 | The Curfew |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
—The Inside of a Cottage.(Robert knocks without.)
Robt.
—Hist, hist! Mother.—
(Enters)
Not
at home? Then I'll leave this purse on the table,
and call for her blessing another time.
[Enter Matilda from the opposite side.
Mat.
My Son.
Robt.
Your blessing, mother, let it be a short
one. There is something will keep famine from
the door till I return.
Mat.
Where got you this?
Robt.
Ask no questions, 'tis yours.
Mat.
No, not for worlds would I partake thy guilt.—
How came it thine?—Oh my foreboding heart!
Where have you slept these three nights?
Robt.
Peace I say.
Mat.
Should you have join'd the band of savage ruffians—
Robt.
I have, what then?
Mat.
What then! hast thou a moment
Weigh'd the full horrors of an outlaw's life,—
T'exchange the noblest attributes of man
With the vile dregs and offscum of society,
And bear about a conscience that will start
And tremble at the rustling of a leaf?
To shroud all day in darkness, and steal forth
Cursing the moon that with enquiring eye
Watches your silent and felonious tread,
And every twinkling star that peeps abroad
A minister of terror—
Robt.
Peace I say.
Mat.
The blessed sleep you know not, whose sweet influence
Ere he can stretch his labour-aching limbs,
Softly seals up the peasant's weary lids.
On the cold earth, with over watching spent,
You stir and fret in fev'rish wakefulness:
Till nature, wearied out, at length o'er-comes
The strong conceit of fear, and 'gins to doze:
But as oblivion steals upon your senses,
The hollow groaning wind uprears you quick,
And you sit, catching with suspended breath,
Well as the beating of your heart will let you,
The fancied step of justice.
Robt.
Hark! who's there?
Mat.
No one, my son!
Robt.
Again!—'tis a man's footing.
Mat.
I hear nothing—
Nor aught do I behold, save on yon tree,
The miserable remnant of a wretch
That was hang'd there for murder—Look.
Robt.
I dare not—
Can you look on it?
Mat.
It annoys not me.—
I am no murderer.
Robt.
Nor I, nor I.—
I am no murderer neither—yet for worlds
I dare not look that way.
You are a robber,
And he who robs, by sharp resistance press'd
Will end the deed in blood—'twas so with him—
He once possess'd a soul, quick as your own
To mercy, and would quake as you do now,
At the bare apprehension of the act
That has consign'd him to yon naked tree,
Where every blast to memorize his shame
May whistle shrilly through his hollow bones,
And in his tongueless jaws a voice renew,
To preach with more than mortal eloquence!
Robt.
'Tis a damn'd life, and I will leave it,
mother,—to-morrow—
Mat.
Nay to-night, why not to-night?
Robt.
To-night I cannot.
(A knocking at the
door)
Hark!
Mat.
There's some one now.
Robt.
To-morrow, mother, I am your's again.
Mat.
To-morrow then—
[Exit Robert.
What visitor is this
That knocks so gently? (Opens the door.)
Enter Philip.
Is it thou, old man? (Aside.)
What brings thee o'er the bitter breathing heath
Out of thy dwelling at this freezing hour?
The piercing air will not respect thine age,
Or do shy, white hairs rev'rence.—Who art thou?
Phil.
Servant to the Baron; or rather one
grown out of service—yet he keeps me like an old
tree that has borne good fruit in its time.—He
had a lady once, and I a mistress; once do I say?
She may be yet alive, strange things have come
to pass—they report you have the gift of knowing
sea, or air, but you are acquainted with it.
Mat.
They have abus'd thee.—
Phil.
Be not offended—if you would but tell
me whether my dear lady outliv'd the wreck—
Mat.
You would reveal it.
Phil.
Never.
Mat.
Yes, you would reveal it,
Old men and women will be ever babbling.
Phil.
No, as I'm a man.
Mat.
I almost trust thee, for thou dost not swear.
If I should tell thee then that she surviv'd—
Phil.
I would bless thy voice for ever.
Mat.
Should guide thee to the spot which
she inhabits.
Phil.
I would walk barefoot to it over flint.
Mat.
If I should shew her to thy wand'ring
sight—
Phil.
I would gaze on her tho' blindness follow'd.
Mat.
Look at me—I am she.
Phil.
Nay—now you mock me.
Mat.
I am not on such subjects us'd to jest—
Old Philip too forget me?
Phil.
Nay, now I look again; it is, it is my
Lady—my ever-honour'd Lady, my sweet Lady,
my kind Lady—but how did you escape the winds
and the waters? Does my young master—yet I
fear to ask.
Mat.
He lives, and is a man.
Phil.
Thank Heav'n! thank Heav'n!
Mat.
The warring elements that heard my cries
Would not divorce a mother from her child;
We were both sav'd: to yonder dreary coast
A little treasure, from the wreck preserv'd,
Bought us this humble dwelling.
Phil.
'Tis a sad one; but you shall change it
soon. I am sent by the Baron to bring you to
the Castle.
Mat.
How?
Phil.
The foolish people have accus'd you of being a witch.
Mat.
Of witchcraft? Well—I see an end in this
Most level to my wishes. Come, let's on.
All will be set to rights.
Phil.
Grant Heav'n it may!
Mat.
We shall be happy yet, and like two streams
United once, and parted by mischance,
Meet at the close, and end our course together.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Heath—The Abbey at a Distance.Enter Florence, in Male Attire.
Flor.
Thus far I have not met a living soul,
Save on the heath, an homeward villager,
Who chid his barking cur, and bade good night
With such kind greeting, that my sinking heart
Took courage.
[Robbers surround her.
Heav'ns! what are ye?
Conrad.
Don't be frighten'd, young man—your
money—come, your valuables—give us all you
if you make any disturbance, we shall beat your
brains out, that's all.
Bertrand
(entering).
Unhand the trembling fawn, if ye are men,
And dare a nobler spoil.
Con.
So, there'll be some blood-letting here—
I'll make sure of my bird, however—no resistance,
youth, 'tis vain—
[Whilst Bertrand is contending with some of the Robbers, the rest carry off Florence, and as he is on the point of being overcome, some of the Baron's vassals enter and rescue him—the Robbers run off and are pursued.
Vass.
(to Bertrand.)
Come, you must with
us to the Castle.
Bert.
Nay, let us plunge into the thickest wood,
And track these savage felons to their den.
Vass.
No, no—there are enough gone upon
that errand—our orders are to bring you to the
Castle.
Bert.
Unhand me, coward slaves! to lose her
thus—
Vass.
We dare not disobey orders.
Bert.
Dare not?—Slaves!—
(They bear him off.)
SCENE III.
The Robber's Cave.Armstrong, Harman, and other Robbers discovered drinking.
CHORUS OF ROBBERS.
From day's all piercing eye,
Yet have we joys, as other men;
Our watchful fears,
Our perils, cares,
We sweeten still with liberty.
We worship his declining ray;
And whilst the midnight cask we drain,
Where sparkling meet,
His light and heat,
We feel alive in ev'ry vein
The spirit of departed day.
Har.
Come push the liquor about—Here's
heavy purses and light fingers.—So, the Captain,
you say, has made free with a Friar's canonicals?
Arm.
Ay, and with his character too, for a
short time.
Har.
And in that disguise means to enter the
Castle?
Hark!
'Tis Conrad's whistle—pass the countersign.
Welcome, lads, welcome—who have you got
there?
Con.
A youth that we pick'd up in our travels
—we found him near the monastery, going,
as I conjecture, to pray for a beard—for his chin
seems to have a marvellous lack of bristle.—
He'll bear some plucking tho'—
(to Armstrong)
Arm.
Ay, ay, the bird's in pretty feather.
—Speak, stripling—who are you? whence come
you? and whither were you going?
Flor.
Good gentlemen, I pray you harm me
not.
Con.
You're too rough with him—the youth's
abash'd at being in strange company—he has'n't
been us'd to converse with gentlemen in our
sphere, and to say the truth I don't wonder he's
a little asham'd—don't be alarm'd, my pretty boy
—there's nothing here to frighten you—our worthy
commander would know your history, that's
all.
Flor.
I am a simple lad—
Honest, tho' very poor, yet what I have
Is freely yours.—This purse contains a trifle,
Would it were better worth your kind acceptance—
But as it is you're very welcome.
Con.
(taking the purse.)
A pretty spoken
youth, and perfectly understands good breeding.
Arm.
Sit down and eat, boy—Our fare is
coarse—but you are welcome—Sit down I say
—do you mistrust us?
Oh no—I never yet did wrong to any—
Whom should I fear then?
Arm.
Well, sit down— (She sits at the table.)
Now, Conrad, you saw our minstrels safely on their journey?
Con.
Ay, and the plan is thus concerted:
After gaining admittance to the Castle—Mind thy
repast, youth
(to Florence)
—they'll easily procure
a night's lodging—what again!
(to her)
—
Within a quarter of an hour, from the tolling of
the Curfew, we must be ready at the northern
gate.
Arm.
Enough—We understand the rest—
But what is this same Curfew, that has made such
a noise lately?
Con.
What is it?—Why it's a new mode with
your great statesmen of keeping the people in the
dark.—After this same bell has toll'd, 'tis a misdemeanor
for a horse-shoe to strike a spark from
a flint, and high treason for a glow-worm to carry
fire in his tail.
Arm.
A truce with thy jests.
Con.
Why then, in sober sadness, this Curfew
custom is a clever invention of this Norman prince
of darkness, to set honest men snoring, and give
rogues an earlier opportunity of cutting their
throats; and which, by shortening their days, will
most probably lengthen ours.
Arm.
Still listening
(seeing Florence attentive.)
I like not that boy
(to Herman)
. He has
been deeply attentive to our discourse.
Herm.
Dispatch him then.
Arm.
'Twere safest.
Herm.
Robert shall do it—Being last enter'd
in our troop, it is his office—
(beckons Robert)
.
(to Robert.)
Robert, that boy has
overheard our whole design.
Herm.
And may betray us.
Robt.
There's no fear of that.
Herm.
Not when he's dead—
Robt.
How?
Herm.
You must do it.
Robt.
Murder him?
Herm.
Call it what you please, you must dispatch
him.
Robt.
Keep him a prisoner till to-morrow.
Arm.
I tell you our lives are in his breath—
And he must die.
Robt.
Well, if it must be so—
Herm.
It shall—I like not that hesitating
eye.
(aside)
Arm.
We will but skirt the wood and then
return—You'll remember.
(to Robert)
Robt.
Ay, ay.
Herm.
I'll stay and see it done—My mind
misgives me, he may want assistance.
(aside)
[All the Robbers go out except Herman, who conceals himself.
Flor.
What mean their dark looks, and half smother'd speeches,
Where more the eye interprets than the tongue,
And silence is most horrible?
Robt.
My mother's a witch sure enough—
She prophesied I should soon turn cut-throat—
Well, youth, you can guess I suppose why they
have left us alone.
Flor.
Indeed I know not—for no harm, I hope.
Robt.
That I should kill thee.
Flor.
Nay, but you will not do it, my good fellow.
Robt.
You ne'er offended me.
Flor.
Nor any that doth bear a human form.
I never wrong'd the smallest living thing,
Or trod designedly upon a worm,—
For I was bred to gentleness, and know
Nought that hath fleeting breath, too mean for mercy.
Why seek you then my life, which gone from me
Will never add a moment's breath to your's?
Robt.
Peace, boy!
Flor.
Oh, think upon the horror of the deed.
You have a friend, who knows;—perhaps a parent,
A father or a mother, think on them—
'Twould almost break their hearts to learn your death
In nature's common course—How would they start
To hear you had been slaughter'd in cold blood—
But if they knew you were a murderer,
Oh, they would curse the hour that gave you birth,
And die stark mad with agony.
Robt.
I cannot strike—he withers up my arm
—Now then I'll do't.—Speak, youth, are you prepared.
Flor.
Oh no—for life is sweet—death terrible.—
The firmest Stoic meet it with a pang.
How then should I, an unschool'd simple boy,
Look calm at that, which makes the sternest shudder?
Robt.
You must die, youth.
Flor.
Nay—yet you will not do it—
You cannot—for your cold relaxing hand
Loosens its gripe, and all your limbs too tremble.
Now then.
Flor.
Nay turn not thus your head aside,
I fain would see how stern the butcher looks
When he doth strike the lamb—You tremble still:
And in your eyes, twin drops of mercy stand.
They fall upon your cheek—nay then you cannot.
Robt.
Hear me; I have pass'd my word to
my comrades that you shall die: my hand may
shrink, mine eye may drop a tear.—No matter,
'tis past, and thus—
(Lifts his hand to strike.)
Flor.
Have mercy on my sex—I am a woman!
Robt.
A woman!!!
Flor.
What have I said? A thought more horrible
Then death runs through me now.
Robt.
To save her would be great.
Flor.
Oh 'twould be glorious—that one single act
Shall clear thee at the great day of account.
Robt.
You have prevailed.
Flor.
And will you save me?
Robt.
Were ye a man, I couldn't hurt you
now—for you have made me woman.
Flor.
I've no fit means to thank you—but my
tears, my warmest prayers.
Robt.
Here is a recompence, which those
who once have felt, will want no other motive
to humanity. But the night wears, my companions
will soon return.—Can you trust yourself
with an assassin?
Flor.
Ay, thro' the world.
Robt.
Come then I'll guide you faithfully.
(As they are going out Herman interposes.)
Herm.
You pass not here.
Robt.
Herman!
Herm.
The same, good trusty Robert.
Stand by and let us pass—it is a woman.
Herm.
Were it an angel, what then?
Robt.
Young, fair, and innocent—nay look upon her,
Can you resist that supplicating eye?
Herm.
I know my duty.
Robt.
Do it then—the first duty of our sex, is
to protect the helplessness of hers—Come, come,
let us pass—You can't be serious.
Herm.
You'll find me so.
Robt:
Nay look upon her, Herman.
Herm.
Well.
Robt.
Can neither her youth, her beauty, her
sex or her condition move you?
Herm.
Not a step.
Robt.
You are a devil then.
Herm.
If you attempt to pass, you'll find me
one.
Robt.
Why then there's left no argument but
this.
Herm.
Which thus I answer.
Robt.
If blood must be shed, it shall be man's
blood.
Herm.
Your's or mine.
Robt.
Come on then (they fight off the stage.)
Flor.
Now sit upon the righteous sword, just Heav'n,
And where the cause is honest, give the power—
Hark! the rude clashing of their angry steel
Gives way to death-like silence.
Re-enter Robert.
Robt.
Now then, lady.
Flor.
What, is he dead?
Robt.
And buried, I have thrown him
Both for his shroud and knell.—Think not of him!—
He was a wretch without remorse or pity,
Who bloodily hath bought a bloody end:
Come, 'tis no time for words.
[Exeunt.
| The Curfew | |