University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Room in the Baron's Castle—A Picture of Matilda, to which the Baron is discovered kneeling.
Baron.
Thou frail memorial of that blessed spirit,
Which, after earthly martyrdom, now sittest
Thron'd with rejoicing angels, see me kneel
With the prone spirit of contrition,
And deep despair to do thee rev'rence:
If that foul deeds, as horrible as mine,
Do ever at the throne of grace find mercy,
Be thou my advocate, with boundless love
Larger than thy exceeding wrongs, plead for me,
That what cannot be pardon'd, may thro' thee
Provoke a lighter penance. (Rises.)
So—that done,
My heart hath heav'd off somewhat of its load—
For when in full confession, we pour forth
The inward meditation of dark deeds,
They cease awhile to haunt us.

(Enter Philip.)
Bar.
What brings you?

Phil.

Old Walter, the Curfew toller, is without,
and impatient to speak with your Lordship.

Bar.
Let him come in.
[Exit Philip.
A talkative old fool!—
What can he want?
[Enter Walter.
Well, Sir, your business briefly.

Wal.

Out of respect to your Lordship, I will
dispatch it with all brevity and circumlocution.

Bar.

Proceed then.

Wal.

Your Lordship has no doubt heard of
old Margery—

Bar.

What, the strange woman on the heath?

Wal.

Ay, my Lord, they say all over the village
that she's a witch, and has dealings with the
devil, brings blight upon the corn, and murrain
among the cattle—she is charged with having
conjured the late terrible drought, and she certainly
caused the flood that followed it, for she
was heard the day before to wish for rain—she
turns her nose up at all our country pastimes,
pores all day over books of magic, and prowls
all night about the lanes and hedges, gathering
poisonous herbs, which she boils in a three corner'd
kettle—she has more hard words at her
tongue's end than a convent of monks, and has
actually been seen taking an airing on a broomstick
—'Tis plain she converses with people of
the other world, for she never talks to any body
in this, and 'tis impossible that any woman can
be always holding her tongue.

Bar.

What's this to me?

Wal.

They wish your Lordship to have her to
the Castle, and examine her, for if she be a witch

your Lordship knows we have a very wise law,
that she must be drown'd alive, or in plainer
terms suffer conflagration.

Bar.

Well, well, we'll send for her—Is there
aught else?

Wal.

Something that more nearly concerns
your Lordship.

Bar.

That concerns me?

Wal.

Your Lordship cannot be ignorant that
I am an officer of the peace to his most gracious
Majesty King William, whose business it is, to
see that all his Majesty's merry-making subjects,
put out fire and candle at the tolling of
my bell—I am a sort of eight o'clock extinguisher.

Bar.

And is this, fellow, what so nearly concerns
me?

Wal.

Your Lordship shall hear.—In going
my rounds, I have noted, for some evenings past,
a glimmering light after curfew time, in the
north tower of your Lordship's Castle.

Bar.

A light in the north tower? Thou
dreamest, fellow; 'tis uninhabited.

Wal.

Why then 'twas the devil, or a will-o'-the
wisp—tho' they never open their mouths, and
I'm sure I heard voices.

Bar.

Are you sure of that?

Wal.

Positive, my Lord; they didn't talk
very loud indeed, for when people are doing things
contrary to law, they seldom make much noise.

Bar.

You've mentioned this to no one?

Wal.

Not to a post saving your Lordship.

Bar.

Then keep your counsel still.

Wal.

Yes, my Lord—I hope your Lordship
is not offended.

Bar.

No, no—you've done your duty.

Wal.

Your Lordship knows if a rushlight

be seen to twinkle in the hamlet, after the stopping
of my clapper (my bell-clapper I mean, my
Lord), I am in visible danger of losing my place,
and his Majesty a most faithful officer.

Bar.

Psha, this tediousness!

Wal.

Tediousness? (aside.)
I wish your
Lordship a good day—my tediousness (aside.)

I wish your Lordship many happy returns of
it—you your Lordship won't forget to examine
old Margery—

[Exit.
Bar.
A light in the north tower, and voices heard?
What should this mean? Can it be possible?
Oh Florence, if in spite of my forbidding,
Basely forgetting your high rank and fortune,
You have declin'd upon a peasant slave,
Sorrow and shame light on you.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

An Apartment in the Castle.
(Bertrand and Florence discovered.)
Flor.
Urge me no more, I will not hear it, Bertrand,
No more I'll risque the breaking of our law,
Lest I bring danger on my father's house
And mine own honour.

Bert.
Well at Curfew then
We'll weep, and bid adieu; yet sure the hour
Sacred to love, when all the world is still,
When lovers cheat stern commandement
Of such a tyrant law, outweighs in value
The dull unvaried round of common time:
For danger gives fresh keenness to delight,
When we usurp the joy we fear to lose,
And tremble whilst possessing.

Flor.
Tempt me not,
For we must part to-night, to meet no more.

Bert.
Or meet to-night, never to part again.—
The Abbot of St. Cuthbert's is my friend,—
His charitable aid will join our hands,
And make me master of the richest treasure
That ever lover sigh'd for.

Flor.
Nay forbear,
Think of my father—He will ne'er consent.

Bert.
I know he'll take it sternly at the first,—
But as his storm of passion heaves to rest,
Nature will softly whisper for his child;
And his affection take a quicker sense
From his short-liv'd unkindness.—Speak, my Florence.

Flor.
Nay, do not press me.

Bert.
Come, you must be mine.
There is a kind consenting in your eye,
Which mocks the faint refusal of your tongue:
Love on your rising bosom reigns supreme,
And speaks his triumph in this yielding sigh.

Flor.
There is my hand; to-night I will be thine:
My kindred, dwelling, and proud hopes I quit.
To cleave to thee, and thy poor humble fortunes.

Bert.
At sun-set then, you'll meet me at the Abbey.
And lest your person should create suspicion,
Suppose you come apparell'd as a boy:
And wear, like many a gallant, cap'ring knight,
Whose smooth complexion scarce would hazard twice
The keen encounter of the northern wind,
The front of Hector, with a woman's heart.

Flor.
Is it so easy then to play the hero?

Bert.
'Tis but to strut, and swell, and knit your brow,
Tell twenty lies in a breath, and round them off
With twice as many oaths, to wear a sword
Longer than other men's, and clap your hand
Upon the hilt, when the wind stirs, to shew
How quick the sense of honour beats within you
How many valiant cowards in brave armour,
Have bluster'd unsuspected to their graves.—
Nay, afterwards, frown'd terrible in marble,
Who at the trumpet's charge, had stood aghast
And shrunk like tortoises into their shells
To die with apprehension?

(Noise without.)
Flor.
Hark! my father.

Bert.
You will not fail?

Flor.
Away, if I appear not
Conclude me dead.

Bert.
Farewell then—

[Exit.
Flor.
It was not fancy—hush! again it comes
Along the gallery.
(Enter the Baron.)
My father!

Bar.
Florence,
What do you here?

Flor.
My Lord—

Bar.
Nay, answer quickly.

Flor.
I came—

Bar.
To meet young Bertrand.

Flor.
You have said it.

Bar.
There have been lights observ'd in the north tow'r,
And voices heard long after Curfew time.

Flor.
The light was mine, Sir.

Bar.
Whose the voices?

Flor.
Mine
And Bertrand's.

Bar.
Have I not forbid your meeting?

Flor.
When 'twas too late—you let our early years
Beyond the reach of fate, entwine our hearts;
Then do not in the blossom kill the hope
Which in the bud you cherish'd. I have been ever
A most obedient child—from mem'ry's dawn
Have hung with silent awe upon your lips,
And in my heart your counsels treasur'd up,
Next to the hallow'd precepts of my God.
But with a new delight my bosom throbb'd,
When first you talk'd of Bertrand, you observ'd, Sir,
He was a handsome youth. I thought so too.
A brave one. My heartbeat with fearful joy—
Not rich you added. There I heav'd a sigh
And turn'd my head aside; but whilst the tear
Stood in my eye, you said, that Fortune's gifts
Were poor, compared with Nature's: then, my father,
You bade me learn to love him.

Bar.
Once indeed,
I had a foolish dream of such a thing.

Flor.
Nay, but I dream so still.

Bar.
'Tis time to wake then.
Hear me, and let thy froward heart determine—
If thou hast grace to scorn this abject passion,
Here is thy father's bosom, in it hide
Thy kindling blushes, and be mine again.
What! stubborn to the last, and unrelenting!—
Then hear me, and let thy free choice decide—
If in the headstrong course of thy desires,
And the rank pride of disobedience,
Thou wed'st thyself to this my low-born vassal,
Living, my persecution shall attend thee,
And when I die, my curses be thy portion.—
You know me resolute, and know my purpose,
And as you dread or slight a father's wrath
So shape your course of action.

[Exit.
Flor.
Stay, my father.—
He's gone and will not listen to his child.
Then, since a cruel parent has disown'd me,
Bertrand, I am all thine.
And now, that I have giv'n up all to thee,
And cast off every other hope of joy,
If thou should'st ever treat me with unkindness,
Reprove me with sharp words, or frowning looks,
Or (which is keenest agony to those
Who deeply love,) torture me to the soul,
With civil, cutting, cold indifference.—
No—thou art truth itself, I will not doubt thee.

[Exit.

SCENE III.

The dark Part of a Forest.
(Enter Fitzharding and Armstrong.)
Arm.
Now then, we are alone, and secret—your business, Captain?

Fitz.
You are my enemy.

Arm.
Indeed!

Fitz.
You sav'd my life,

Arm.
I did, and at some peril—Does that offend you?

Fitz.
So mortally, that day and night e'er since
I've studied how I should dispatch you.

Arm.

How! 'tis rather a new mode of returning
such an obligation.

Fitz.
'Twas in the outskirts of the forest here
We fell in with the officers of justice.

Arm.
Ay—not a month since.

Fitz.
We stood them stoutly, till your sword being broke
To the hilt, and I fast bleeding with my wounds,
We were compell'd to fly—the tangling wood,
Familiar to our steps, confounded theirs:
And we had lost the yell of their pursuit,
When quite exhausted with the loss of blood
I sunk into your arms, in which you raised me,
And as the lion bears her wounded whelp
From the thick danger of the hunters' spears.
You bore me home—there being arrived, I fainted.

Arm.
I thought 'twas an act of kindness.

Fitz.
So far I was your debtor, but what follow'd?
You stripp'd me to get at my wounds. What then?
Nay, you perceived it—Speak.—

Arm.
I saw a brand upon your left shoulder that—

Fitz.
I know you did—for when I first awoke,
Your eyes were to that quarter rivetted.
You know my secret, Sir, and have revealed it.

Arm.
No, on my soul.

Fitz.
Swear some tremendous oath,
It ne'er has pass'd thy lips.

Arm.

May mercy never reach me, if I e'er
breath'd a syllable of it.

Fitz.

Thou art my friend then. Hark!

Arm.

'Tis a man's tread,

Fitz.

A lusty one.—Stand back and let us note
him.

(A Friar passes over the Stage.)
Fitz.
Whither so fast, good father? (Stopping him.)


Friar.
Stay me not,
I have most pressing business at the Castle.

Fitz.

At the Castle? (aside)
—What's thy
business there?

Friar.
You are rude, Son,
It is of private import.

Fitz.
Answer me,
Or I will pluck it from thy heart.

Arm.
Speak quickly.

Friar.
Well, well—

Fitz.
No preface, Sir.

Friar.
Well, thus it is then,—
The Baron hath a reck'ning with his conscience,
Which I must settle for him.

Fitz.
Does he know you?—
I mean your person?

Friar.
He has never seen it.

Fitz.
But his attendants,—they have seen you,
Sir?

Friar.
None of them.

Fitz.
And thy name,—thy name is—

Friar.
Dunstan.

Fitz.
It shall be so (aside.)
Quickly unhood thee, Friar,
And cast thy robe of reverence—nay, quickly,
Or I shall call some myrmidons about us,
Will strip thee at the perils of thy skin.
(He takes the Friar's hood and cloak.)
So, that is well.—Now mark me—to thy convent
Speed strait, and nimbly, and as you would 'scape
A deadly cold, take not the air to-night:
I have my spirits abroad—home to thy beads,
Fast, pray, confess thyself, do something, nothing,
But keep within doors or—

Friar.
I will observe—
May Heav'n in the abundance of its mercy
Pardon this outrage on the church—

Fitz.
Away!
[Exit Friar.
You apprehend my meaning?

Arm.
I can guess it.

Fitz.
Back to our company—to your command
I trust the leading of this nights adventures.
You'll find some stirring friends within the Castle,
Shall smooth your passage there.

Arm.
Till then, good night.—

[Exit.
Fitz.
The Baron's, conscience rid, and I his priest?
(For so I must be,) Surely out of this
Revenge may fashion something strangely cruel,
Whose bloody memory, in after times,
This truth shall teach inexorable man,
Who has no touch of mercy tow'rds his fellow,
Most injuries, a noble mind may pardon—
But there are insults, cannot be forgiv'n.

[Exit.