University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

The dark Part of the Forest.—The Curfew is heard telling at a Distance.
(Enter Armstrong, Conrad, and Robbers.)
Arm.

All's dark as pitch—

Robber.

And still as death—you may hear
the falling of a leaf.—As we pass'd the gallows of
Rodolpho, methought he mutter'd vengeance.

Arm.

Ay, lads, for his sake give no quarter—
remember they are Normans who have spoil'd us
of our inheritance, and chaced us into this forest,
where, like wolves, they have set a price upon our
heads.

Con.

That's out of compliment to our understandings;
'tis not every man's head that will bear
to have a price set upon it.

Arm.

Are we worry'd like beasts. and shall we
not turn upon our hunters? Remember, I say, they
are Normans, and spare not.

Con.

Right, noble commander:—If after tomorrow's
sun-rise, a flea be seen to hop in the
Castle, or there be left life in an unhatch'd egg,
'twill be a slovenly performance.

Arm.

Hark! Who comes?

(Robber without)
1st Rob.

Nay, answer you—

Arm.

Oswald?

(Enter the three Robbers from the Castle.)
1st. Rob.

The same. Well met, lads.

Arm.

Have you been discover'd then?

1st Rob.

Yes, but the Captain remains snug,
and will redeem every thing—the bell has gone—
the whole village lies in a profound sleep—The
Baron is lull'd into security, and our game is a
sure one.—Follow me, and you shall learn the rest
as we proceed.

Arm.

On then.—

(Exeunt.)

SCENE II.

—The Castle.—A Chapel, in the Midst of which appears a Tomb.
(Enter the Baron and Fitzharding.)
Bar.
This is the place.

Fitz.
Are we secure from interruption?

Bar.
None, on their lives, dare enter.

Fitz.
It is well—
The silent melancholy of this spot
Will suit our ceremony.

Bar.
And the moon,
When from the clouds which now oppress her brightness
She breaks into full majesty again,
Will shed a solemn lustre o'er our purpose.

Fitz.
We need not wait for her.

Bar.
Now then unfold
Why with such mystic preparation,
At this dark hour and unfrequented spot
We are alone together?

Fitz.
Can you doubt?
Your crime was murder, and it has been said,
Blood will have blood.

Bar.
What mean you?

Fitz.
Such a deed
Cries for no common penance: whining pray'rs,
Self-castigation, wasting abstinence,
A galling pilgrimage twice round the world,
Your wealth whilst living all consum'd in alms,
Or left, when dead, to raise up hospitals.
These things will not absolve you from an act,
Which has but one atonement.

Bar.
Name it.

Fitz.
Death. (Discovers himself.)


Bar.
Ha!—What art thou? Some villain in disguise?

Fitz.
Stir not, nor raise thy voice—'twill be thy knell.—
Has time defac'd me with so rude a hand
That you have quite forgot me?

Bar.
Speak—who are you?

Fitz.
D'ye know me now? (stripping his arm.)


Bar.
Fitzharding, and alive?

Fitz.
I am no apparition—look again
If your eyes doubt it, you shall feel me soon—
The woman promised you to raise the dead—
I have perform'd it.

Bar.
Wonder-working pow'rs!
Yet wherefore do we meet as enemies?

Fitz.
Wherefore?
I think thou art the self-same man
Who some time since in Normandy a valiant troop
Commanded; into which, being then a boy,
In a wild fit of spleen, I madly enter'd,—
And of the meanest soldier bore the toil.—
In angry mood, once, publicly thou gav'st me
Some sharp rebuke, which I as sharply answer'd:
For this, didst thou condemn me to be branded
As the most common felon, with a spirit
Unworthy of a soldier, nay, a man,
A sullen savage sensuality
Of vengeance; in the public market place,
Beneath the full blaze of a mid-day sun,
Where all the scum and rabble of the place
By ling'ring preparation were collected
To make their vulgar comments—there it was
This badge of infamy was fix'd upon me.

Bar.
It was a galling wrong, but thou forgav'st it.

Fitz.
I seemingly forgave it—thou believ'dst me,
And when thou held'st me to thy cred'lous breast
I did not strangle thee.—We drank together,
And still I mix'd no poison with thy wine.
Alone, at midnight, o'er a dreary heath
Have we pass'd—on the extremest verge
Of a sea-impending cliff, yet I abstain'd.—
Ask me why, thus so often strangely tempted,
I have withheld the blow?—'Twas not in mercy;—
Say, was not this an honourable scar
(Stripping his arm.)
To stamp upon a young and gallant soldier?
A shame which on my body is so fix'd
That I must be half rotted in my grave
E're death can cancel it.—Thou thought'st me dead,
And so I was to all but my revenge.
The man whom thou did'st find in thy wife's chamber
Was I.—The letters sent to thee were mine;
And often under terrible affliction,
When thou hast bow'd to Heav'n's mysterious chiding,
This arm, like thunder from a cloud, has reach'd thee.

Bar.
And are you not content?

Fitz.
No jot appeased!
Tho' I should kill thee with extremest torture,
To 'suage the burning thirst of my revenge—
Drink thy blood life-warm; tear those trembling limbs,
And scatter them as whirlwinds strew the dust;
Mid the triumphant pantings of my soul,
Vengeance would weep to think thy pangs were mortal.
Think'st thou thy life, for thou must quickly die,
Will make me reparation?

Bar.
Spare it then!

Fitz.
Thou hast no reasonable hope for mercy,
Thou can'st not have,—for when on my behalf
Petitions throng'd, thou with a sneer replyd'st—
“He shall have justice”—Justice then o'ertake thee.

Bar.
Help! Murder!—villain! help!

[He is pursued by Fitzharding.-Matilda from the Tomb interposes between them.
Fitz.
(starting back.)
What art thou, speak?
The real existence of a living woman,
Or but the mind's creation of a form,
That night and this occasion conjure up,
To fright me from my steady resolution?
It has no human faculty of speech,
And cannot from that attitude relax,
To which 'tis spell-bound.
[She strikes with her foot, and some of the vassals enter.
Foil'd at last?
And by a woman?

Mat.
Seize on that ruffian, and convey him hence.

Fitz.
Well, well, the night's not over.

[The Vassals bear him off.
Mat.
(to the Baron.)
Yet amaz'd?

Bar.
My flesh creeps still, and my uncurdling blood
Slowly and fearfully resumes its functions.
Whate'er thou art—Mortal, or blessed spirit,
Thy voice familiar, doth proclaim the first;
But the strange apparition of that form,
Almost persuades the other; who within
The sanctuary of that hallow'd spot intomb'd thee,
That at the very crisis of my fate,
Thou should'st burst forth in terrible array,
To stagger resolute murder, and make reel
Destruction back upon itself.

Mat.
Survey me.
I am the very substance of that form,
Whose apparition I do only feign.
The woman, whom you least expect to meet:
That once you dearly lov'd, now deeply mourn,
That you would most desire, yet least dare hope for,
Now stands before you.

Bar.
If 'twere possible.

Mat.
What, that among so many sinking souls
One should be sav'd?

Bar.
Remembrance steals upon me—
The look, the voice, yes, yes, thou art my wife!
And the wild waves were merciful.

Mat.
Speak for me,
The silent rapture of these starting tears,
These arms, that eager open to enfold thee,
And clasp thee with more transport to my heart
Than from the roaring sea, they snatch'd our child.

[They embrace.
Bar.
This is to live anew! our son survives too?

Mat.
He lives, but—

Bar.
What? proceed—
Enter Vassal.
The matter, Sir?

Vas.
My Lord, the castle is attack'd.

Mat.
Fear nothing!
I have prepared your vassals to receive them.

Bar.
I will myself among them:—in the mean time
Within the friendly covert of the tomb,
Rest you secured, till the rude conflict's past.

Mat.
That must not be, I will along with you,
For what remains to do, may want my help.

Bar.
Come, let us on then.

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

An Apartment in the Castle.
A Skirmish between the Vassals and the Robbers, who are driven back and pursued.—Robert enters, pursued by the Baron.
Bar.
Then yield thee, villain!

[They fight. Robert is overcome, and falls—the Baron is on the point of killing him—Matilda interposes.
Mat.
Forbear, it is thy son!

Robt.
My father!

Bar.
Holy pow'rs!

Mat.
Disown him not;
Tho' he appear in this rude character,
He is no reprobate confirm'd.

Bar.
My son! (they embrace.)


Robt.
In this the hand of Heav'n is most miraculous—
Had I ne'er fall'n into this deep disgrace,
Destruction would e'er this have whelm'd you all:
The arrow, which I shot into the castle—

Bar.
Well, what of that?—

Robt.
It bore the full intent
Of our dark enterprize.

Bar.
Indeed!

Robt.
Most truly.

Bar.
Why then the priests' confusion is unriddled: (aside)

It was well meant, but by a subtle turn,
Which you shall know hereafter, miss'd its object.
But see, our prisoners—
[Fitz-harding, and the rest of the robbers, are brought in by the vassals, headed by Bertrand.
Thou unhappy man, (to Fitz-harding)

Who by thine own deep malice art betray'd,
What answer wilt thou make to justice?

Fitz.
None.—
For nothing of my purpose, but it's failure,
Do I repent.

Bar.
Will't live, and be my friend?

Fitz.
Never! whilst I can die thine enemy.—
What you have made me, still expect to find me:
A man, struck from the common roll of men—
Exil'd from all society; stamp't like Cain
To wander savage and forlorn—why then
Revenge be still my solitary comfort:
By darkness and by daylight, my companion,
My food, my sleep, my study, and my pastime;
Pulse of my heart, and life of all my being:
For till you can divorce me from myself,
Or, put another soul into this body,
You may as soon enthrone the fires of Heav'n,
Or shake the rooted earth from its foundation,
As alter me. Your friendship I disdain,—
Despise your pow'r. My life I value not;
For when you stabb'd my fame, you murder'd that
Which honourable men call life. The glow
Of young ambition—The high swelling hope
Of present glory, and renown immortal.—
Beauty's soul thrilling smile, the social joys
Of kindling friendship.—Out upon this softness.
Come, lead me to the solace of a dungeon,
Where I may curse him privately.

(Exit with vassals.)
Mat.
How fix't
And unrelenting in his enmity!

Bar.
He may be wrought on yet. But for the rest.—
To morrow we will speak to them again.
(Exeunt Robbers with Vassals.)
Bertrand, your hand. I thank you for this service,
Which shall not lack requital.
(Enter Florence.)
My deliverer!

Flor.
Am I a babbler now? A prating wizard?
Is fire or miry pool to be my portion?

Bar.
Look round my wide domain with curious eye;
Whatever is most precious in thy sight,
There pause and ask it boldly.

Flor.
Oh beware, Sir!
My wishes may be wilder than the dreams
Of doting avarice. I may demand
This princely habitation; or perhaps—

Bar.
Ask what you will, by Holy Heav'n I swear
It shall be granted freely.

Flor.
Then I fix
On this your humble vassal.
(Takes Bertrand's hand.)
Here I kneel
And beg a father's, and, (for I have heard
The strange and tender tale) a mother's blessing.

Bar.
Florence?

Flor.
It is, indeed, Sir.

Bar.
Rise, my girl;
Let me in my daughter, clasp my preserver.

(They embrace.)
Flor.
Your child was your preserver;—but not I, Sir.
Being made pris'ner by that rude banditti,
I was deliver'd to my brother's hands
For sacrifice. But inly touch'd with pity,
As if instinctive nature held his hand,
He brought me thro' the dangers of the forest,
Safe from that horrid cavern.—There it was
I learnt to be a prophet.

Bar.
Still new wonders!!
The sister by the brother's hand preserv'd,
The husband by the wife's!—Is there ought else,
Or have we reach'd, at length, the farthest maze
Of this eventful night? Come, let us in then,
And as we shake amazement from our senses,
Discourse more fully on these prodigies.