University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE

In Hell. Scene as in Prologue. As curtain rises shadowy arms are uplifted in triumph.
Voices of Shadows.
All hail, O Satan, hail!

Attila.
[At the foot of the throne.]
All hail,
O Satan! Is my task well done?

Satan.
Servant, well done. I greet thee, Attila!
So thick the bloody myriads of the dead
Swarm hither, that I cease to welcome each
Thronging new-comer, only from the throne
I make an all-including, grave incline.
Here Earth revenges the defeat in Heaven!
Force triumphs, Hell hath victory at last!

Attila.
Master, I have made desolate the Earth,
And half the world have left a wilderness.
Beauty have I thrown down; Rapine and Rape
Stalk unimpeded through the ruined land,
And yet—

Satan.
What troubles thee, my servant, say?

Attila.
I am aware in mid-rage and mid-havoc
Of some strange influence, I know not what;
A Power that is not Force—stronger than Force—
And soft as summer overcoming me.
No face, no form I see, unless at times
The flitting vision of an armed maid;
I feel this presence, understand it not,
But darkly, as a creature, am conscious of it.
What Lord can so subdue the Lord of Huns?
I met not Him when first I scourged the Earth.

Satan.
[Rising.]
This Power will I for evermore deny;
Hence to the Earth, more havoc waits thee there!

Attila.
[Preparing to depart.]
Master, I go—and yet I go perplexed.

Satan.
If this be truth we lose our very being.
[A soft beam falls on him from above.
What beam is this that searches us at last,
And troubles Hell? Soft—yet it more afflicts me
Than the fierce lightning that did scar my face,
When I with all my angels fell from Heaven.
I may not quail; but I begin to suffer
In this beginning of some final light,
In which I fear at last to be absorbed.
Now all my being is in deep travail,
Under a dreadful fall of gentleness,
A flower-soft Influence omnipotent.—
Is this our quiet end? Is this the pain
Of dissolution, or some pang of birth?
Awake ye, legions! Tremble, and awake!
I call on you to rise and to resist
This gentle doom, descending on us soft.
Arm, arm ye for a conflict worse than war
My Power, my Power, why art thou leaving me?

[He spreads out his arms as in crucifixion as the curtain descends.]