University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

Wild Mountain Scenery. A Palm-tree in the Foreground, with Fruits placed beneath it.
Alphonso, Houaco.
HOUACO.
Oh should Pedrarias trace our steps, my friend!
The very thought strikes with a death-like chill
Through all my frame, killing each thought of joy!
Thy father's looks and words when he dismiss'd me,
Guarded—mysterious! No, 'twas not blind rage
That banish'd a loved son, so lately found!

ALPHONSO.
Thy boding mind too idly shapes vain terrors.
Have we not, wandering thus, pursued a course
Most intricate? It were impossible!
Ravaged by conquest, the unpeopled plains
Are silent! Though dark-brow'd, these rocks are friendly:
Nor hostile e'en the beasts of prey, shunning
Our aspect strange with disregard, not fear.
There is no guile in the primeval haunts
Of nature, still inviolate by man.
Then think, these heights o'erpass'd, how will thy heart
Bound at the sight of the green vale!—thy father!
And her thou lov'st—thy Amazilia! there—
(Aside)
Yes, I will speak her name without emotion.
She is my friend's! Away the impious thought
That would repine!

HOUACO.
Hast thou e'er lov'd, Alphonso?
Oh no! or thou hadst known love's doubts—love's fears—
That war with joy, unwonted inmate here!
And then to meet my Amazilia's eye,
Ere noble deeds efface the blasting traces
Deep stamp'd by slavery!—this is bitterness!

ALPHONSO.
Be cheer'd, and from thy fancy drive these thoughts,
For much they wrong thy gentle Amazilia.

HOUACO.
Thanks—I will strive to think so. Now resume we
Our search for the deep-rifted rock which gives
Admittance to the valley. Friend, we hold,
That on these awful heights, Illapa stores
His vengeful thunders. The stern God himself
Rent the eternal barrier to admit
A fugitive cacique!

ALPHONSO.
'Tis strange, Houaco,
We should have sought in vain the deep ravine
Since early dawn, and now the sun is high.
Methought I noted each o'erhanging cliff,
And yawning gulf, as forth your people led me.

HOUACO.
'Twere best despatch that thou the eastern ridge,
And I the western, traverse.

ALPHONSO.
'Tis well thought.
Here part we then awhile—and here ere noon
Meet we again. Beneath this palm, the fruits
Thou, provident, hast gather'd as we journey'd,
Shall furnish forth our banquet.

HOUACO
(going).
Warily
Observe thy course.

ALPHONSO.
And do thou call, my friend,
From time to time, that we may not be sunder'd.

[Exeunt severally.
Enter Amazilia and Laila.
AMAZILIA.
Oh, Laila! I must lay me down and die,
Such weariness and faintness overcome me:
My trembling limbs refuse to bear their burthen.

LAILA.
Why didst thou press our little store on me,
Refusing still to share it? Why preserve
Thy Laila, if to live bereft of thee?
Alas! our happy vale! Why, Amazilia,
Could'st thou no longer taste our blameless life?

AMAZILIA.
Go ask the bird, why from his wicker prison,
Where unsought plenty courts him ere he hunger,
He seeks to escape.

LAILA.
A prison? Amazilia.

AMAZILIA.
Oh, 'twas a narrow prison to my mind!
My thoughts would range, as the young Christian led,
Beyond the bounds of timid ignorance.

LAILA.
And dost thou call it ignorance to enjoy
The season's gifts in peace and innocence,
Secure from the fierce storms that wreck'd our country?
How lovely Nature in her gentler mood!
It is her pearly dew, her noiseless shower,
That rear the maize, that swell the cocoa's nut,
Which with untoil'd and careless hand we crop.

AMAZILIA.
Dull, vacant ease—insipid sameness—Laila!
That wake not glowing thoughts, nor wing the soul
To soar above the brute creation round us.
The hurricane, majestic in its terrors,
Resistless sweeps our orange groves away,
And marks its awful course by desolation;
Yet roused, as we contemplate power so vast,
We bend before the spirit of the storm
In worship, we forget to pay, when nature
Serenely smiles around. But I would rest.

LAILA.
Beneath this tree the bank is clothed with moss:
Here find repose, while I, among the thickets,
Search for cool berries, or a gushing spring:
Ere long I will return. See! rest thy head
Against the shaded trunk: now, art thou well?
Kind slumbers visit thee! I will not tarry.

[Exit.
AMAZILIA
(alone).
Alas! I cannot rest. My fever'd brain!
Oh that my Laila may but find a spring!
To lave my burning hands were some relief.
I am not well here. Yonder palm, methinks,
Affords more ample shade.
[She removes to the palm.
What see I here?
Bananas, yams, and juicy gourds!—Ho, Laila!
Whence comes this boon? Ah! I bethink me now,
Alphonso said, the God of Mercy watched
O'er all his creatures! not a sparrow fell
Without his bidding!
[Kneeling.
Oh! Alphonso's God!
Accept my thanks!

Enter Alphonso.
ALPHONSO.
I heard a soft complaining—
This way the sound! Eternal Providence!
What angel form before me kneels? 'tis she!

AMAZILIA
(starting up).
Is it an airy vision?—or art thou
The god, whose hand beneficent has placed
These fruits before me, lest I sink in death?

[She staggers towards him, and sinks into his arms.
ALPHONSO.
Help, heaven! My Amazilia's passing soul
Flutters on her pale lip!—So fair! so sacred!
Perforce these guilty arms—
[She half recovers, and gazes on him.
She breathes! she lives!
Why dost thou gaze so wildly? 'tis Alphonso!

AMAZILIA
(wildly).
It cannot be that thou of kindred earth
Wast framed! Thou hast the power to save from death!
Thou hast watched o'er me! Thou, unseen, hast led
My steps o'er yon proud heights that barr'd my way!
Thy air—thy voice—all—all! betray thy nature!

ALPHONSO.
Oh be more calm! These wand'ring thoughts affright me.

AMAZILIA
(more wildly).
Thou art the spirit that wings the middle air
In gentle breezes; with assuasive hand
Turning aside Illapa's angry bolt,
That it may rive the haughty mountain's crest,
And spare the lowly vale!

ALPHONSO.
When last I saw thee,
Thou hadst abjured these idols, false, and vain,
Offspring of fear and ignorance!

AMAZILIA
(more impassioned).
Then, sure,
Thou art the hope, the love, the gentle pity
Thou told'st me of, embodied in a form
Not of earth's mould! Thus kneeling—

[As she is about to kneel he raises her.
ALPHONSO.
Rise! oh rise!
I shudder at thy error, Amazilia.
Am I not he whose life thy goodness saved?
Should I not rather kneel to thee?—and yet
Thou see'st I bend not! Said'st thou not thyself,
When pleading for me to the good cacique,
That by thy lips the God of Mercy spoke?
And might not he, by my unconscious hand,
Before thee place these fruits? Human am I,
And frail. Too well I feel it!
(aside).
But say—Why
To these rude wilds, and to their ruder tenants,
(If such there be), thy virtue all unguarded,
And high estate, thou—inconsiderate!—
Commit'st thy charms?

AMAZILIA.
And have I, then, done ill?

ALPHONSO.
That were not possible! but—thy companions?

AMAZILIA.
I left the valley with no friend save Laila.

ALPHONSO.
Oh heaven! and wherefore didst thou so? rash maid!

AMAZILIA.
It was grown hateful, youth. Within my breast
Something still whisper'd, if I could escape,
I should once more—I pray you, pardon me!

ALPHONSO.
Dear Amazilia!—what is thy offence?

AMAZILIA.
Said'st thou not “dear?” Oh then thou wilt forgive!

ALPHONSO.
What is this mystery? I pray thee speak!
Can Amazilia e'er offend Alphonso?
Did she not soothe his sufferings? save his life?
Oh prove the gratitude too big for utterance!

AMAZILIA.
And wilt thou grant whatever I may ask?

ALPHONSO.
I will! for Amazilia cannot ask
What purest angels would not smiling grant!

[She throws herself at his feet with the wildest enthusiasm.
AMAZILIA.
Then at thy feet I humbly ask this boon—
That I may follow thee through toil, through danger,
In winter's storms, beneath the burning skies,
In sickness tend thee—when thou sorrowest, weep;
Lull thee when weary, o'er thy slumber watch,
Wait on thy every look—from thy lips learn
Of heavenly wisdom, goodness infinite;
And soar in thought as much above the sphere
That once was mine, as when in night's hush'd hour
I hung upon thy words!

ALPHONSO.
No more! no more!
Oh, let me fly for ever from thy sight,
Thou fair enthusiast! ere a guilty thought
Pollute my faith, and wrong my chosen friend!

AMAZILIA.
Whom should'st thou wrong? I am an orphan, free
From every tie.

ALPHONSO
(in an agony).
Oh no! thou art not free!

HOUACO
(at a distance).
Hoa! Alphonso!

ALPHONSO.
That voice! Heard'st thou that voice?
I do beseech thee, generous Amazilia!
If thou would'st save me from despair, from death,
Forget the words that now have pass'd thy lips!
These shapings of distemper'd fancy, trust me,
Thy better reason will disown. Oh yes,
Thou art o'er wearied!
[Takes her hand as she seems violently agitated.
This hand burns with fever!

HOUACO
(nearer).
Alphonso! hoa!

ALPHONSO.
It is Houaco's voice!
Capana's son! my bosom's chosen brother!
Houaco! hoa!—I pray thee be composed.

Enter Houaco. Amazilia faints, and Houaco stands thunderstruck.
HOUACO.
Ha! Amazilia in Alphonso's arms!

ALPHONSO
(supporting AMAZILIA).
Approach, Houaco! I have found thy spouse
Thus spent with travel, and with hunger fainting.
Support her thou, and I will bring the fruits,
Our only store.

[Houaco receives her from Alphonso.
HOUACO.
Oh! my loved Amazilia!
And can it be thy heavenly form these arms,
These trembling, these poor, chain-gall'd, arms, support?
And shall thy opening eyes behold a slave,
In thy youth's promised husband, Amazilia!
Wilt thou not spurn him?
[She opens her eyes languidly, looks at him, and feebly struggles to get from him.
Shuddering she would break
From my unworthy hold!—Come thou, Alphonso!
For e'en in death she shrinks from my embrace.
Do thou support her.
[Alphonso supports, and Houaco retires dejectedly. AMAZILIA (opening her eyes, and finding herself in his arms).
I am free, Alphonso!
O'er the wide world I may at pleasure roam:
Who, who shall stay me?

ALPHONSO.
Oh! her thoughts are fever'd!
These idle words are fancy's sickly coinage!

AMAZILIA.
Methinks, indeed, I am about to die!
Then wherefore aught disguise of all I feel?
Houaco, I rejoice that thou still livest!
Thy presence will restore Capana's peace.
Oh may ye both be bless'd! but 'tis not given
To wretched Amazilia, if she live,
To witness, or to share, your happiness!

HOUACO.
I knew the high-born maid would thus reject
One who had been a slave!

AMAZILIA.
Nay, dear Houaco,
Think not thou art degraded in my eyes
By any chance of war. No, dearer far
Thy sufferings have made thee; and my heart
Will ever own for thee a sister's love.

HOUACO.
“A sister's love!” Why should'st thou say “a sister's?”
Thou art betroth'd to me! Canst thou not promise
The love a wife should know?

AMAZILIA.
My wayward fate
Will have it otherwise.

HOUACO.
What mean these words?

AMAZILIA
(with solemnity).
I own the Christian's God! the God of Mercy!
Farewell, Houaco! I am dead to thee.

[Going.
HOUACO
(stopping her).
And dost thou fly me?—Whither, Amazilia?

AMAZILIA
(with enthusiasm).
I follow where Alphonso leads the way!

ALPHONSO
(embarrassed).
No, she is not herself. Houaco, hear me!

HOUACO
(after a pause of contending passion).
This is no forgery of sickly fancy!
I see,—too clearly see! Fool that I was
To be thus duped! thus led in triumph hither!
Thou art a Spaniard! son of fell Pedrarias!
And thou canst smile, and flatter, to betray.
I was thy father's slave by right of war,
But did consent to fellowship with thee:
Nor half so low Pedrarias' slave I hold
As false Alphonso's friend!

ALPHONSO
(aside, with effort).
(Down, down my rage!
Capana's son is to Alphonso sacred!)
No, by my soul, 'tis false! 'tis false, Houaco,
What thou hast thought. My faith to thee is pure.
All lovely as she is, she shall be thine!
And never, never—

AMAZILIA.
Hold! Alphonso, hold!
I never can be thine—too well I know it!
My fancy had not yet distinctly formed
The daring thought! but following thee, it seem'd
I sought the unknown God, whose virtuous lore
Thy heaven-instructed lips were wont to teach!
Thou may'st refuse my proffered service, youth;
But canst not give me to another. Free
I am—and will be!

HOUACO.
Nay, it is well done,
Pedrarias' son! to steal from me her faith,
And now to spurn the maid!

ALPHONSO.
To spurn her?—No.
But to my friend! but to Capana's son!
To yield what most I prize beneath heaven's cope!

AMAZILIA.
“To yield me,” haughty youth! E'en thus our people
Will barter for the tame, domestic Lama,
Gay colour'd shells, or cocoa nuts, her price.
(Turning to Houaco).
Of noble blood—my father a cacique,
Great as thine own, Houaco! Liberty,
As thine, my birthright! My free-will I claim,
And evermore in solitude will dwell,
Secure, self-guarded! For I know to charm
The baneful snake—the properties have learnt
Of herbs salubrious; and the mystic song
Is mine, to lull the powers of ill that haunt
The mountain caverns, and in storms disport.
(To Alphonso).
Farewell, Alphonso! proud as thou, no mate,
No loved companion shall this bosom own!
My fellowship be with the answering rocks;
The winds my counsellors—for who shall share
Those thoughts—those hopes—which thou, youth, thou alone
Who didst inspire—could'st, worthily, partake?

[She sinks exhausted on the bank; Alphonso, terrified, bends anxiously over her.
Enter Laila hastily.
LAILA.
My Amazilia, I have found a brook;
The clustering cessus, and papaia fruit—
(Seeing Houaco)
But oh! ye pitying heavens! or do I dream,
Or do I bow to great Capana's son?

HOUACO
(putting her away).
Leave me, oh leave me! I am nothing, Laila!
Haste thee, kind maid, and aid thy sinking friend.
Ah see! she faints!—and yet thy services
May be, as mine, ungrateful—for behold!
The wily Spaniard o'er his victim bends!
[Laila hastens to her assistance, and is anxiously employed about her with Alphonso, without observing Houaco.
And are there ills Houaco has not felt?
What torture new, and strange, and fierce, is this?
Have I not baffled all Pedrarias' rage,
And smiled upon him,—as I had been at ease?
When pierced with wounds, fainting with loss of blood,
While swam all nature in my glassy eyes,
And, on my brow, death hung his last cold dews,
My spirit still held on its even course!
When torn with stripes, (the son of a cacique!)
I bore myself as though I felt them not!
I wearied out my torturers' cruelty,
And thought this iron breast was proof against
The touch of human ill. But this! oh! this
Awakes a pang so keen! it strikes so home!
On chords so tender of the heart! on chords
That neither fortitude nor manhood tempers
To bear a touch so rude!
[After watching them with violent emotion.
The smooth-tongued villain!
He shall not triumph in my woes! I'll hide me
In desert haunts and die!—or rouse my soul
To actions worthy of Capana's son!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Deep Caverns that lose themselves in the Distance.
Pedrarias, Gusman, and Spaniards.
PEDRARIAS.
Gusman, it was a dreadful night! Methinks
The heavens smile not on our enterprise.
Has Perez seen my son?

GUSMAN.
He has, my lord.
Long practised, in their secret haunts, to hunt
The natives, he, with matchless skill, has traced
The winding way the fugitives pursued.
These caves conceal his trusty band.

PEDRARIAS.
'Tis well.
Our veteran troops where posted?

GUSMAN.
In the rear,
A few hours march, my lord. Refresh'd by rest,
Elate with hope, and burning with impatience,
They wait their conquering chief to lead them on.

PEDRARIAS.
Perez, thou said'st e'en now, had seen my son.
Summon him, Gusman; I will question him.
[Exit Gusman.
Thanks that thou yet art safe, my son! What pangs
Have I endured, since from a father's presence
In wrath I banished thee!
Re-enter Gusman with Perez.
Good Perez, welcome.
Thy skill and diligence have well deserved.
How follow'd'st thou Alphonso and the slave?

PEREZ.
My lord, I traced their steps by many signs:
Here, twisted boughs had form'd a hasty bower—
There, lay remains of fruits; beside the rill,
The shells of cocoa nuts had served as goblets.

PEDRARIAS.
And didst thou see Alphonso?

PEREZ.
Yes, my lord:
But two nights since, Zamori and your son,
Beneath a plantain so profoundly slept,
That by the moonlight I could dwell a space
Distinctly on each feature.

PEDRARIAS
(aside).
Two nights since!
How many chances may two nights involve,
And two long days that have gone by since then!

PEREZ.
E'en now, my lord, I saw Zamori.

PEDRARIAS
(eagerly).
How?

PEREZ.
Beneath dry leaves, within a thicket laid:
I scarcely breathed.

PEDRARIAS.
And by his side Alphonso?

PEREZ.
Zamori was alone. With alter'd carriage,
He raged—he beat his breast—and, desperate,
On the cold earth he flung himself.

PEDRARIAS.
Spoke he?

PEREZ.
Some words he mutter'd, and methought the tones
Were those of deadly anger—menaces,
As though of vengeance.

PEDRARIAS.
Tones of anger!—menaces!
(Aside)
Gods! can the slave I deign'd to favour?—Yes,
A Spaniard, and Pedrarias' son, might well
Become the object of Zamori's vengeance!
Retire, good Perez. Gusman, I will follow:
In th'inner cave we will concert our measures.
[Exeunt Gusman and Perez.
Ungrateful, wayward boy! Thou little know'st
How still the father hangs about this heart!
I would not lose thee, no—for all the wealth
Of either world! But wherefore take th'alarm?
The slave's hand raised against the conqueror's son!
He durst not—no—the thought is idle—vain.
Besides, Alphonso had his sword!—No more—
These fears might better suit a trembling mother,
Than one, who, heaven commission'd, seeks new worlds,
Sets on their shores his foot, and stamps them his!

[He follows Gusman and Perez into the further caverns.