University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Stolberg Castle.
Enter Baron Stolberg and Agatha.
BARON.
Well, Agatha, how fares your mistress now?

AGATHA.
Please your good lordship, she is much recover'd,
Thanks to Saint Bridget for it, and the saints
Who sav'd her precious life. Now blessings on her!
Would your good lordship think it? When I wish'd her
To take a posset of my own preparing,
And try to sleep an hour or so, in order
To quiet and compose her troubled spirits,
As I'm a sinner, 'stead of heeding me,
She bad me bring her robe—your lordship knows it—
The white and silver which your lordship gave her—
It does become her mainly, that's the truth on't—

BARON.
I am right glad to hear it. 'Tis a sign
She has not suffer'd from her accident.

AGATHA.
No, the good saints be prais'd, I'll warrant me.
For my part I'd have sworn, to look at her,
Instead of running risks—I vow it makes me
Shudder whene'er I think on't—she had met
With something to amuse her. 'Stead of moping,
And looking sad, and sighing, as, poor thing!
She has done of late, I know not why I'm sure,
She has got such a fresh colour in her cheeks,
Which comes and goes so prettily, and her eyes
So sparkle—But I vow I had forgot—
I've such a memory!—My lady charg'd me
To pay her humble duty to your lordship,
And ask admittance to your lordship's presence.

BARON.
Why truly, Agatha, thou hast the knack
Of expeditiously obeying orders.
Try if thou can'st as nimbly hie thee back,
And certify my niece I wish to see her.
No ceremony, pray thee—I dispense
With courtesies—there—get thee gone, and do it.
[Exit Agatha.
Thank heav'n, she has not suffer'd!—I have plac'd
My single stake of hope on this dear child,
And, if I lose her, I must lose my all.
Well! I have match'd her to my heart's content:
The Count indeed has rather the advantage
In point of years; had he been somewhat younger
It had not been amiss; she might perhaps
Have lik'd him better; and, it must be own'd
He has a few particularities,
A kind of cold formality about him,
Not captivating. To speak truth of him,
He is the coolest bridegroom—So, my Ida!
Enter Ida.
Tell me, my dearest, how was't you escap'd?

IDA.
Oh, sir! the mere idea still appals me.
When from his cover by the hounds arous'd
The boar rush'd forth, my courser starting mock'd
My feeble force, and with the light'ning's speed
Bore me across the plain, and up the steep,
Which with precipitous descent o'erhangs
The farther wood. Death, cloath'd in tenfold horrors,
Seem'd seated on it's brow, prepar'd to seize me;
And doubtless I had perish'd, had not heav'n
In mercy sent a guardian angel down—

BARON.
Egad! your history commences well.
No wonder you escap'd. Perhaps, however,
We may attribute your deliverance
To means less supernatural. But go on.
I wish to hear some more of this good angel;
Who knows but he may prove some old acquaintance.
What did he look like? Did you notice him?

IDA.
His garb betoken'd him a peasant swain,
But how unlike the rustics who surround us!
In form, activity and grace he seem'd
The model of what fabling poets sing
Of swains in Arcady. His auburn hair
In wanton ringlets play'd across his brow,
The rose of health bloom'd on his ruddy cheek,
From his dark eyes an emanation beam'd
Of more than mortal radiance—

BARON.
On my word,
If your description flatter not, he was
Something worth looking at. I know not where
Among our hinds to find his parallel.

IDA.
Oh, sir! indeed I do not flatter him;
He's all I tell you. Judge then what I though him,
When, heedless of all risk, he forward rush'd,
And, on the precipice's dizz'ning ridge,
Whence at the moment headlong fell my steed,
He caught me in his succouring arms and sav'd me.

BARON.
He was indeed a gallant youth.—Go on.

IDA.
Terror had lock'd my senses in a swoon;
But soon as they return'd, I felt myself
Safely reposing on a mossy bank,
While, at respectful distance, my preserver
Knelt, as if rapt in sacred extacy,
His fine eyes fix'd on me, and his stretch'd hands
Rais'd as in silent gratitude to heav'n.
He spoke not, but methought his modest silence
Had more of eloquence than words could give.

BARON.
Why certainly, my love, there are occasions
When silence says the most.

IDA.
I thought so, sir:
But, when I spoke to him, and gave him thanks
For his most timely service, had you heard
With what ingenuous grace he answer'd me,
How gallantly he strove to under-rate
His own deservings, you'd have thought his life
Had all been past in courts, so dignified,
So polish'd were his manners and his phrase.
You'd have been charm'd with him: I'm sure you would.

BARON.
If he be such as you describe him, love,
I know not but I might. I long to learn
More of this gallant youth. What is his name?

IDA.
That, sir, I cannot tell you.

BARON.
No! Why not?

IDA.
I told him you'd be anxious to discover
Who had conferr'd such obligation on me—

BARON.
Most certainly.

IDA.
I therefore pray'd he would
Disclose himself.

BARON.
Well—what said he?

IDA.
He said
He could not.

BARON.
No?—Pray did he tell you why?

IDA.
He said he had a cause for keeping silence,
But what that cause was he declin'd to say.
'Twas something which I'm sure must trouble him,
For, when he mention'd it, he look'd so sad,
It griev'd me to behold him.

BARON.
It seems strange
A peasant should have mystery about him.

IDA.
From all he said, I could not but conjecture
He was not what his mean exterior shew'd.
There was an air of nobleness about him,
A grace and elegance—

BARON.
Odso! I have it.
Handsome he was, you say?

IDA.
Yes, very handsome.

BARON.
His mien and manners elegant, his phrases
Refin'd and polish'd? Ten to one, my girl,
He's some young nobleman, who, to avoid
The consequence of an affair of honour,
Has in a peasant's garb fled to these mountains.

IDA.
It is—it must be as you say.

BARON.
I've known
The very same thing happen; nay, when I
Wounded my foe Count Walstein in a duel,
I quitted Presburg for a time, and grew
A sojourner in lonely woods and forests.
But I had not the luck, like our young champion,
To succour damsels in distress, nor can I
Flatter myself I look'd like an Adonis.

IDA.
The more I think of it, the more I'm sure
You've guess'd him rightly.

BARON.
Child, I know the world.
A gentleman, disguise him as you will,
Must soon be known.
Enter Count Rodolph.
Oh, Count! I'm glad you're come.
I wish'd to see you.

RODOLPH.
With your lordship's leave,
I would inquire of lady Ida's health.
I hope, ma'am, you're recover'd, that your fright
Has not too much affected your poor nerves.

IDA.
My nerves are much indebted to your lordship.
I hope your own exertions to protect me
Have not much ruffled yours.

RODOLPH.
Exertions, madam?

IDA.
How gen'rous 'tis so quickly to forget
Your chivalrous behaviour.

RODOLPH.
Really, madam,
I—I—that is—pray what could I have done?

IDA.
I know a person who could tell you.

RODOLPH.
Aye?
Who is the gentleman?

BARON.
That's what we wish
Ourselves to learn. From her description of him,
There's ground to think him other than he seems.

RODOLPH.
The case of many others. Pray how seems he?

BARON.
A peasant swain.

RODOLPH.
I'm thankful to you, madam,
For your intended compliment.—A peasant
Instruct me? And in what, I beg to know.

IDA.
In gallantry, my lord; perhaps in more.

RODOLPH.
Your ladyship has a privilege to speak—
But really there's a harshness and a force
In what you're pleas'd to say—

BARON.
She's rather flurried
By her late accident; and 'tis no wonder
She strongly feels the services of one
To whom she is indebted for her life.
I was devising what we can do for him.

RODOLPH.
'Tis plain. There is but one way of repaying
Such obligations to such vulgar fellows.

IDA.
Such vulgar fellows!—Pray, my lord, what right
Have you to term him so?

RODOLPH.
Ma'am, I conceive
My phrase was quite correct. A boor, a clown,
Is, ever was, and ever will be class'd
Among the vulgar herd.

IDA
(aside).
Presumptuous coxcomb!
There's no enduring him.— To the Baron.)
—With your permission
I will withdraw.

RODOLPH.
What! is your ladyship
About to leave us? May I have the honour
Of your fair hand?

IDA.
My lord, I can dispense
With your attendance.

[Exit.
RODOLPH.
This is mighty strange!

BARON.
You must forgive th' effect of agitation.
She means no harm, believe me.

RODOLPH.
To refuse
My service!

BARON.
Psha! 'Twas nothing, I assure you.
We must pass over twenty things like this.

RODOLPH.
My lord, there's such a thing as etiquette.

BARON.
I'm mighty sorry for it—'tis a thing
Which might be well dispens'd with.

RODOLPH.
How, my lord?

BARON.
Come, come—nay, never mind this small fracas.
Let us walk through th' apartments, and inspect
How far our preparations are advanc'd.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Interior of the Banditti's Cavern.
Enter Arnold.
ARNOLD.
Would Herman were return'd! Howe'er disguis'd,
Discov'ry may ensue. I marvel not
His inborn feelings thus should work on him
To seek emancipation from the crew
Of wretches who surround us—hark! his signal—
Enter Herman from the Trap-door.
Hast thou partaken of the Baron's sport?

HERMAN.
No!

ARNOLD.
Thou'rt unfortunate.

HERMAN.
Unfortunate!
Call him unfortunate, who from the gloom
Of a dark dungeon mounts a princely throne!
Lament his fate, who from the torturing rack
Of stern inquisitors is borne to heav'n!
My triumph's greater far than theirs, my labours
More glorious, and my bliss more exquisite.
Brother! these arms have grasp'd an angel's form;
These eyes have gaz'd on more than human charms,
And in my soul are lodg'd a seraph's words!

ARNOLD.
Prithee be more compos'd.

HERMAN.
Impossible!
Composure suits not with a bliss like mine.
A tide of transport rushes on my heart,
My blood's on fire, my brain turns round with joy!—
Dost see?— (shewing the Ring.)


ARNOLD.
A diamond, lustrous as the sun.

HERMAN.
Nor sun, nor all the heav'nly luminaries
Can match her brilliancy who plac'd it there.

ARNOLD.
Was it a woman's gift?

HERMAN.
Aye, such a woman,
As may dispute the palm of loveliness
With rival goddesses, and win the prize.
I saw her hurried by her fiery steed
To the steep verge of a deep precipice,
Wherein to fall was death. Heav'n gave me speed
To outstrip her courser and to save her. Oh!
How sweet, how heav'nly was her smile, when first
She call'd me her deliv'rer! It pervaded
My whole existence; to my inmost soul
I felt it's genial influence. Oh my brother!
Cull ev'ry beauty which rich nature knows,
Add ev'ry charm imagination pictures,
Still will she far transcend them all!

ARNOLD.
Who?

HERMAN.
Ida!
Ida of Stolberg!

ARNOLD.
(aside).
Stolberg! gracious heav'n!
What may this tend to?— (To Herman.)
—Did I hear thee rightly?
Ida of Stolberg?

HERMAN.
Yes, my Arnold, she—
The paragon of female excellence,
The day-star of my hope—

ARNOLD.
Hath she then giv'n you hope?

HERMAN.
Aye—but 'tis such
As the wreck'd seaman feels, when o'er his bark
The wild waves beat, and 'twixt the land and him
The boist'rous surges lash th' impervious rocks.
She deign'd to bid me think of her—nay more—
She call'd me her preserver, glorious name!
And said she never, never would forget me.
She bad me visit her—

ARNOLD.
And wilt thou?

HERMAN.
Can I—
Can Herman, the vile inmate of this cavern,
Th' associate of banditti, visit her?

ARNOLD.
No—not the bandit Herman, not the inmate
Of this detested cavern— (aside)
—How it wrings
My heart with anguish to behold him thus—
(To Herman)
Herman— (aside)
—But hold—it may not be.

HERMAN.
What mean'st thou?

ARNOLD.
I have been thinking, Herman, if indeed
Th' impression made upon thy feeling heart
Be such as time or absence cannot change,
Means may be found to raise thee to a level
With her, who now seems so far rais'd above thee.

HERMAN.
Nay, feed me not with visionary hope.

ARNOLD.
I mean it not. Though fate appear to have plac'd
A barrier 'twixt thy tow'ring hopes and thee,
The world is ample; there are paths enough
On its wide surface that conduct to honour.
Thou hast a soldier's fortune, thy good sword:
Seek some more distant, more propitious shore,
Where as a stranger thou may'st win renown,
And prove thyself deserving of her love.

HERMAN.
There's magic in the sound! The glorious thought
Fills my whole soul, and goads me on to action.

ARNOLD.
Set forth. Where'er thy destiny may lead thee,
True to the bonds which knit our kindred souls,
Thy brother will be partner in thy fortunes;
With thee will he abjure these haunts of guilt,
Wash out the stain, which hath too long debas'd
The once illustrious name his lineage bore,
And re-assert the honours of his race.

HERMAN.
Thanks, my best brother!—yes—we'll go together.
Methinks already from my lab'ring bosom
A mountain is remov'd; my heart beats freely,
Through my whole frame with renovated vigour
My life-blood flows, already float before me
Visions of glory and propitious love!—
When shall our vent'rous course commence? To-morrow?

ARNOLD.
To-day—this hour.

HERMAN.
Agreed. But let me first
Revisit Stolberg's precinct, thus disguis'd,
If haply I may catch a parting glance
Of my soul's empress! 'Twould methinks inspire me
With new-born ardour for our enterprize.

ARNOLD.
Away then—but conceal thyself I pray;
Breathe not suspicion of thy present state,
But, hap what may, preserve thy secret.—Swear it.

HERMAN.
I swear.

ARNOLD.
Go then, and heav'n thy progress speed!

[Exeunt severally.

SCENE III.

A Bower in the Castle Garden.
Enter Ida, followed by Count Rodolph.
IDA.
My lord, I pray you follow me not thus.
I would be private.

RODOLPH.
Nay, fair lady, hear me.

IDA.
Not now. There are occasions better suited—

RODOLPH.
What can suit better for a lover's purpose
Than this sequester'd bow'r?—By this fair hand—

IDA.
What means this freedom, sir?

RODOLPH.
Why thus obdurate?

IDA.
My lord, I do implore you leave me.

RODOLPH.
How!
Leave you?

IDA.
I would be mistress of my thoughts
And of myself.

RODOLPH.
Allow me, ma'am, to tell you,
No lady but yourself could have the pow'r
To make me stoop to supplicate an audience.

IDA.
My lord, 'tis a pre-eminence I court not.

RODOLPH.
Permit me to observe, those scornful airs
Are misapplied. Count Rodolph is a man
Who feels his dignity—

IDA.
I would he were
As fully sensible of the respect
Due to a woman's feelings.

RODOLPH.
I presume
You have forgotten, madam, that to-morrow
Gives me a husband's right—

IDA.
I know no right
To-morrow can confer, which justifies
The threat those words convey. But know, my lord,
Whatever claims to-morrow may bring with it,
To-day I'm mistress of myself. Your lordship
Is too well-bred to need another hint.

RODOLPH.
Yes, haughty madam, yes, I understand you.
'Tis now your turn. But, madam, recollect
To-morrow—then my turn will come. You see
I can give hints too.—So, 'till then, farewell!

[Exit.
IDA.
Thank heav'n, he's gone!—Was ever such assurance?
A thing like him to threaten, talk of rights!
It was not such a mockery of man,
Who at the peril of his life sav'd mine.
No, bravest of thy sex, and, since none witness
My fond confession, save the heav'nly spirits
Who read my thoughts—the loveliest—the most lov'd!
Oh! say, why should'st thou veil thy high desert,
Why thus in rude concealment shroud the worth,
Which might adorn and dignify a throne!

Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
Lady, if once again—

IDA.
How! my deliverer!

HERMAN.
If I deserve that title, I possess
Honour more vast than monarchs can bestow.
Ah loveliest of thy sex! to see thee thus,
To think my arm contributed to save
Thy matchless beauties from impending fate,
Is in itself a pleasure so extatic,
I hardly dare to wish for more. And yet
There is a boon I fain would crave—

IDA.
If't be
Within my pow'r, command it.

HERMAN.
Lady, do not
Deem me too bold, if, when my soul is fill'd
With ardour to deserve thy fair opinion,
I crave thy leave thus, in the sight of heav'n,
To dedicate myself to thy blest service:
That, by thy pow'rful influence sustain'd,
Success may crown my efforts, and return me
More worthy of thy favour. When I'm gone—

IDA.
When thou art gone!—Ah! wherefore would'st thou go?

HERMAN.
To cast away the slough, that now defiles
Whate'er of good is in me; to become
Such as a man of honour ought to be.

IDA.
I understand you, sir; I now perceive
That I conjectur'd rightly. Thou art not
What thy exterior shews, a peasant swain.

HERMAN.
I am not.

IDA.
What then, sir, is thy condition?

HERMAN.
I'm for the present bound to secrecy.
A time may come—

IDA.
This is the only time—
Ere this to-morrow, faith, religion, duty
Will doom me never to behold thee more.

HERMAN.
What fatal myst'ry lurks beneath those words?

IDA.
Another then will have a claim upon me—
A husband's claim—

HERMAN.
Support me, heav'nly pow'rs!
A husband, say'st thou?—Oh recal that word!
Rack not my tortur'd heart!—By heav'n! 'twere mercy
To die thus at thy feet, rather than live,
And see thee wedded to another!

IDA.
Rise—
This is no time in vain disguise to lose
The only moments I may call mine own.—
Thou'st said thou'rt not a peasant swain—

HERMAN.
I have.

IDA.
I do believe thee firmly. What thy rank,
And who thou art, thou'st cause not to reveal?

HERMAN.
I'm bound to secrecy by a firm promise.

IDA.
Conjecture then is free. I've found thee noble,
And I will think thee all that I would have thee.
Know then, I'm menac'd with a fate more cruel
Than that from which thy valour rescued me.
To-morrow sees me wedded to a man
Whom my whole soul detests. Alone, defenceless,
My only guardian resolute to force
An union so repugnant to my feelings,
I brood o'er my distresses 'till distraction
To desperation points. Perhaps I wrong
My sex's honour and mine own, when thus,
Impell'd by dire necessity, I breathe
The secret of my heart; but thou'rt too noble
To abuse my confidence.

HERMAN.
All I can boast
Are honour and untainted faith.

IDA.
Ah! think not
Too lightly of me, if I pass beyond
The rigid bound of female delicacy.
Could'st thou but know what passes in this bosom,
Thy gallant nature would again incite thee
To save me from a fate—

HERMAN.
Tell me the means—
My soul, my ev'ry faculty, are thine.
Task me to all that nature can perform,
Bid me dare perils, rush on sure destruction,
I'll meet it all for thee!

IDA.
Thou hast sav'd my life—
But what is life condemn'd to endless anguish!
Pass but a few brief hours, and Ida's heart
Torn with conflicting agonies will break.
I see thou dost compassionate me—heav'n
Sent thee to succour me in my distress—
Oh save me now from mis'ry worse than death!

HERMAN.
There is but one way—but—

IDA.
Oh guess the rest!
In pity do not force me to say more!

HERMAN.
'Till now I never knew what mis'ry was.
Heav'n opens to my view—resplendent scenes
Of never ending joys my senses dazzle—
An angel bids me seize them as mine own—
But ah! between a hideous gulph expands,
Forbidding all approach.—Oh Arnold! Arnold!

IDA.
Whom call'st thou on?

HERMAN.
I told thee of the promise
By which I'm firmly bound to secrecy.
To him 'tis giv'n. Should I prove false to him,
Can'st thou depend on me? I pray thee grant me
A few short moments—let me fly to him,
Implore him to release me from the bond
That now enchains me—

IDA.
I'll not seek to tempt thee
To break those ties which honour has cemented.
Go, seek thy friend—then think of hapless Ida—
Think that to-morrow—

HERMAN.
Speak it not again—
For life or death I go—farewell—farewell!

[Exeunt severally.