University of Virginia Library

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.