University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Durazzo's House.
Enter Durazzo and Perez.
DURAZZO.
Did I not bid that none should enter here?

PEREZ.
I thought, my Lord, Benducar's daughter might.—

DURAZZO.
His daughter!—she shall come: what! are they humbled—
Those spirits of the high patrician port?
And can they bend and sue, who stand so straight
When others bend?—Admit her; and observe;
There rose some tumult in the street but now,
Go learn the cause, the times are full of danger.
[Exit Perez.
I must not flinch one atom from my purpose;
Not though she weep:—what are her tears to me
And my revenge? I should be hard as rocks,
When waters dash despairing at their feet,
Though lifted by the winds' encouragement.—

Enter Zelinda.
DURAZZO.
Madam!—

ZELINDA.
My Lord, I come a suitor to you.—

DURAZZO.
For whom?

ZELINDA.
For one I dare not name.

DURAZZO.
Then let
Your tongue obey your heart.

ZELINDA.
In doing so
The stronger feeling will at last prevail,
And that is for your captive—for my father.

DURAZZO.
Came you from him?

ZELINDA.
I did; but yet without
His privity:—he knows not that I came.

DURAZZO.
'Tis strange; for sure he might have pleaded favours
Conferr'd on me, to challenge like for like,
And draw down mercy on the merciful.

ZELINDA.
This is no accent to address to grief;
If you must needs refuse, refuse in mildness—
Or even in anger:—irony bespeaks
A pleasure in the pain it aggravates.

DURAZZO.
To set aside my other wrongs, reflect
How shortly since his word prevail'd with you
To cancel all your vows.

ZELINDA.
What could I do?
He would have cursed me.

DURAZZO.
Cursed you! if he had—
A curse is but a wish, and you should know
What human wishes are. The foot of power
Is on him now,—the foot of enmity;
Think'st thou a woman's arts can lift him up,
Against the strength and sinew of revenge?
Impossible.

ZELINDA.
'Tis true, I have no claim—
Pretend to none; perhaps you ought to hate us;
But, in this trying moment, let the voice
Of my distress plead as distress, and win you
To mercy, as you 'd spare a vanquish'd foe
For mercy's sake alone.—

DURAZZO.
It is not always
A merit to forgive.

ZELINDA.
It is, for ever:
The stamp of Heaven is on it. Though the rage
Of wrongs endured abide it not, 'tis noble
To tread the passion down, and raise the virtue
Above the competition of the clay
That feeds our little anger. Oh! Durazzo,
Ambition's self should love it, for 'tis power
Exerted in forbearance, proved in peace;
'Tis like the God who gave it us, unchanging,
And angels praise it everlastingly.

DURAZZO.
I thought not to have met you, thus unmann'd:
Zelinda, you will own I saved your life.
If I had saved my dog's—that dog had thank'd me—
Grown fond of me. It is a claim that wakes
In brutal natures the humanity
Of gratitude. You talk of mercy well;
But why did you forget to shew it me?

ZELINDA.
'Tis for its own sake, not for mine, I ask it—
Oh, ponder not, but speak.

DURAZZO.
My thoughts are with
The men, or rather with their mighty shades,
Who, in the past of time, as records tell,
Have done great things by prosecuting vengeance
Due to their private wrongs. Fallen Appius thus
Lost empire to Virginius, who, in striking
The ravisher, struck at the tyrant too,
And found revenge was glorious liberty:
So when the wrong'd retort, 'tis justice acts,
And man is still advantaged. Pride grows mild,
And merit proud, to see oppression suffer.

ZELINDA.
O say not so; or saying, do not act
Upon a speech so cruel. He is old.
Think of his reverend locks, the silver there
Would shame the touch of any injury,
And Heaven itself respects the hoary witness
Of time, and thought, and sorrow.

DURAZZO.
It was that
Which saved him to this hour. He had long since
Paid me in death for my disgrace—but age,
Weak, wither'd age, kept house within his bones;
I could not crush the vile inhabitant.

ZELINDA.
Think not of insult now, but turn away
From thoughts like these, to other, better, feelings.
Think even of me, who have no mother's care
To pay me for a father's torn away
With like protection. If, as you have said,
You loved me once, keep so much fondness back
As yet may warm compassion in your breast
For one that loved as well; and do not join
With nature to complete my orphanage.

DURAZZO.
I must not hear.

ZELINDA.
'Tis therefore I should speak.

DURAZZO.
Mine ears are shut.

ZELINDA.
Ay, but your heart is open. I can reach it
Thus, with my lifted hands, my streaming eyes,
This posture!— (Kneeling.)
They prevail. I see the struggle—
The victory. Upon your forehead stand
Huge drops of pain: those are the tears that melt
Even when the burning sight is dry beneath.

DURAZZO.
You have prevail'd—subdued me. Take—take this;
'Twill ope the dungeon gates: take it, but fly
Before my reason comes loaded with wrongs
To chide my weakness. Go—and go for ever.

ZELINDA.
For ever, then, in this sad world, farewell!
And may we meet in that bright land of peace
Where passion rules no more!
[Exit ZELINDA.

DURAZZO.
Amen! say I.
Ambition, I will worship thee alone;
And, from the fitful passions of revenge
And love, escape to thy great altar. Lift me
Above this petty conflict of the mind,
And take me all. The tide flows calmly in;
Nor can the mounds and barriers of art,
Nor yet the strong convulsions of the earth,
No, nor the travail of the absent moon,
When clouds and exhalations push her off
From her conspicuous station, check the march
Of the sublimely-regular element.
So let it be with me; that having fought
Through the thick files of destiny to honour,
I may advance unshaken, though encounter'd,
And fix my foot upon that steep of fame
Which stands too high for kings. Ha! Perez, welcome.

Enter PEREZ.
PEREZ.
Alas! my Lord, I come with fearful tidings.

DURAZZO.
Talk not of fear; 'tis on the mountain's side
We meet with frightful passes, and huge falls;
There strive and struggle 'till th'o'erlabour'd mind
Sweats like the body. Once the summit ours,
We rest where Jove alights from his Olympus.

PEREZ.
I went into the street as you commanded,
To find the cause of the disorder there.

DURAZZO.
Well, what report you?

PEREZ.
Thick the people throng'd,
For such a sight Grenada's populace
Ne'er saw before. Along the public highway
Her minister, Don Garcia, with his nephew,
Anthonio, both were led in chains;—the charge
Against them treason.

DURAZZO.
This is news, indeed!

PEREZ.
But furthermore, 'tis said Alonzo takes
Command within the city, to repel
The advancing Moor.

DURAZZO.
Alonzo take command!

PEREZ.
Benducar, too, is summon'd of the Council.

DURAZZO.
What day is this o' the month?

PEREZ.
Twelve suns have pass'd
Within its circle.

DURAZZO.
My prosperity
Came on as sudden as a northern spring,
That shoots its growth up like a culverin
To meet the instant season; but, as quick
As winter strikes the pole, misfortune turns,
To sweep away the track and vestige of
My perishing hopes. More must be known of this.

PEREZ.
But how?

DURAZZO.
I'll to Benducar; 'tis his custom
To walk of evenings late within his garden:
There will I force him to reveal, if aught
Of danger or suspicion waits for me.

PEREZ.
'Tis bold, like all your plans; but should he dare you?

DURAZZO.
You cannot fear I'd kill him!

PEREZ.
Mercy! no;
The Heavens forbid!

DURAZZO.
About the midnight hour
Expect me. If I come not, search the forest.

PEREZ.
Heaven send that hour well over all of us!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Street.
Enter Two Citizens.
FIRST CITIZEN.

Here are sharp doings, neighbour. The Moors are
coming to attack us; and every honest tradesman, who
works like a slave, is expected to fight like a devil.

SECOND CITIZEN.

For my part, though I have no objection to fighting,
when I'm in the humour, I don't like those sudden
demands upon my valour.

FIRST CITIZEN.

What do you intend?

SECOND CITIZEN.

Truly, to take care of myself, as a good subject and
a pious Christian ought. But where is Durazzo in this
season of danger?

FIRST CITIZEN.

A heavy suspicion hangs over him, since the spies
were seized and the Moor's dispatches to Lord Garcia
discovered. Ha! look, if here be not the rest of our
neighbours.

Enter a Body of Citizens.
FIRST CITIZEN.

Well, what is the latest news?

THIRD CITIZEN.

The enemy are expected to-morrow, and a notice is
posted up in the public square, requesting that no
person, gentle or simple, will be dastardly enough to
leave the city in its distress.

SECOND CITIZEN.

No, no; we shall leave it before the distress comes on,
and so fulfil the proclamation.—But yonder is the General
himself.

THIRD CITIZEN.

He has been calling at every house, and making
harangues in every crowd, to prove what a fine thing
it is to get run through the stomach for a patriot.

SECOND CITIZEN.

My stomach has no appetite for cold steel:—so he
may prove what he likes; but he shall never prove me
a fool: so here goes for warmer food.

[Going.
FIRST CITIZEN.

Nay, let us not desert him before his face; for now
that he is found to be an innocent man, and a brave
man, he is entitled to some attention.—Let us hear him

for a while patiently and respectfully, and then we may
run away like gentlemen.

Enter Alonzo.
ALONZO.
How now, friends; whither haste you?

SECOND CITIZEN.
From the city,
Whose gates are threaten'd by th'invading Moor.

ALONZO.
And haste you from the city threaten'd thus?

SECOND CITIZEN.
We dare not stay.

ALONZO.
Were you not born here?

SECOND CITIZEN.
Truly,
Grenada gave us birth.

ALONZO.
It took some time
To train you up to the full state of manhood;
And all that time you pass'd here?

SECOND CITIZEN.
You have guess'd
Aright.

ALONZO.
Your trades you learned and practised here?

SECOND CITIZEN.
We did.

ALONZO.
And now, on the first show of danger,
Before a sword is drawn, or a spear broken—
Nay, even before an enemy appears—
The place that gave you birth, that bred you up
To man's condition, taught you trades to rise by,
Was mother, nurse, instructor, patron to you,
Is shunn'd like an infected house, because
You hold the noble attribute of life
Worth all the virtues in the calendar.

FIRST CITIZEN.
We know the city long, and love it well,
But cannot bring it help.

ALONZO.
Not with your backs to 't.—
I thought the sturdy tough plebeian heart
Made, like the oak, for storms; it used to be.
Your bodies you should consecrate to death,
Rather than shame them thus. What can you hope
From flight? to starve—to be pursued—be trodden
In some dark ditch, like frogs, or wheezing reptiles,
Where you had cough'd and croak'd the night before
From cold and terror. Is it thus you bring
The tidings of offence, in mouths brimful
Of fear, not anger? Hang your heads for shame,
And crawl into some kennel, which the dogs
Have left, to bark at the rude noise of war:
The holes they shun will serve to shelter you.

SECOND CITIZEN.
What could our numbers do?

ALONZO.
What could the rest,
If all, like you, were bent to save themselves?

FIRST CITIZEN.
We had no leader.

ALONZO.
Had you not the cause
Or an endanger'd country? How! no leader!
What leader had you when you ran away?
Oh! you can run by instinct; but, to stand
When danger threatens, is an art you know not.
Yet, come! reform this error, and repair
Straight to the citadel; there call for arms,
And, with the noblest of your countrymen,
Aspire to use 'em nobly.

FIRST CITIZEN.
What say you?

SECOND CITIZEN.
I care not if I go.

THIRD CITIZEN.
Nor I.

ALL.
Nor we.

ALONZO.
Those words become your gallant hearts. Now, now
You talk like Spaniards, and the Moor hath lost
His spell upon you. Come! and, as we go,
Invite your friends, your children, all who know
And love you, to partake this great exploit.
If we survive and conquer, 'twill be fame;
If we perform and die, 'twill still be fame;
And fame ennobled by the sacrifice
Great natures know to make, when great demands
Inspire the choice of dying. Follow me:
Bring with you blows; strike, as the trumpet sounds,
Through all the field. The Moor will meet you fiercely;
'Tis his impetuous policy, and instinct:
But, when your desperation looks at him,
He'll stand aghast; his noisy troops will pause
Of panic, like some thundering cataract
Bound up in frost, as silent as the power
That smote it in the air. Now for Grenada.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

Moonlight.—A Garden belonging to Benducar's House.
Enter Durazzo wrapped in a cloak.
DURAZZO.
This is the spot. Benducar should be here
Already. What if he should fail to take
His custom'd walk! There is a chill damp air
Abroad, which, through the senses, comes upon
The inmost soul with dews of melancholy.
How awful is this wide repose! No sound
Of herd, or flock, or happy villager,
Of living, moving, or articulate thing,
Breaks on the ear through the vast amplitude
Of the surrounding skies. Nature is laid
Within the arms of silence; and the breath
She drew by day is charm'd to such suspense,
As if this earth were but the shadow of
Some other world, and all things wrought thereon
Held by no stronger tenure than the moonbeams
Hold of the vacant air. But, can I trust
My passion with an enemy who smote—
Degraded—cuffed me as a froward boy
Is taught his manners, or the drudging team
To mend its pace? Sustain me in this trial,
Sweet patience, and lock up the memory
That fills the vessels of my heart with gall,
And stamps on shame the colour of revenge.
His age again shall save him. Hark! he comes—
No; 'twas the falling of some wither'd leaf,
That left its branch as men drop off by time
From the green stem of life. Again—'tis he!

Enter Benducar.
DURAZZO.
Hail, and good night!

BENDUCAR.
Who's there? a stranger!—speak.

DURAZZO.
No stranger to your name and worth, Benducar,
And yet no friend to either.

BENDUCAR.
Are you come
To taunt—to threaten me? Within there, help!

DURAZZO.
Another word as loud, and we drop dead
Together with the sound.

BENDUCAR.
Assassin, off!—

DURAZZO.
I come not to despoil you of your wealth;
Nor to the peace and honour of your house
Bring aught of harm. But hence disguise—you see
I am no common felon.

[Throwing off his cloak.
BENDUCAR.
Ha! Durazzo!
More welcome were the felon at my door;
Nay, in my chamber.

DURAZZO.
Yes; the face of those
We injure hath its terrors.

BENDUCAR.
You and I
Can never meet to settle wrongs in peace;
'Tis absence only can suspend our hatred.

DURAZZO.
I sought you not to bend the knee before you,
Nor with my tongue to flatter, where I loathe;
But, in such accent as becomes a man,
To tell what I suspect, and, on the ground
Of fair equivalent, demand an answer.

BENDUCAR.
I long to hear the favour and the claim.

DURAZZO.
You would not stand indebted to a foe?

BENDUCAR.
Not for my life!

DURAZZO.
You know I gave you freedom,
The finest feather in the wing of life,
Whereby it mounts to glorious enterprize
In all the fields of mind! 'Tis not too much
To ask, in fair return, in honesty
Of mutual dealing, that the plots (for there
Do my suspicions tend), the plots now ripe,
Or ripening for my ruin—nay 'tis so—
Should, in your tongue's confession, reach mine ear,
To guard me from the whisper'd artifice.

BENDUCAR.
You take me for a prophet.

DURAZZO.
To be plain,
I know the King, Alonzo, and yourself,
Held conference to-day. It may concern
My welfare much to understand your counsel,
And therefore have I come to question you.

BENDUCAR.
First, for your claim, vain man—I owe you nothing:—
Thank Heaven, I do not. Even the gift of freedom,
Coming from you, I had no relish for,
But spurn'd it. 'Twas the King deliver'd me.

DURAZZO.
Ha!—

BENDUCAR.
Next for the boon:—whatever works against you
In public or in private, on the throne
Of day, or at the altar of the night,
Must find in me a friend,—not a betrayer.

DURAZZO.
Remember where we stand:—you are not now
In fields where, at your word, whole armies moved;
But here alone. The winds that pause above you,
Will not at your command bring up their force,
Nor send their loud battalions thundering
To wake the drowzy sleepers of your house,
That they may help you. Old you are, and feeble,
And in my power. Let that instruct you how
You ought to act, and give a wiser answer.

BENDUCAR.
'Tis lost on me. I am too old to learn,
And old enough to die.

DURAZZO.
Mark me!—this hour
Decides my fate. 'Twas told me, when a child,
By one who had the art to read the deep
And spacious volume of the skies, that, in
A spot like this, the year and month agreeing,
And all things to the very point of time
At which we speak; that then my star should rise,
And, teeming with the fires of destiny,
Drop down the good or ill that should await
My future days.

BENDUCAR.
What interest hath this
For me?

DURAZZO.
To shew you that the hour is dark,
Portentous, full of awe; to caution you
How, with a desperate man, wound in the toils
Of this world, and the mysteries of the next,
You trifle longer.

BENDUCAR.
What I've sworn to do,
I will perform; and that is, to be secret.

DURAZZO.
Beware the danger. You have wrong'd me much;
So wrong'd me, that the fiercest appetite
Of vengeance, were it human, should relent
And stay its persecution. When I sought
A soldier's name, you cross'd and thwarted me;
When, as I will confess, I loved your daughter,
First having rescued her,—there, there again,
You met me with despair; and when at last
You struck—Oh, that my tongue should ever tell
Of blows endured and unavenged!—your life
Was mine by every law. Would you do more,
And hope to live? Again, beware the danger.

BENDUCAR.
What if I brave it? Well I know you hate me:
Why follow me?

DURAZZO.
Because I hate you more.
The hate which shuns its object—that is harmless;
The hate that follows is the hate to fear.

BENDUCAR.
If I must die, it shall not be without
Resistance: threats prepare, not shake my soul.

DURAZZO.
Oh, that you were but young, or I as old!
Then weapons, and not words, should pass between us.
I will not stain my manhood with your blood;
And, though forbearance may be fatal to me,
Your rancour yet may breathe. But, hold—there is
One fault, one injury, to be redress'd.
'Till now, we never stood alone together,
Since I received your blow. To cancel it
Is past your power; but you may yet apply
Some kind regret to calm the throbbing sense:
I would not go into my grave thus branded;
And, as 'tis like we ne'er shall meet again,
I ask for some submission.

BENDUCAR.
If, indeed,
I did repent me, you should hear the same;
But not repenting, 'twere a lie to say so.

DURAZZO.
Ha! would you justify the foul disgrace?

BENDUCAR.
I would not stoop my mind to think of it.

DURAZZO.
Behold this ring!—it was your daughter's gift—
A gift I prized: nay, 'twas a pledge of faith
Since vanish'd. I restore it back again
To her—to you; and now hostility
Is all the bond between me and Benducar.

BENDUCAR.
I would not have it otherwise.

DURAZZO.
Nor I;
But hence you stir not 'till you do me right—
Confess—crave pardon.

BENDUCAR.
Pardon!

DURAZZO.
Is't not meet
For such an insult?

BENDUCAR.
Give me way.

DURAZZO.
One word
Is all I ask.

[Laying hold of him.
BENDUCAR.
Unhand me.

[Struggling to get loose.
DURAZZO.
But a word—

BENDUCAR.
Away! 'tis ruffian violence to hold
My garment thus: I will be free, or fall.
Abhorred fiend! release me.

[Strikes him, and rushes out.
DURAZZO.
What! a blow!—
Another blow!!—the second must be fatal.
Benducar, draw; draw, and defend your life!

[Draws his sword, and rushes after Benducar.—Clashing of swords is heard; after which Durazzo returns, with his sword bloody.
DURAZZO.
Dead, in an instant!—So—I am revenged:
He strikes no more. Now burn, ye angry lights,
That to this fated hour have led me on!
The work is yours; burn, therefore, in your spheres,
That hell may feel you. Where—where am I?—Perez!
Methinks I am an outcast from the name
And race of man;—the enemy, and not
The fellow of their kind.—I'll seek some cave,
And have myself there chained to a rock,
Lest I should murder others in my madness.
Or shall I murder still, and still be seen
Not sparing—not repenting—not at peace;
But standing, like the spirit of the plague
Within a ravaged city, listening for
A stir of life to fix its fangs again?
Ha! voices—hush!—Be they of Heaven,
Of earth, or hell, it is my doom to fly them.

[Exit.

SCENE IV.

An Apartment in Benducar's House.
Zelinda and Leonora are discovered with Attendants.
ZELINDA.
It was the clash of swords. There's murder done,
And in the garden where my father walk'd.
Keep off! 'tis cruel thus to bar my way,
When, with a hunter's fury, I should drive
Through bush and brake.—

LEONORA.
Are there not others gone
In search of him?—Confused and agonised,
Hopest thou to find him out?

ZELINDA.
Him, or despair!

LEONORA.
Behold! they come who sought him.—Now—'tis now
The time to call on Heaven.

ZELINDA.
First, let them speak:
Then, if I can, I'll pray.

Enter Messengers.
LEONORA.
What news?—They're silent!
Yet there's a fearful haste within their eyes
That would have utterance, but for something still
More fearful that prevents their tongues.

FIRST MESSENGER.
Alas!—

ZELINDA.
Does horror bring you here, and do you pause
For language to express your mission?—What
Can happen here so bad, as what you've look'd on,
Though I dropp'd dead at mention of your tale,
If what you saw was murder?

FIRST MESSENGER.
We must e'en
Confess the truth—your father is no more!

ZELINDA.
I thought so; yet I cannot hear it now
And keep my senses:—shew me where he lies;
Oh! Heaven, my father dead!—Did you say dead?
So good, so kind, so merciful—and dead!

FIRST MESSENGER.
'Tis hard to say it, but we found him with
His sword beside him, drawn as in defence,—
The point was bloodless, but the handle stain'd.

ZELINDA.
And no life gone but his, and no wretch living
But me!

LEONORA.
There must be one more wretched still,
While the assassin breathes.

ZELINDA.
Let him be found!
If all our forms are not a mockery—
Our grave tribunals springes set to catch
The light offenders, who will pick and steal,
And are not worth revenge, but useless, when
The heavy tread of some enormous wrong
Shakes the community, and snaps the law
Beneath it—find him out, and punish him.
If murder 'scapes, make laws for kites and crows—
But not for men: the name of law is weakness.

MESSENGER.
We hope to seize the monster soon. This ring,
[Shewing a ring.
Which lying next the body we espied,
May haply yet discover him to justice.

ZELINDA.
A ring!—ha! let me see—'Twere better rave,
And, from the cup of madness, pledge the moon,
Than look on this with reason.—

LEONORA.
What dire secret
Hath started from that token?

ZELINDA.
'Twas my mother's:
She put it on my hand.—O Heaven! and I—
I gave it—

LEONORA.
Speak—to whom?

ZELINDA.
To him—Durazzo;
The murderer!—my father's murderer!

LEONORA.
Down on him fall, thou bitter penalty
Of conscience!

ZELINDA.
No; the rack, which strains the limbs
And tears the joints, can better minister
To my substantial fury. Once I loved him;
But now my hate—Oh! save me from that hate;
Lest, with my woman's voice, I shock the ear
Of blessedness, and grow a fiend with cursing.

FIRST MESSENGER.
There is no time to lose. Let us away
And seek this same Durazzo.

[Exeunt Messengers.
ZELINDA.
Are they gone?

LEONORA.
You see they are.

ZELINDA.
And sure to make him captive?

LEONORA.
The next to certain.

ZELINDA.
He was born to be
My ruin and his own. But when he's dead,
And the offending arm is level with
The common dust, 'twill be no crime, I hope,
To lay him in the earth, and cover him,
And give one shriek back at the memory
Of what he was.

LEONORA.
Nay, think of him no more.

ZELINDA.
Oh, father! father! has my grief no voice
To reach thee, in thy distance, cold and far
As being changed? What lights are those?—ha! torches!—
What need of such to make the church-yard gay;
To gild with pomp the cities of the dead;
Those bare republics? Come! we'll follow close;—
It is my father's funeral!—come on!
He was a hero, and I know him by
The plumes, that wave in victory, and wave
In death, as flaunting as in victory.

[Exeunt.