University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE.

An Apartment in the Royal Palace. Julian sleeping on a Couch. Annabel.
Annabel.
No; still he sleeps! 'Twas but the myrtle bud
Tapping against the casement, as the wind
Stirred in the leafy branches. Well he loved
That pleasant bird-like sound, which, as a voice,
Summon'd us forth into the fresher air
Of eve or early morn. Ah! when again—
And yet this sleep is hopeful. For seven nights
He had not tasted slumber. Who comes here?
Enter Alfonso as Theodore.
The gentle page! Alas, to wake him now!
Hush, Theodore! Tread softly—softlier, boy!

Alf.
Doth he still sleep?

Ann.
Speak lower.

Alf.
Doth he sleep?

Ann.
Avoid the couch; come this way; close to me.
He sleeps. He hath not moved in all the hours
That thou hast been away.

Alf.
Then we may hope;
Dear lady, we may hope.

Ann.
Alas! Alas!
See how he lies, scarce breathing. Whilst I hung
Over his couch I should have thought him dead,
But for his short and frequent sighs.

Alf.
Ah me!
Not even in slumber can he lose the sense
Of that deep misery; and I—he wakes!
Dost thou not see the quivering mantle heave
With sudden motion?

Ann.
Thou hast wakened him.
Thy clamorous grief hath roused him. Hence! Begone!
Leave me!

Alf.
And yet his eyes are closed. He sleeps.
He did but move his hand.

Ann.
How changed he is!
How pale! How wasted! Can one little week
Of pain and sickness so have faded thee,
My princely Julian! But eight days ago
There lived not in this gladsome Sicily
So glad a spirit. Voice and step and eye
All were one happiness; till that dread hour,
When drest in sparkling smiles, radiant and glowing
With tender thoughts, he flew to meet the King
And his great father. He went forth alone;
Frenzy and grief came back with him.

Alf.
And I,
Another grief.

Ann.
Thou wast a comforter.
All stranger as thou art, hast thou not shared
My watch as carefully, as faithfully
As I had been thy sister! Aye, and he
If ever in this wild mysterious woe
One sight or sound hath cheered him, it hath been
A glance, a word of thine.

Alf.
He knows me not.

Ann.
He knows not me.

Alf.
I never heard before
That 'twas to meet the King yon fatal night—
Knowingly, purposely—How could he guess
That they should meet? What moved him to that thought?

Ann.
Stranger although thou be, thou canst but know
Prince Julian's Father is the Regent here,
And rules for his young kinsman King Alfonso!

Alf.
Aye—Poor Alfonso!

Ann.
Wherefore pity him?

Alf.
I know not—but I am an orphan too!
I interrupt thee, lady.

Ann.
Yet in truth
A gentle pity lingers round the name
Of King Alfonso, orphaned as thou sayst,
And drooping into sickness when he lost
His father, ever since the mournful boy
Hath dwelt in the Villa d'Oro.

Alf.
Hast thou seen him?

Ann.
The King? No. I'm of Naples. When Prince Julian
First brought me here a bride, his royal cousin
Was fixed beside his father's dying bed.
I never saw him: yet I know him well;
For I have sate and listen'd, hour by hour,
To hear my husband talk of the fair Prince,
And his excelling virtues.

Alf.
Did he?—Ah!—
But 'twas his wont, talking of those he loved,
To gild them with the rich and burnish'd glow
Of his own brightness, as the evening sun
Decks all the clouds in glory.

Ann.
Very dear
Was that young boy to Julian. 'Twas a friendship,
Fonder than common, blended with a kind
Protecting tenderness, such as a brother
Might fitly shew unto the younger born.

Alf.
Oh, he hath proved it!

Ann.
Thou dost know them both?

Alf.
I do. Say on, dear lady.

Ann.
Three weeks since
The Duke of Melfi went to bring his ward
Here to Messina—

Alf.
To be crowned. They came not.
But wherefore went Prince Julian forth to meet them?

Ann.
Father nor cousin came; nor messenger,
From Regent or from King; and Julian chafed
And fretted at delay. At length a peasant,
No liveried groom; a slow foot-pacing serf,
Brought tidings that the royal two that morn
Left Villa d'Oro. Glowing from the chase
Prince Julian stood; his bridle in his hand,
New lighted, soothing now his prancing steed,
And prattling now to me;—for I was still
So foolish fond to fly into the porch
To meet him, when I heard the quick sharp tread
Of that bright Arab, whose proud step I knew
Even as his master's voice. He heard the tale
And instant sprang again into his seat,
Wheeled round, and darted off at such a pace
As the fleet greyhound, at her speed, could scarce
Have matched. He spake no word; but as he passed,
Just glanced back at me with his dancing eyes,
And such a smile of joy, and such a wave
Of his plumed bonnet! His return thou know'st.

Alf.
I was its wretched partner.

Ann.
He on foot,
Thou on the o'er-travelled horse, slow, yet all stained
With sweat, and panting as if fresh escaped
From hot pursuit; and how he called for wine
For his poor Theodore, his faithful page;
Then sate him down and shook with the cold fit
Of aguish fever, till the strong couch rocked
Like a child's cradle. There he sate and sigh'd;
And then the frenzy came. Theodore!

Alf.
Lady!

Ann.
He utters nought but madness;—yet sometimes,
Athwart his ravings, I have thought—have feared—
Theodore, thou must know the cause?

Alf.
Too well.

Ann.
Oh tell me—

Alf.
Hush! He wakes.

[Alfonso retires behind the couch, out of Julian's sight.
Ann.
Julian! Dear Julian!

Jul.
Sure I have slept a long, long while! Where am I?
How came I hither? Whose kind hand is this?
My Annabel!

Ann.
Oh what a happiness
To see thee gently wake from gentle sleep!
Art thou not better? Shall I raise thee up?

Jul.
Aye dearest. Have I then been ill? I'm weak.
I trouble thee, my sweet one.

Ann.
'Tis a joy
To minister unto thee.

Jul.
Wipe my brow.
And part these locks that the fresh air may cool
My forehead; feel; it burns.

Ann.
Alas! how wild
This long neglect hath made thy glossy curls,
How tangled!

Jul.
I am faint. Pray lay me down.
Surely the day is stifling.

Ann.
There. Good boy,
Throw wide the casement. Doth not the soft breeze
Revive thee?

Jul.
Yes. I'm better. I will rise.
Raise me again;—more upright;—So! Dear wife,
A sick man is as wayward as a child;
Forgive me. Have I been long ill?

Ann.
A week.

Jul.
I have no memory of aught. 'Tis just
Like waking from a dream; a horrible
Confusion of strange miseries; crime and blood
And all I love—Great Heaven how clear it seems!
How like a truth! I thought that I rode forth
On my white Barbary horse—Say did I ride
Alone that day?

Ann.
Yes.

Jul.
Did I? Could I? No.
Thou dost mistake. I did not. Yet 'tis strange
How plain that horror lives within my brain
As what hath been.

Ann.
Forget it.

Jul.
Annabel,
I thought I was upon that gallant steed
At his full pace. Like clouds before the wind
We flew, as easily as the strong bird
That soars nearest the sun; till in a pass
Between the mountains, screams and cries of help
Rang in mine ears, and I beheld—Oh God!
It was not—Could not—No. I have been sick
Of a sharp fever, and delirium shews,
And to the bodily sense makes palpable,
Unreal forms, objects of sight and sound
Which have no being save in the burning brain
Of the poor sufferer. Why should it shake me!

Ann.
Julian,
Couldst thou walk to the window and quaff down
The fragrant breeze, it would revive thee more
Than food or sleep. Forget these evil dreams.
Canst thou not walk?

Jul.
I'll try.

Ann.
Lean upon me
And Theodore. Approach, dear boy, support him.

Jul.
(seeing Alfonso)
Ha! Art thou here? Thou!
I am blinded, dazzled!
Is this a vision, this fair shape that seems
A living child? Do I dream now?

Ann.
He is
Young Theodore. The page, who that sad night
Returned—

Jul.
Then all is real. Lay me down
That I may die.

Ann.
Nay, Julian, raise thy head.
Speak to me, dearest Julian.

Jul.
Pray for me
That I may die.

Alf.
Alas! I feared too surely
That when he saw me—

Ann.
Julian! This is grief,
Not sickness. Julian!

Alf.
Rouse him not, dear lady!
See how his hands are clenched. Waken him not
To frenzy. Oh that I alone could bear
This weight of misery.

Ann.
He knows the cause,
And I—It is my right, my privilege
To share thy woes, to soothe them. I'll weep with thee,
And that will be a comfort. Didst thou think
Thou could'st be dearer to me than before
When thou wast well and happy? But thou art
Now. Tell me this secret. I'll be faithful.
I'll never breathe a word. Oh spare my heart
This agony of doubt! What was the horror
That maddened thee?

Jul.
Within the rifted rocks
Of high Albano, rotting in a glen
Dark, dark at very noon, a father lies
Murdered by his own son.

Ann.
And thou didst see
The deed? An awful sight to one so good!
Yet—

Jul.
Birds obscene, and wolf, and ravening fox,
Ere this—only the dark hairs on the ground
And the brown crusted blood! And she can ask
Why I am mad!

Ann.
Oh a thrice awful sight
To one so duteous! Holy priests shall lave
With blessed water that foul spot, and thou,
Pious and pitying, thou shalt—

Jul.
Hear at once,
Innocent Torturer, that drop by drop
Pour'st molten lead into my wounds—that glen—
Hang not upon me!—In that darksome glen
My father lies. I am a murderer,
A parricide, accurst of God and man.
Let go my hand! purest and whitest saint,
Let go!

Ann.
This is a madness. Even now
The fever shakes him.

Jul.
Why, the mad are happy!
Annabel, this is a soul-slaying truth.
There stands a witness.

Alf.
Julian knew him not.
It was to save a life, a worthless life.
Oh that I had but died beneath the sword
That seemed so terrible! That I had ne'er
Been born to grieve thee Julian! Pardon me,
Dear lady, pardon me!

Ann.
Oh, gentle boy,
How shall we soothe this grief?

Alf.
Alas! alas!
Why did he rescue me! I'm a poor orphan;
None would have wept for me; I had no friend
In all the world save one. I had been reared
In simpleness; a quiet grave had been
A fitter home for me than the rude world;
A mossy heap, no stone, no epitaph,
Save the brief words of grief and praise (for Grief
Is still a Praiser) he perchance had spoke
When they first told him the poor boy was dead.
Shame on me that I shunned the sword!

Jul.
By Heaven,
It could not be a crime to save thee! kneel
Before him Annabel. He is the king

Ann.
Alfonso?

Alf.
Aye, so please you, fairest Cousin,
But still your servant. Do not hate me, Lady,
Though I have caused this misery. We have shared
One care, one fear, one hope, have watched and wept
Together. Oh how often I have longed,
As we sate silent by his restless couch,
To fall upon thy neck and mix our tears,
And talk of him. I am his own poor Cousin.
Thou wilt not hate me?

Ann.
Save that lost one, who
would hate such innocence?

Jul.
'Twas not in hate
But wild ambition. No ignoble sin
Dwelt in his breast. Ambition, mad ambition,
That was his Idol. To that bloody god
He offered up the milk-white sacrifice,
The pure unspotted Victim. And even then,
Even in the crime, without a breathing space
For penitence or prayer, my sword—Alfonso
Thou would'st have gone to Heaven.

Ann.
Art thou certain
That he is dead?

Jul.
I saw him fall. The ground
Was covered with his blood.

Ann.
Tell me the tale.
Didst thou—I would not wantonly recall
That scene of anguish—Didst thou search his wound?

Jul.
Annabel, in my eyes that scene will dwell
For ever, shutting out all lovely sights,
Even thee, my Beautiful! That torturing thought
Will burn a living fire within my breast
Perpetually; words can nothing add,
And nothing take away. Fear not my frenzy;
I am calm now. Thou know'st how buoyantly
I darted from thee, straight o'er vale and hill,
Counting the miles by minutes. At the pass
Between the Albano mountains, I first breathed
A moment my hot steed, expecting still
To see the royal escort. Afar off
As I stood, shading with my hand my eyes,
I thought I saw them; when at once I heard
From the deep glen, east of the pass, loud cries
Of mortal terror. Even in agony
I knew the voice, and darting through the trees
I saw Alfonso, prostrate on the ground,
Clinging around the knees of one, who held
A dagger over him in act to strike,
Yet with averted head, as if he feared
To see his innocent victim. His own face
Was hidden; till at one spring I plunged my sword
Into his side; then our eyes met, and he—
That was the mortal blow!—screamed and stretched out
His hands. Falling and dying as he was,
He half rose up, hung speechless in the air,
And looked—Oh what had been the bitterest curse
To such a look! It smote me like a sword!
Here, here. He died.

Ann.
And thou?

Jul.
I could have lain
In that dark glen for ever; but there stood
The dear-bought, and the dear, kinsman and prince
And friend. We heard the far-off clang of steeds
And armed men, and, fearing some new foe,
Came homeward.

Ann.
And did he, then, the unhappy,
Remain upon the ground?

Jul.
Alas! he did.

Ann.
Oh, it was but a swoon! Listen, dear Julian,
I tell thee I have comfort.

Jul.
There is none
Left in the world. But I will listen to thee
My Faithfullest.

Ann.
Count D'Alba sent to crave
An audience. Thou wast sleeping. I refused
To see him; but his messenger revealed
To Constance his high tidings, which she poured
In my unwilling ears, for I so feared
To wake thee, that ere half her tale was told
I chid her from me; yet she surely said
The Duke thy father—

Jul.
What?

Ann.
Approached the city.

Jul.
Alive? Alive? Oh no! no! no! Dead! Dead!
The corse, the clay-cold corse!

Ann.
Alive I think;
But Constance—

Alf.
He will sink under this shock
Of hope.

Ann.
Constance heard all.

Jul.
Constance! What ho,
Constance!

Ann.
She hears thee not.

Jul.
Go seek her! Fly!
If he's alive—Why art thou not returned,
When that one little word will save two souls!

[Exit Annabel.
Alf.
Take patience, dearest Cousin!

Jul.
Do I not stand
Here like a man of marble? Do I stir?
She creeps; she creeps. Thou would'st have gone and back
In half the time.

Alf.
Nay, nay, 'tis scarce a minute.

Jul.
Thou may'st count hours and ages on my heart.
Is she not coming?

Alf.
Shall I seek her?

Jul.
Hark!
They've met. There are two steps; two silken gowns
Rustling; one whispering voice. Annabel! Constance.
Is he—one word! Only one word!

Enter Annabel.
Ann.
He lives.

[Julian sinks on his knees before the couch; Alfonso and Annabel go to him, and the scene falls.