 | The Curfew |  |
ACT III.
SCENE I.
The Cottage.(Enter Robert, leading in Florence.)
Robt.
This is the humble dwelling that I spoke
of: You may rest here in safety to-night, and to-morrow,
shape your course as it pleases you.
Flor.
(looking round.)
You know the woman who inhabits here?
Robt.
Ay, know her well; you'll find her a
kind soul. I would stay with you till she return'd;
but I must get back before my comrades, to avoid
suspicion—Farewell! Should we meet no more,
you'll sometimes think of me.
Flor.
Whilst I have life.
Robt.
Farewell.
[Exit.
Flor.
Upon the bleak and solitary waste
Which my proud father's castle overlooks,
I've sometimes heard, there dwells a wretched woman,
So deeply skill'd in potent herbs and flow'rs,
The wond'ring village shun her as a witch.
This must her hovel be—for sure a spot
So desolate, and dwelling so unshelter'd
Second Vassal (without).
2d Vass.
Open the door.
Flor.
Hush! I have heard that voice.
2d Vass.
Nay, open quickly.
Flor.
It is my father's vassal—should he know me—
2d Vass.
Still do you hesitate?
Flor.
I will assume
A tone and manner foreign to my nature,
That so, without exposure of myself,
I may betray the mischief that is hatching.
(Opens the door and three vassals enter.)
What means this violence?
2d Vass.
'Tis well you came,
Or we had beat the house about your ears.
Flor.
Thou poor man's tyrant, and thou great man's slave!
Wherefore this outrage? The low peasant's latch
Should be held sacred as the triple bolt
That guards a palace—ay, more sacred, fellow:
For high-rais'd mightiness is it's own shield.
But who, if lordly pow'r be first t'invade,
Shall bar the poor man's dwelling from oppression?
2d Vass.
We were commanded by our lord the Baron
To bring before him every living thing,
That in this lonely dwelling we found shelter'd.
Flor.
—Well, Sir, you will not shame your Lord's commands
By doing them humanely.—I attend you.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
The Outside of the Baron's Castle.(Enter Robert.)
Robt.
Once more I have a moment for reflection
—Shall I return to these merciless dogs? Yes,
my safety requires it. But then, the night's
adventure—To murder a whole family in cold
blood—that I'll prevent however. My mother,
now doubly thank'd be her care, taught me the
use of letters.—I have shortly stated here our horrible
design, yet interceded for the lives of all.
(Shoots an arrow into the Castle.)
So, speed it
well—My heart accuses me of treachery—yet there
is no alternative. I must either be false to my
companions, or a traitor to humanity.
[Exit.
SCENE III.
A Room in the Castle.Enter the Baron with Vassals.
Bar.
You were too tame to let them bear her
off.
1st Vass.
My Lord, they were too many for
us. Five, at least, to one—
And all compleatly arm'd too.
Bar.
Well, 'tis no matter; bring young Bertrand
in.
So, Sir, your noble purpose has miscarried,
And I have lost the honour you intended
To fix upon my house.
You speak, my Lord,
As if your daughter's peril touch'd you not.
Bar.
So I be robb'd, what matters who the thief?
Into what viler hands can she have fall'n,
Than mine own vassal's?
Bert.
True, I am your vassal,
And on my body bear some ill-shap'd scars
That vouch my services—but chiefly one
Stamp'd in the bloody field of Hastings—What—
You do remember't?—When you were unhors'd,
Prostrate beneath th'uplifted battle-axe,
With outstretch'd hand, and deprecating eye,
Had not your vassal, 'twixt descending death
And you, his forward body interpos'd—
You might have gorg'd the rav'ning vultures there.
Bar.
It was thy duty, fellow.
Bert.
Yet the act
So pleas'd you, that you call'd me your preserver,
And breath'd such wanton praises on my valour,
That I forgot the low-born thing I had been,
Outstretch'd my wing, and sought a nobler quarry.
You fann'd my young ambition, I became
The priz'd companion of your blooming daughter.
Oft when I won at tilt or tournament
Some hard-earn'd prize, and laid it at her feet,
With trembling admiration she survey'd me—
Breath'd a full sigh of joy at my escape;
And you applauded. We grew up together—
Our pastimes; studies, sorrows, joys, hopes, fears,
Had but one soul, and what at first was friendship,
Soon ripen'd into love; which you encouraged.
Which I forbad.
Bert.
Your reason?
Bar.
Your low birth.
Bert.
That is, indeed, past cure! 'Tis now too late
To summon back the dust of my progenitors,
And stamp it with nobility—What then?
Am I to hang my head? creep into corners
Because my father was a hind? I know not
Why I was prest into this bustling world;
But here I am, and let my deeds proclaim me.
Our actions are our heralds, and they fix,
Beyond the date of tombs and epitaphs,
Renown or infamy.
Bar.
You talk it highly.
Bert.
My Lord, you touch'd me roughly on a point
At which the poor man's blood is quick to kindle
To something of more weight—Your daughter, Sir,
Is in the hands of ruffians, grant me then
Twenty of your attendants, nay, but ten,
Five, or if they for a lost daughter's ransom
Be thought too great a venture,—give me freedom,
And I alone, e'er food shall pass my lips
Or sleep embrace me, will recover her
Or lose myself.
Bar.
We shall not trust your valour.
(Enter first Vassal.)
1st. Vass.
My Lord, a stranger from St. Cuthbert's
abbey.
Bar.
Ay, I would speak with him. Bear off
this madman, and guard him strictly.
Heav'n protect her then!
(Exit, borne off by vassals,)
Bar.
Stand up, my heart! my shrinking nerves, wax firm!
For what to this good man I must reveal,
Will want your full assurance.
Enter Fitzharding disguised as the Friar, and attendants.
Take good heed
That none approach us.
(to the attendants, who retire)
Welcome, rev'rend father,
If to the holy Dunstan I address me,
Fitz.
I answer to that name.
Bar.
It is a name
That loud report delights to send abroad
For endless deeds of saint-like charity;
But chiefly has she blazon'd your renown,
That with an excellence almost divine,
You can blot out from the distracted brain
The memory of guilt, and chase away
The frightful apparition of foul deeds,
Which, unaton'd for, will not be at rest.
Fitz.
You over-praise my poor abilities,
Tho' in the holy office you have mention'd
I am not meanly skill'd.
Bar.
Therein I want
Your aid and counsel.
Fitz.
Then deliver boldly
The secret cause that preys upon your quiet:
And fully too—for in the mind's diseases,
As in the body's, there be patients,
Who by a scant disclosure of their ills,
Mock the physician's labour.
Bar.
Trust me, father,
You shall hear all, as fully and distinctly
As were I now before Heav'n's judgment seat,
To make confession of the fact.
Fitz.
Proceed.
Bar.
You know I am not native of this isle,
But born in Normandy.
Fitz.
So I have heard.
Bar.
I wedded there, long since, an English lady,
Most rare in her endowments.
Fitz.
You were happy?
Bar.
I should have been so—you must have observ'd,—
For you have deeply read the heart of man,—
A wayward disposition in some natures,
Out of the very height of their enjoyments
To breed their discontents, and make, like devils,
A hell of paradise.
Fitz.
Alas! 'tis true.
Bar.
E'en such a man was I—would you believe it?
Possess'd of such a woman, for no cause,
But the excess of her perfections,
Compared with my weak merits to deserve them—
From love's extremest dotage I fell off
To sudden jealousy; in which dark mood,
A letter reach'd me in an unknown hand,
Containing nought but this—“Look to your wife.”
Fitz.
Some villain—
Bar.
You shall hear, and then decide.
This letter was soon follow'd by another,
Which circumstantially disclos'd my shame,
And made surmise conviction—pointed out
My wife in guilty converse with a lover.
Think with what pangs I waited for that hour—
When, as advis'd, I did surprise my wife
In secret with a man.
Fitz.
And in your chamber?
Bar.
I stabb'd the woman: her companion fled,
And in the darkness of the night escap'd me.
Returning quickly back, I found my wife too,
Whose wound tho' deep was nothing dangerous,
Had, with our only son, a tender infant,
Fled in most wild amazement—Soon in safety
She reach'd the nearest sea-port—thence embarking
For this her native land, they were both wreck'd;
And with the rest of that devoted crew,
In the wide bosom of the ocean perish'd.
Fitz.
It was a lamentable fate indeed!
But where's your crime in this? Was she not guilty?
Bar.
Nay, she was spotless—that same precious villain,—
For that he was a villain soon was palpable,—
In a last letter, closed this scene of horror
With these emphatic words, which, as I read them,
Were graven on my heart:—“Your wife was innocent;
Yet I'm but half revenged:”
Fitz.
But half reveng'd?
Some one whom you had wrong'd then—
Bar.
It should seem so.
Yet to this hour, by what resentment mov'd,
Or who the dark contriver of my shame,
I am most ignorant.
That's strange indeed!
And could you never guess?
Bar.
No, on my soul.
Fitz.
Most wonderful!—Could you remember no one,
Whom by some galling wrong, some deep fix'd insult,
You had most grievously provok'd?
Bar.
No—never.
Fitz.
Ere long, I will refresh your memory.
(Aside.)
Bar.
I never struck but one man to the heart,
And him I after recompenc'd so nobly,
That my large bounty salv'd his rankling pride,
And drew out all his enmity.
Fitz.
Indeed? (Aside.)
Bar.
Besides, that man was dead.
Fitz.
Art sure of that? (Aside.)
Bar.
Or had he been alive, 'twere idle now
To waste the precious time in wild surmise
Who was my instigator. Here am I,
Sole actor of that woful tragedy;
Whose strong remembrance, like an evil spirit
In some lone house, usurping all my brain,
Drives reason from her seat; and scares away
The fellowship of comfortable thoughts,
To dwell alone in desolate despair.
Now, I have heard you have a charm for this,
That by some sacred, and mysterious pow'r,
You can make clean my fancy—recreate me,
What once I was, a reasonable man,
Full of the common feelings of my kind,
That I shall laugh and weep like other men,
Pray with an unclogg'd heart; that food shall nourish,
Lift up the languid blossoms; in a word—
(Enter first Vassal with an arrow.)
How, fellow, whence this boldness?
Vass.
Your pardon, my Lord—walking near
the northern tower, I found this arrow. This
was the feather to it—thinking it contain'd characters
that might be of importance, I have broke
thro' your commands to present it.
(Kneeling, presents the arrow.)
Bar.
What have we here?—these look like characters—
Yet not for me to scan—peruse them, father,
And tell us what they signify.
(Gives it to Fitzharding.)
Vass.
I hope my Lord will pardon my presumption.
Bar.
Well, wait without, Sir;
Nor dare intrude again till you are call'd for.
(Exit First Vassal.)
Fitz.
Confusion! (Aside.)
Bar.
What, a churchman puzzled too?
Fitz.
Somewhat perplex'd, I own—let's try again.
Oh, now I understand it 'tis a song,
A mere love ballad, that the minstrels chaunt
In every town and village—a dull ditty,
And not quite decent for a priest to utter,
Or for a high-bred Baron to attend to:
However, if you wish it, when at leisure
I will repeat the idle madrigal—
But let it not employ this apt occasion
For our more grave deliberations.
All you have utter'd—your offence is grievous.
Bar.
Ay, father!
Fitz.
But the grace of Heav'n is great,
And for the truly contrite, will work wonders.
Leave me a while to meditate alone,
That here, in still communion with myself,
And cool abstraction from all other objects,
I may devote my mind entire to you.
Bar.
You'll find me in the gallery.
Fitz.
'Tis well;
In the mean time, be sooth'd with this assurance,
I will resolve on something speedily,
Shall give you case for ever.
Bar.
How for ever?
So that the bloody image of that deed
Shall never rise to my remembrance more?
Fitz.
Not even in thy dreams—for death has
none.
(Aside.)
Bar.
May Heav'n assist your holy contemplations!
[Exit.
Fitz.
(reads.)
“Your castle will be this night
surprized, yourself and all that are in it slaughtered:
after the tolling of the Curfew, look to the
northern gate.”
He would have mention'd my disguise—who then?
I do suspect that Robert—He is one
Whom nature has so deeply wrought with pity,
That habit cannot harden him to blood.—
'Twas shrewdly aim'd, but it has miss'd the mark,
Nor shall perplex me further—for this Baron—
I hold him in my eye, and when I please
Fast in my gripe—I do but soar aloof,
(Like the pois'd vulture hov'ring o'er his prey)
I may pounce down securely.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
The Robber's Cave.Enter Robert.
Robt.
So all's well—I have escaped the track
of the blood-hounds—tho' they can't be far off.—I
met an half-starv'd wolf in my way, and slew him
—his blood will give a colour to my story
(a whistle
without.)
Hark! they are at hand. Approach,
I am prepared.
Enter Robbers.
Arm.
Well, is it done?
(Robert shews his
hands.)
Con.
Ay, this is well.
Arm.
Where's the body?
Con.
Come, give us the particulars.
Robt.
I led him by discourse to the cliff that
overhangs the sea.
Con.
What, where I push'd down the bald-headed
friar, whilst at his prayers, and bid him
say Amen as he descended?
Robt.
The same; as he gaz'd upon the elements
I stabb'd him in the back—I heard his
body dash against the waves, and all again was
silent.
Con.
(looking round.)
Where's Harman?
Arm.
I miss'd him soon after our setting out.
—Has no one seen him?
Robbers.
Not I—nor I—nor I.
Con.
Taking one of his solitary strolls, I suppose;
he generally avoids our company, lest he
your right beast of prey always prowls by himself.
Arm.
I wish he mayn't have fall'n into the
hands of the wolf-hunters.
Con.
If he be—there's not a rogue in England
will do greater justice to the gallows.
Arm.
Nor one to whom the gallows will do
greater justice.
Con.
I have known him since he was first
hatch'd—he had a trick of killing flies in his craddle,
which his mother encouraged, that she
mightn't spoil his temper. Before he was out of
swaddling cloaths, he wrung off the neck of a favourite
bird for singing too loud, and she patted
him on the cheek, and said he had an excellent
ear for music. On being breech'd, he was appointed
the family hangman to superannuated
dogs, and supernumerary kittens; when a schoolboy
he would break bounds at the risk of having
his back flay'd, to see an execution. As he grew
to manhood, the lust for blood grew with him,
till having exhausted his genius in tormenting all
the other animals of the creation, he fixt at last on
man.—But come, let's to the armoury.
Arm.
And every man equip himself stoutly—
for we shall have a hot night's work.
Con.
And if we should be caught, we shall
hang, cheek by jowl, like kites on a dove-cote,
or rats against a barn-door. No, matter lads, do
your duty, and leave the rest to fortune—tho' it
mayn't be our luck to escape the gallows, 'tis at
least in our power to deserve it, and that to a
man of spirit is always some consolation. Come,
to the armoury.
[Exeunt.
| The Curfew | |