your challenger, the last;
Death sounds the knell, and justice seals the doom.

Hildebrand.
My soul sinks down abash'd: I cannot fight;
What wou'd you more? I have confest the murder.

Saint Valori.
You have confest you know not what: retire!
Go to your chamber; I will quickly follow,
And bring you comfort.—Nay, make no reply.
The time is labouring, wond'rous things and new
Press to the birth; prepare yourself to meet them.

[Exeunt severally.
Enter Matilda and her Domesticks, De Courci and his Train.
Matilda.
My noble Lord, thrice welcome! you are come
To glad the mourner's heart, and with your presence
Make her poor cottage rich.

De Courci.
Most noble Lady,
Henry of Normandy, the kingly heir
Of England's mighty conqueror, of his grace
And princely courtesy, by me his servant,
As a most loving father, kindly greets you
Which salutation past, I am to move you
Upon the matter of your suit afresh,
Its weight and circumstance; how many years
It hath been let to sleep; what forfeiture
And high default you stand in, shou'd it fail:
Conjuring you, as fits a Christian king,
By the lov'd memory of your honour'd Lord
Who now hath tenanted the silent grave
These twenty years and more, not to proceed
In this high matter on surmise, or charge
Of doubtful circumstance; the crime alledg'd
Being so heinous, the appeal so bloody,
And he whom you attaint so brave and noble.

Matilda.
I know, my Lord, in property the law
Can plead prescription and the time's delay;
But justice, in an inquisition made for blood,
With retrospective eye thro' ages past
Moves her own pace, nor hears the law's demur.—
Why I have let this murder sleep thus long,
Necessity, and not my will, must answer.
The conqueror William, and his furious son,
With iron hand upheld th'oppressor's power,
And stopt their ears against the widow's cries.
In painful silence brooding o'er my grief,
On this lone rock, upon the ocean's brink,
Year after year I languish'd, in my dreams
Conversing oft with shadowy shapes and horrors,
That scar'd me into madness.—Oh, my Lord!
Bear with my weakness: pray regard me not;
I have a remedy at hand—my tears.

[weeps.
De Courci.
Sad relict of the bravest, best of men,
Tell not thy griefs to me, nor let my words
(Which by commission, not of choice, I speak)
Shake thy firm purpose; for on England's throne
No tyrant sits, deaf to the widow's cause,
But Heav'n's vicegerent, merciful and just.
If stedfast thou art fix'd in thy appeal,
Stedfast in justice is thy sovereign too.
Bring forth thy knight appellant, for the lists
Expect him, and may Heav'n defend the right!

Matilda.
Thanks to thy royal sender! on my knee
I offer prayers to Heaven for length of days,
And blessings shower'd on his anointed head.—
Now, gallant Lord, you shall behold my champion,
My shepherd boy, who, like the son of Jeffe,
Unskill'd in arms, must combat this Philistine.—
Montgomeri, come forth!

Enter Montgomeri.
De Courci.
Is this your knight?

Matilda.
This is my knight. I trust not in the strength
Of mortal man; Heav'n will uphold my cause,
And to a murderer's heart will guide the blow,
Tho' from an infant's hand.

De Courci.
Of what degree
Must I report him? In the royal lists,
Against so proud a name as Hildebrand,
The warlike forms of knighthood will demand
That noble shall to noble be oppos'd.

Matilda.
Not unprepar'd I shall attend the lists,
And at my sovereign's feet prefer the proofs
Which honour's forms demand.

De Courci.
You know the peril,
If you fall short.

Matilda.
I take it on my head.

De Courci.
Where have you serv'd? What battles have you seen?

Montgomeri.
Few and unfortunate have been the fields,
Where I have fought.—I serv'd a sinking cause;
Robert of Normandy was my liege Lord,
For I am Norman born.

De Courci.
Have you been train'd
In tournaments?

Montgomeri.
I never broke a lance,
Nor shall I, as I hope, but in his heart
Who stabb'd Saint Valori.

De Courci.
Noble Lady,
I wou'd impart something of nearest import
To your more private ear.

Matilda.
Let all withdraw:
[they withdraw.
Leave us.—And now, my Lord and honour'd guest,
Impart your noble thoughts; for sure I am
None others can be native of a soul,
Where courtesy and valour are enshrin'd,
As in a holy altar, under guard
Of consecrated keepers—therefore speak.

De Courci.
Let infamy fix on me, when I wrong
A confidence so generous!—Heav'n bestow'd
One friend, the pride and blessing of my life;
Heav'n, when you lost a husband, from me also
Took that one friend away, and in his grave
Buried my heart beside him.

Matilda.
Yes, my Lord,
We both have cause to mourn him: I remember
The day he parted for the Holy Wars,
His manly bosom struggling to repress
Its bursting passion, in those racking moments,
When stern religion rent him from my arms,
Then, even then, in his capacious foul
Friendship had part—you shar'd it with Matilda.
Need I proceed! ah, no! for you was present,
You took him from me, on your neck he fell;—
I parted, sunk, and never saw him more.

De Courci.
'Twas in those parting moments he committed
A sacred charge, the very test of friendship,
Your soft unsheltered beauty, to my care.
I serv'd, consol'd you, lov'd you as a brother;
But soon Saint Valori call'd me from my charge,
For war and sickness had consum'd our host,
And Palestine was drench'd with Christian blood.—
We fought, we conquer'd, and from Pagan hands
Rescued the captive Cross: and now command
My zealous heart, you are it's mistress still.

Matilda.
There needs not this, my Lord; for I can read
Your zeal without a preface: freely then,
As a friend shou'd, and plainly speak your thoughts.

De Courci.
When rumour of this combat reach'd my ears,
Without delay I sent a trusty page,
Offering myself as your devoted knight:
He brought for answer, that you had a champion,
You thank'd me for my offer;—cold repulse
Temper'd in courteous phrase! still I submitted
In silence, as became me, to your pleasure,
Musing who this might be—

Matilda.
And now you find him
A stripling youth unknown, in arms a novice,
And you condemn my choice; these are your thoughts.

De Courci.
I do confess it.—Oh, reflect in time!
Think not, because nature hath cast a form
In fair proportion, strung his youthful joints
With nerves that bear him bounding to the chace,
Or hurl the wrestler in the shouting ring,
That you have train'd a champion to encounter
A combatant so practis'd in the lists,
So valorous in fight as Hildebrand.

Matilda.
What I have done, I've done: your zeal, my Lord,
May start new terrors for my hero's danger,
Shake me with new alarms, but change it cannot.

De Courci.
Turn not away, but still with patience hear me.
Think what you are, great in yourself, yet greater
As brave Saint Valori's widow: Oh preserve
That name untainted; hear what honour counsels;
Truth makes me bold, your danger is my warrant.

Matilda.
You was my husband's friend; I own your plea.
Lo! I am turn'd to hear: proceed.

De Courci.
I was his friend,
I am your's also; and as such I warn you
Against a deed so fatal, that the steel
Of Hildebrand gave not a stab more mortal
To life than this to fame.

Matilda.
My Lord, my Lord!
You rise too fast upon me, and advance
Too strongly on so weak a disputant,
So much to seek for reason as I am.

De Courci.
May I not then demand, what is this boy,
Whom you thus dignify? this page, this lacquey,
The very topmost pitch of whose promotion
Had been to touch the stirrup of Saint Valori?

Matilda.
What is he!—but you question me too harshly;
I'll answer to the King; but to a friend
Who treats me with suspicion, I am silent.
You bid me call to memory what I am:
I hope, when thus you school me, you yourself
In your own precepts need no monitor.
I think I am as humble as I shou'd be
Under such hard correction. I acknowledge
Two powerful duties: to my husband one,
The first and strongest; to yourself the next,
As my much-honour'd guest; but I oppose
The tyranny of friendship, which would stamp
Dishonour on the worthy, and forbid
My free affections to direct their choice
Where nature warrants, and my soul approves.

[Exit.
De Courci
alone.
Why then there's no perfection in the sex,
Or I had found it here. Farewell to grief;
So much for tears! tho' twenty years they flow,
They wear no channels in a widow's cheeks;
And still the ambush'd smile lurks underneath
The watery surface, ready to start up
At the next lover's summons; now to greet
A hero's passion, now to wed a page.

Enter Saint Valori.
Saint Valori.
My Lord De Courci, doth your memory serve
To recollect a certain pledge of love,
A jewel, which the lady of this house
Gave to her husband by your hands?

De Courci.
A bracelet;
She took it from her arm when they did part:
I well remember it.

Saint Valori.
Was it like this?

De Courci.
The very same; I gave it to Saint Valori
When he embark'd for Palestine.

Saint Valori.
You did:
I had it then; your memory is perfect.

De Courci.
You had it then!—What must I think of this?

Saint Valori.
Can you this little token keep in mind,
And not remember him you gave it to?

De Courci.
Explain yourself; you speak in mysteries.

Saint Valori.
Be temperate then; let not your loud surprize
Betray me to the house: I'm here unknown.

De Courci.
Impossible! tho' the dead rose again,
Yet this can not be he.

Saint Valori.
My friend! my friend!
Come to my arms! let this embrace convince you.

De Courci.
Oh earth and heaven! he lives.

Saint Valori.
He lives indeed
To a new life of misery. Be still!
Forbear to question me: another time
Thou shalt hear all, but let this hour be sacred
To friendship's pressing call.—My wife! my wife!

De Courci.
Oh, my prophetic fears!

Saint Valori.
Unhappy woman!
For why shou'd I accuse her? twenty years
A mournful widow, and at last to start
So wide from all propriety; and now,
After so brave a struggle, now to sink
Her honour, which still bore so proud a sail
Thro' the rough tide of time: oh bitter thought!
Oh aggravating shame!

De Courci.
Alas, my friend,
How shall I comfort you? I see you point
At young Montgomeri: in friendship's right
I ask'd her private ear, and boldly urg'd
The peril of her fame.

Saint Valori.
And what reply?

De Courci.
Patient at first she heard; but when I touch'd
The master-string, and set to view how base
The choice of such a minion, such a page,
Then—but 'twere painful to describe the scene,
Vain to conceal: she loves him to distraction.

Saint Valori.
Can it be doubted? She has married him.

De Courci.
Indeed!

Saint Valori.
I have a trusty servant here,
Who saw her clasp him in her wanton arms,
Twine, like pale ivy round the polish'd bark
Of the smooth beech, whilst rapt'rous she exclaim'd,
“My hero! my Saint Valori! my husband!”—
Oh, she is lost, beyond redemption lost.

De Courci.
Who now shall dream of constancy in woman?
What's to be done?—Your life dissolves the combat.

Saint Valori.
That shame I've sav'd her from: Lord Hildebrand
Is dying in this house.

De Courci.
Lord Hildebrand!
How many strange events are here combin'd
Of sorrow and surprize! so thick they crowd,
So swift they change, I know not where to turn,
Nor what to counsel.

Saint Valori.
What can counsel give?
Can words revoke, can wisdom reconcile,
Th'indissoluble web which fate has wove?
And shall I stay and harbour here with shame?
Walk, like a discontented moping ghost,
To haunt and hover round their nuptial bed,
When I can die, as I have liv'd, in arms?—
Off, holy counterfeit! begone, disguise!

De Courci.
Stop, I conjure you: rush not on despair.

Saint Valori.
Despair!—And have I worn the Cross so long
But as the mask and mockery of religion?
No, 'tis the armour of a Christian knight,
And with this gauntlet I defy despair.

De Courci.
Then by that sacred symbol, by our friendship
And faithful brotherhood in God's holy service,
I do beseech thee to persist in hope:
For whilst one circumstance of doubt remains,
One, tho' the slightest fragment is afloat,
That fond credulity ere clung to, still,
Still will I keep some happy chance in view
To save thy lady's honour.

Saint Valori.
Gallant friend,
Thy counsel shall prevail, I will persist;
And as misfortune is the world's best school
For true philosophy, I will extract
The cordial patience from the bitter root
Of this implanted pain. Come, brave De Courci!
Pleasure's gay scene, and hope's delusive dream,
Are vanish'd, lost; love's fairy palace sinks
In the false fleeting sand on which 'twas built;
Whilst thy immortal constancy alone
Stands in the waste, a solitary column,
To tell life's mournful traveller where once
Joy revell'd, and a stately fabric rose.