University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

Enter Matilda and Lord Hildebrand.
Matilda.
Stop, stranger! wherefore have you left your chamber?
Will you go forth with all your wounds about you?
Return, nor rashly counteract our care,
That labours to preserve you.

Hildebrand.
Shall I make
Your house a grave? The wounds you see are nothing,
Their pain may be assuag'd by drugs and ointments;
Nature abounds in simples, that can heal
These tumours of the body.

Matilda.
If the cure
Be, as you say, so easy, why oppose it?
Is pain your choice, that you resist our medicines,
And thus expose your rankling wounds undrest
To the raw fest'ring air?

Hildebrand.
Ah, generous lady!
'Tis but a superficial flattering art
To heal the skin, and make the surface whole,
When an unsearchable and mortal sting
Has pierc'd the nobler part.

Matilda.
That sting is grief:
You mourn a wise perhaps, or some dear friend,
In your late shipwreck lost: if it be so,
I'll not arraign your sorrow; yet remember,
Tho' short of their allotted time they fell,
'Twas Heav'n that struck them short, they were not murder'd,
As my Saint Valori, by vile treach'rous man.

Hildebrand.
Oh, horror! horror!

Matilda.
Have I touch'd the cause?
Was there a friend? a wife?

Hildebrand.
Nor wife, nor friend:
And yet—

Matilda.
What yet? Your heart perhaps was fix'd
Upon your freighted treasures, hoarded up
By carking care, and a long life of thrift,
Now without interest or redemption swallow'd
By the devouring bankrupt waves for ever:
What then? your cares have perish'd with your fortune.

Hildebrand.
The wreck of friends and fortune I bewail
As things Heav'n gives and takes away at pleasure;
Conditional enjoyments, transient loans,
Bliss that accumulates a debt of pain:
Swift their succession, sudden their reverse.
To-day the setting sun descends in tears,
To-morrow's dawn breaks forth, and all is joy:
But guilt involves me in perpetual night;
No morning star, no glimmering ray of hope;
Eternal tossings on a bed of thorns,
Conscience, that raven, knelling in my ear,
And vulture furies plucking at my heart!

Matilda.
Then I conjectur'd right, and 'tis remorse
Which tortures you; I read it in your eyes:
Did that descending virtue come on earth,
To set at large the captive or the free?
'Twas to redeem the captive: Turn to him,
Turn then, and seek your saving hope, repentance;
Go to your Carmelite, confess to him,
Fly to your soul's physician for a cure;
Whether with soft emollients he assuage,
Or with corrosive penances consume
The cank'rous gangrene that now gnaws your heart.

Hildebrand.
I have confess'd to him, he knows my guilt;
But what can he, alas! there lives but one
Under Heav'n's canopy, who can absolve.—
Hither th'immediate hand of Heav'n has led me,
Hopeless of pardon, to expire before you,
And cast your husband's murderer at your feet.

Matilda.
Ah, Scorpion! is it thou? I shake with horror.—
Thee have I pitied? thee have I preserv'd?—
Monster, avaunt! Go to the rocks for food,
Call to the winds for pity! lay thee down
Beneath some blighted yew, whose pois'nous leaf
Kills as it falls; there howl thyself to death!—
Hangs the roof o'er us yet? I am astonish'd.—
Art not asham'd, O earth, to bear him yet?
O sea, to cast him up again?—Begone!

Hildebrand.
I do not wait for pardon, but for death:
Call to your servants; whelm me with their swords.—
Heav'n throws me on your mercy; you receiv'd
And gave me shelter; hospitably tender'd
Food and restoring med'cines; I refus'd them:
My thirst is unallay'd, my wounds undrest,
No particle of food has past my lips,
For I disdain a fraud upon your pity;
And, where I can't have pardon, scorn support.
The only mercy I implore is death.

Matilda.
Mercy! and dare thy tongue pronounce the name?—
Mercy! thou man of blood, thou hast destroy'd it,
It came from heaven to save Saint Valori:
You saw the cherub messenger alight
From its descent; with outspread wings it sate,
Covering his breast; you drew your cursed steel,
And thro' the pleading angel pierc'd his heart.
Then, then the moon, by whose pale light you struck
Turn'd fiery red, and from her angry orb
Darted contagious sickness on the earth;
The planets in their courses shriek'd for horror;
Heav'n dropt maternal tears.—Oh! art thou come?

Enter Montgomeri.
Montgomeri.
Why dost thou tremble? Why this ghastly terror?

Matilda.
Save me, support me! In thy arms I fall:
I mov'd not till thou cam'st, lest I had sunk
Upon the floor, and catching at the hand
That stabb'd Saint Valori, his touch had kill'd me.

Montgomeri.
That stabb'd Saint Valori! Is this the wretch?
Is Hildebrand before me?—Draw, thou traitor!
Stand to defence, or die!

Hildebrand.
Behold my heart!
Strike! I expect no mercy.

Matilda.
Stop thine hand:
Black tho' he be, as infamy can make him,
He is defenceless, wounded, and expiring.

Hildebrand.
Wilt thou not add, repentant?—I am vanquish'd,
Body and soul laid prostrate by despair.
I do confess my crime: what can I more?
Castle, demesne, and treasure, all the spoils
Of my accursed avarice, I resign:
Take my life too; dismiss me from a world
Where I have none to mourn me, no kind hand
To close my eyes; of children, wife, and friends,
(Save only this poor Carmelite) bereft;
Be merciful to him, he is not guilty.
If I dare ask a little earth to cover me
For Christian decency, I would—but that,
That were too much—my tears will sink a grave.

Montgomeri.
He's deeply penitent: you'll not refuse
What he petitions for: 'twere most unchristian
To let him die without the church's rites.

Matilda.
Forbear!

Montgomeri.
He's dying—see, he faints—he falls.
[Hildebrand sinks on the ground.
'Twill give him comfort in the hour of death;
And that I'd give ev'n to a murderer.

Matilda.
You never knew your father, and in you
Pity is natural; in me 'tis treason
To breathe the air which his pollution taints;
A crime to look upon his eyes and live.

Montgomeri.
I feel, I feel your cause; there let him fall:
Die where he lists, but give his corpse a grave.—
And see, the Carmelite approaches.

Matilda.
Hah!
The Lord De Courci too!—Stand by the body;
And if the wretch has breath to speak again,
Call them to witness his confession. Mark!
In Heav'n's own presence, mark this awful scene,
And write it on thy heart!—Farewell! Be constant!

[Exit Matilda.
Enter Saint Valori and De Courci.
Montgomeri.
Noble De Courci, and thou reverend father,
From whom the penitent in life's last hour
Draws holy comfort, look upon that wretch,
Visit his soul with peace at its departure,
And take confession from his dying lips.

Saint Valori.
Withdraw, and stand apart then out of hearing.
[They withdraw.
Lord Hildebrand, if thou hast sense and motion,
Reach forth thine hand.—So! If thou canst, look up!
I am the Carmelite.

Hildebrand.
Oh, save me, save me!
I am a sinful man.

Saint Valori.
But not a murderer:
He who speaks to you is Saint Valori.

Hildebrand.
God of my hope! is it some blessed spirit,
Or living man that speaks?

Saint Valori.
A living man,
Saint Valori himself; no spirit.—Mark!
I grasp your hand in token of forgiveness:
Dost thou perceive it?

Hildebrand.
At my heart I feel it.—
Can you forgive me? May I die in peace?

Saint Valori.
Lo! thus with friendly hand I close thine eyes:
Sleep, sleep! and be at rest from thy afflictions;
Wou'd mine were laid beside thee in the grave!

Hildebrand.
Oh balmy comfort! Oh, how sweet to die!—
Farewell for ever: do not quit my hand;
Let it not go, till I am dead.—Farewell!

[Dies.
Saint Valori.
He's dead;—his soul forsook him with that sigh.
Now, Sirs, return—tis past; I have beheld
Religion's triumph, a repentant death.
Re-enter De Courci and Montgomeri.
Call to your servants, and remove the body.

Montgomeri.
There is a charitable house hard by,
Where on the ocean's edge a few poor monks,
A slender brotherhood of Mercy, dwell;
For human misery a small asylum;
There often, from the foundering bark escap'd,
The houseless wretch finds shelter, and his wounds,
With balsams by the fathers cull'd, are dress'd:
There we'll entomb the body.

Saint Valori.
Be it so!

Montgomeri.
You now alone survive the morning's wreck:
You by peculiar providence are sav'd
From a devoted vessel, which the sins
Of its dire owner sunk; still I must wonder
How God's own servant with a dæmon leagu'd,
And piety with murder cou'd embark.

Saint Valori.
You think he was a murderer; have a care
How you incline too rashly to such tales.
Let not your vassals triumph and rejoice
Too much o'th' sudden; let your castle keep
Some remnant of its old propriety:
And you, the champion, hang not up your lance
In token of a bloodless victory,
But keep it sharpen'd for a fresh encounter;
And stick your valour to the test, young knight,
Lest haply some new questioner should come,
And dash your feast with horror.

Montgomeri.
Reverend stranger,
It will become your order to desist
From threats, which cover some mysterious meaning,
And speak without disguise. You boast yourself
Noble Saint Valori's friend, yet plead the cause
Of Hildebrand, defend him from the crime
Of murder, and with gloomy menace bid me
Expect some new appellant.—Lo! I'm ready.

Saint Valori.
Away, vain boy, away!

Montgomeri.
Vain let me be,
Not of myself, but of the cause I stand for:
The Lady of Saint Valori accounts me
Worthy to be her champion, by that title
I do impeach the memory of Lord Hildebrand;
And in the presence of this Lord, whose person
Stands for the King, arraign him as a murderer:
If any loves his memory so well
As to adopt his cause, let him stand forth,
I pledge myself to answer.

Saint Valori.
Lord De Courci,
Shall I reveal myself? I'm strongly tempted?

[Aside.
De Courci.
I do protest against it; and conjure you,
Whilst he is thus in train, leave it to me
To draw confession up.

Saint Valori.
I am content.

De Courci.
Montgomeri, in virtue of my charge
I've noted your defiance: should there come
A knight of known degree to challenge it,
Say, by what stile and title wilt thou answer?

Montgomeri.
Ask that of her in whose defence I stand.

De Courci.
We know thee for her champion; but declare,
Hast thou no nearer name, no closer tie?

Saint Valori.
Answer to that.—'Tis palpable, 'tis gross:
Your silence is confession.

Montgomeri.
Ah, good father,
Have you so us'd confession as an engine
To twist and torture silence to your purpose,
And stain the truth with colouring not its own?

Saint Valori.
The man who flies to silence for evasion,
When plainly questioned, aims at a deception
Which candour's self will construe to condemn him.

Montgomeri.
Thyself a stranger, dark, inscrutable,
With Hildebrand associate, thou to question me!—
First answer for thyself.

Saint Valori.
For myself then—

De Courci.
Stop, recollect your thoughts!

Saint Valori.
Thanks, noble Lord!—
For myself, then, I own I am your debtor
For no less gift than life; and tho' that life
Makes what you gave a gift of misery,
Yet is the gift uncancell'd.

Montgomeri.
Set it down
For nothing but the mutual debt of nature,
Common from man to man.—To-morrow's fun,
With favouring winds to aid us, shall transport
This castle's noble mistress and myself
Across the streight that fevers this fair isle
From its maternal shore; there to renew
At Henry's feet, against this bloody man
Newly deceas'd, our criminal appeal,
Arraigning him for murder.

Saint Valori.
Hah! beware!

Montgomeri.
Who shall oppose it?

Saint Valori.
I; this noble witness;
Truth, and the living evidence of sight.

Montgomeri.
To you, my Lord De Courci, not to him,
Who is a son of peace, to you, a knight
Seal'd with the Cross, and militant for truth,
Thus I appeal.—What say you to our charge?

De Courci.
False, false; I pledge my life upon the proof.

Montgomeri.
Hah! by my father's foul, if thou shalt dare
To whisper that to-morrow—

De Courci.
If I dare
To whisper it!—My herald shall proclaim it;
I'll cry it in the lists.—There is my gauntlet.

[throws it down.
Saint Valori.
Hold, I forbid it—
[Takes up De Courci's gauntlet.
Brother of the Cross,
Upon your knightly honour I conjure you
Put up your gauntlet: I revoke the combat.
Hear me, young Sir, you tread upon your grave;
Fate waves the sword of vengeance o'er your head;
I've pass'd it by, and paid you life for life.
Lo! I provoke you to a gentler combat;
Behold my peaceful gauntlet!—Take this jewel
[Gives the bracelet.
And an hour hence, when I am on my way,
Shew it to her (what shall I call your lady?)
To her that own'd it once.

Montgomeri.
I will obey you.
What more have you in mind?

Saint Valori.
Tell her the Monk,
Thro' all his pilgrimage from Holy Land
Preserv'd it sacred; journeying night and day,
By sea, by land, in shipwreck, in the waves,
Still guarded it with reverence more devout
Than holy relicks of departed martyrs.
Now 'tis no longer worth: 'tis her's, 'tis your's,
'Tis the next favourite's prize, a transient bauble,
The fleeting emblem of a woman's love.—
No more: farewell!—Come, gallant Lord, to horse!

[Exit with De Courci.
Montgomeri.
To horse! why so a warrior would have call'd;
With such a step a warrior would have trod:
A Monk!—Mysterious man! I'll not believe it.
This jewel may unfold the labyrinth—
What then? shall I commit the clue
To sorrow's trembling hand, or firmly hold it
Till more shall be discover'd?—Time direct me!