University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

An Apartment in an old Tower; a rich Gothic Window, closed, but so constructed as that the Light may be thrown in, near it a small arched Door, beyond which is seen an Inner Chamber, with an open Casement.—Annabel is borne in by D'Alba and Guards, through a strong Iron Door in the side Scene.
D'Alba, Annabel, Guards.
D'Alba.
Leave her with me. Guard well the gate; and watch
That none approach the tower.
[Exeunt Guards.
Fair Annabel!

Ann.
Who is it calls? Where am I? Who art thou?
Why am I here? Now heaven preserve me, D'Alba!
Where's Julian? Where's Prince Julian? Where's my husband?
Renzi, who lured me from the palace, swore
It was to meet my husband.

D'Alba.
Many an oath
First sworn in falsehood turns to truth. He's here.
Calm thee, sweet lady.

Ann.
Where? I see him not.
Julian!

D'Alba.
Another husband.

Ann.
Then he's dead!
He's dead!

D'Alba.
He lives.

Ann.
Heard I aright? Again!
There is a deafening murmur in mine ears,
Like the moaning sound that dwells in the sea shell,
So that I hear nought plainly. Say't again.

D'Alba.
He lives.

Ann.
Now thanks to Heaven! Take me to him.
Where am I?

D'Alba.
In an old and lonely tower
At the end of my poor orchard.

Ann.
Take me home.

D'Alba.
Thou hast no home.

Ann.
No home! His arms! his heart!
Take me to him.

D'Alba.
Sweet Annabel, be still.
Conquer this woman's vain impatiency,
And listen. Why she trembles as I were
Some bravo. Oh that man's free heart should bow
To a fair cowardice! Listen. Thou know'st
The sentence of the Melfi?

Ann.
Aye, the unjust
And wicked doom that ranked the innocent
With the guilty. But I murmur not. I love
To suffer with him.

D'Alba.
He is banished; outlawed;
Cut off from every human tie;—

Ann.
Not all.
I am his wife.

D'Alba.
Under the Church's ban.
I tell thee, Annabel, that learned Priest,
The sage Anselmo, deems thou art released
From thy unhappy vows; and will to night—

Ann.
Stop. I was wedded in the light of day
In the great church at Naples. Blessed day!
I am his wife; bound to him evermore
In sickness, penury, disgrace. Count D'Alba,
Thou dost misprize the world, but thou must know
That woman's heart is faithful, and clings closest
In misery.

D'Alba.
If the Church proclaim thee free—

Ann.
Sir, I will not be free; and if I were
I'd give myself to Julian o'er again—
Only to Julian! Trifle thus no longer.
Lead me to him. Release me.

D'Alba.
Now, by heaven,
I'll bend this glorious constancy. I've known thee
Even from a little child, and I have seen
That stubborn spirit broken: not by fear,
That thou canst quell; nor interest; nor ambition;
But love! love! love! I tell thee, Annabel,
One whom thou lov'st, stands in my danger. Wed me
This very night—I will procure a priest
And dispensations, there shall nothing lack
Of nuptial form—Wed me, or look to hear
Of bloody justice.

Ann.
My poor father, Melfi!

D'Alba.
The Regent? He is dead.

Ann.
God hath been merciful.

D'Alba.
Is there no other name? no dearer?

Ann.
Ha!

D'Alba.
Hadst thou such tender love for this proud father,
Who little recked of thee, or thy fair looks;—
Is all beside forgotten?

Ann.
Speak!

D'Alba.
Why, Julian!
Julian, I say!

Ann.
He is beyond thy power.
Thanks, thanks, great God! He's ruined, exiled, stripped
Of name, and land, and titles. He's as dead.
Thou hast no power to harm him. He can fall
No deeper. Earth hath not a lowlier state
Than princely Julian fills.

D'Alba.
Doth not the grave
Lie deeper?

Ann.
What? But thou hast not the power!
Hast thou? Thou canst not. Oh be pitiful!
Speak, I conjure thee, speak!

D'Alba.
Didst thou not hear
That he was exiled, outlawed, banished far
From the Sicilian Isles, on pain of death.
If, after noon to-day, he e'er were seen
In Sicily? The allotted bark awaits;
The hour is past; and he is here.

Ann.
Now heaven
Have mercy on us! D'Alba, at thy feet,
Upon my bended knees—Oh pity! pity!
Pity and pardon! I'll not rise. I cannot.
I cannot stand more than a creeping worm
Whilst Julian's in thy danger. Pardon him!
Thou wast not cruel once. I've seen thee turn
Thy step from off the path to spare an insect;
I've marked thee shudder, when my falcon struck
A panting bird;—though thou hast tried to sneer
At thy own sympathy. D'Alba, thy heart
Is kinder than thou knowest. Save him, D'Alba!
Save him!

D'Alba.
Be mine.

Ann.
Am I not his?

D'Alba.
Be mine;
And he shall live to the whole age of man
Unharmed.

Ann.
I'm his—Oh spare him!—Only his.

D'Alba.
Then it is thou that dost enforce the law
On Julian; thou, his loving wife, that guid'st
The officer to seize him where he lies
Upon his father's corse; thou that dost lead
Thy husband to the scaffold;—thou his wife,
His loving wife! Thou yet may'st rescue him.

Ann.
Now, God forgive thee, man! Thou torturest me
Worse than a thousand racks. But thou art not
So devilish, D'Alba. Thou hast talked of love;—
Would'st see me die here at thy feet? Have mercy!

D'Alba.
Mercy! Aye, such as thou hast shewn to me
Through weeks and months and years. I was born strong
In scorn, the wise man's passion. I had lived
Aloof from the juggling world, and with a string
Watched the poor puppets ape their several parts;
Fool, knave, or madman; till thy fatal charms,
Beautiful mischief, made me knave and fool
And madman; brought revenge and love and hate
Into my soul. I love and hate thee, lady,
And doubly hate myself for loving thee.
But, by this teeming earth, this starry Heaven,
And by thyself the fairest stubbornest thing
The fair stars shine upon, I swear to-night
Thou shalt be mine. If willingly, I'll save
Prince Julian;—but still mine. Speak. Shall he live?
Canst thou not speak? Wilt thou not save him?

Ann.
No.

D'Alba.
Did she die with the word! Dost hear me, lady?
I asked thee wouldst thou save thy husband?

Ann.
No.
Not so! Not so!

D'Alba.
'Tis well.
(Exit D'Alba.

Ann.
Stay! Stay! He's gone.
Count D'Alba! Save him! Save him! D'Alba's gone,
And I have sentenced him.
(After a pause.
He would have chosen so,
Would rather have died a thousand deaths than so
Have lived! Oh who will succour me, shut up
In this lone tower! none but those horrid guards,
And yonder hoary traitor, know where the poor,
Poor Annabel is hidden; no man cares
How she may perish—only one—and he—
Preserve my wits! I'll count my beads; 'twill calm me:
What if I hang my rosary from the casement?
There is a brightness in the gorgeous jewel
To catch men's eyes, and haply some may pass
That are not pitiless. This window's closed;
But in yon chamber—Ah, 'tis open! There
I'll hang the holy gem, a guiding star,
A visible prayer to man and God. Oh save me
From sin and shame! Save him! I'll hang it there.

[Exit.