University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

—A Street near the City Gate.
Bellegarde, Girronde, Larron, and Conspirators.
Bellegarde.
Ha! sayest thou, Girronde, the Prince embarks?

Girronde.
The spacious beach is hid beneath the croud
Of every rank that presses for departure.
Nobles and Priests, Plebeians, Soldiers mix;
An eager multitude to join his flight;
Whilst the griev'd populace, to mark their feelings,
Shower execration on the Tyrant's head,
Who forces into banishment their Princes;
Yet hail their broken chains with exultation.

Bellegarde.
Perdition seize the Briton's tongue that pour'd
Its damned poison in the Prince's ear!
But let me not despair—a ray of hope
Remains—our armies almost touch the gates.
This day, perchance, may view him in our bonds
A humble slave, and yield my soul a triumph.
Then, if that Briton 'scapes to tell his tale,
The mournful hist'ry of his just defeat,
Shade of immortal Robespiere, whose cause
[Flourishing his sword.
This blade supported, may'st thou ne'er forgive me.
Mercy avaunt!—if well I know myself,
Revenge has never slept upon this arm.
Enter thy scabbard, but prepare thy point,
For deeds of mightier horror at my call.

Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
My Lord, your friend Alvarez is no more;
An intercepted letter for your hand
Condemn'd him to a dungeon, where he drank
The draught of death.

Bellegarde.
No matter, all is well—
Nothing is lost—we want the fool no more—
It takes off teazing importunity;
Cancels the tedious debt of Gratitude:
We hold a number of such worthy friends,
And should be pleas'd to see our promises
Fulfill'd by such a passage to the grave.
Feeble the fibres of his resolution;
A prop not to be trusted—a weak beam—
The rot had caught it; and Elvira's beauties
Had sapp'd his firmness by her fascinations.
But wherefore linger thus the troops of France,
That should have borrow'd fleetness from the winds?
Curse on their tardy feet; they only come
To stand spectators of our hope's defeat.
Each Gallic soldier with a throne in view
Should be a Mercury—but, hark!—they come—
Now swells my soul again with lofty hope!

[Drums beating a march.
The advanced guard of the French army enter and pass over the Stage.
Enter Junot the General of the French.
Bellegarde.
In lucky minute thou appear'st my friend—
This minute may arrest their enterprize.

Enter another Messenger.
Messenger.
Hasten your troops, my Lords, or all is lost.
Already is their navy on its way—
A moment's interval may mar your hopes.

Junot.
Who guides our march?

Bellegarde.
Myself will lead the way—
Braganza yet may be within my reach.

[Exeunt in haste.
Troops continue for some time to pass over the Stage.