 | The Weird Wanderer of Jutland |  |
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ACT III.
Scene I.
The Tournament. A Pavilion in front of the Area in which are the Lists. If it is not convenient to give a Representation of the Fight, the Scene must be so arranged that the Actors may appear to look down upon the Area in the back of the Stage which is out of the sight of the Audience.Sweno, Bertha, Agnes, and Attendants.
SWENO.
The eye of day looks cheerly on our meeting,
And the bright bucklers of our helmed knights
Send back his courtesy in gleams of fire.
(flourish.)
BERTHA.
Who rides so proudly with yon cross of red?
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'Tis doughty Reynald, and that black devise
Is the known emblem of illustrious Biorn.
(flourish.)
BERTHA.
Mark how they charge! how lance and buckler crash!
The red-cross wins: that sable crest is low.
AGNES.
O father, who is yonder giant champion,
Whose lance seems weightier than a weaver's beam,
He of the eagle-crest?
SWENO.
Harald of the Isles.
A readier knight hath never buckled steel!
And by my faith a noble wooer, Agnes.
I knew not of his presence. This day's prize
Hath drawn a sturdy suitor to the lists,
And our best gallants quail. By heavens, I miss
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Round the void lists as victor, undefied,
And not a lance is couch'd.—See!
Shout without.
Ubald! Ubald!
SWENO.
See, how young Ubald dares him to the proof!
His lance is in the rest.
(flourish.)
On, on they rush,
Like the swift whirlwind; they are lost in dust.
By heaven, 'tis proudly done!
(Agnes screams faintly, looking forward with eagerness.)
Shout without.
An Ubald! Ubald!
SWENO.
Why that huge champion of the misty isles
Cumbers a rood of ground.—Right gallant Ubald!
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And his broad lands in Orkney. Much I marvel
Who may withstand that dint which unhorsed Harald.
BERTHA.
Lo, where the red-cross gleams!
SWENO.
High-crested Reynald!
If any strength can bide him, it is thine!
(flourish.)
BERTHA.
What ails thee, child? Thy cheek is blanch'd with fear.
Remember, Agnes, of what blood thou comest.
SWENO.
Lightning is not more sudden than their charge.
Saint Mary! they bear them nobly, both unharm'd;
The area shakes beneath them. See! they wheel,
Like two big clouds careering in mid air.
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The steeds are riderless upon their flanks,
Shiver'd each lance. The sword must win the day.
(The clash of swords is heard.)
BERTHA.
Now heaven defend thee, Ubald! thou hast need
Of all thy prowess.
AGNES.
O his foot hath slipt!
Eternal mercy, save him!
SWENO.
He is up,
He bears him like a lion in the fight.
His blows rain thick as hail.
Shout without.
Hurrah! hurrah!
Ubald, brave Ubald is the victor! Ubald.
(Agnes sinks half faint into the arms of Bertha.)
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Our lion-cub has gain'd the day, and nobly.
Shout without.
Ubald! brave Ubald is the victor! Ubald!
[Flourish. Enter UBALD, and other KNIGHTS.]
[Enter UBALD, with his drawn sword in his left hand, and the broken sword of Reynald in his right.]
UBALD.
A boon, a boon, sir! Bid thy seneschal
Cut heronshaw and peacock with this blade,
This boasted dragon-carver from Aleppo!
SWENO.
Ubald, we greet thee with a parent's joy,
The day is thine; but ere we make thee welcome
As our child's suitor, whose abashed cheek
Has changed fear's livery for a brighter color,
Loud proclamation must the trumpet make,
To all, whatever be their rank or station,
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The mystery of thy birth, which we deem noble.
[Enter Reynald and others.]
UBALD.
Make proclamation for a leech, my sire!
The conqueror of the east, the sultan-slayer,
Has wrench'd his princely sinew. Faith 'tis well,
Else Ubald had been minced by this rare blade,
As trenchermen cleave larks. Say'st thou not, Reynald?
REYNALD.
False boy, thou didst take vantage of my mercy.
'Twas thy foot slipp'd; and, but I staid mine arm
In pity to thy youth, thou wert not here
To taunt me thus. Thou, when I thought thee shent,
Didst, tygerlike, spring on me unawares,
And that tried falchion snapp'd.
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Aye, this strong weapon,
To which the skulls of infidels were paper,
Broke on the boy's arm. O 'twas foully play'd
To deal the blows too fast upon thee, Reynald!
I cry thee pardon. It behoved me wait
Till Reynald had ta'en breath. 'Twas most discourteous;
I should have waited on my bended knee
Thine own good time.
REYNALD.
This is no feud of words;
Thy way of mirth dishonoreth a name
Which brooks no stain. By all the shades of those
Who at life's cost have known me true and loyal,
I do defy thee, Ubald, unto death.
Earth is too narrow for thy spring of pride.
UBALD.
And the nine heavens, my spirit is so buoyant!
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Would pluck the wreath of reputation
By such light speech. I do embrace thy challenge;
But hark ye, Reynald, this morn to arms was given,
Love claims to-morrow.
SWENO.
Sirs, these feuds offend us.
Thou, Agnes, as befits thee, with yon cuirass,
Palm of this trysting, gird victorious Ubald.
Nay, by my knighthood, had I bid thee give
Thyself, a worthier palm, thou couldst not change
The clear complexion of thy natural hue
To brighter vermeil. Agnes, on my troth
I think thou fain wouldst give thy blushing self,
The unsunn'd whiteness of this virgin hand,
A brighter guerdon.
(taking her hand, jestingly.)
Have a care, young trembler!
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May claim him to his heaven. Have a care, daughter!
(AGNES lifts up the golden cuirass to offer it to UBALD. At that moment the trumpet sounds again. Re-enters MESSENGER hurried.)
SWENO.
What tidings?
MESSENGER.
Noble Sweno, scarce the herald
Had proclamation made, giving loud breath
To the shrill trumpet's brass, when from the crowd
Stepp'd forth a wizzard shape in female guise,
Craving admittance to this lordly presence.
(Flourish. Enter WANDERER, preceded by a Herald.)
WANDERER.
Sweno, I come, obedient to thy hest,
Fate's secret to unravel, which disclosed,
Egress unharm'd I claim for me—and mine.
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Like living lights in the fringed eyelids chased.
UBALD.
O treason! O base thief, thou hast purloin'd it!
BERTHA.
'Tis like she hath; with sacrilegious hand
Rifling the vault, where lie entomb'd the bones
Of her who gave thee being.
UBALD.
'Tis like?—'tis certain!
SWENO.
Say, woman, in that helpless infant's cradle
What else was found, by no enquiring eye
Save mine and noble Bertha's ever question'd?
WANDERER.
A scroll, whereon these words, in thy mind's tablet
Long since deep graven.—Run not the couplets thus,
Though the last words be from that legend rent?
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“Was sever'd at the hour this child was borne
“From its proud mother; when they reunite,
“The valiant son shall meet his mother's sight.”
And now I tender to thy judging eye,
Long saved, long cased in gold with precious care,
(taking it out of a small box)
The fragment of that scroll.—See, see!—it fits
The nice indentures of that wavy rent,
Which no art's skill could liken! See the words
Traced by one hand, quaint nature's character!
Comes that untainted scroll from the damp vault
Of charnel-houses? Am I not thy mother?
SWENO.
O past conjecture wondrous! Name his father.
WANDERER.
He has no father! Ask the wandering billows
Of the storm-beaten sea, who made their bosom
Team with the finny myriads! Ask the winds,
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With blight and pestilence! He has no father.
UBALD.
Dread being! mother not, but fiend, I name thee!
If true the accursed tale, thy child of want,
Safe cradled in the arms of joy and honor,
Why call'st thou now to misery and ruin?
Why dash to earth the wreath, thine art had woven?
Speak, foul witch, speak.
WANDERER.
Betray'd, out-cast, abandoned,
Man's roof has not o'er-shelter'd me; the blast,
Not age, has blanch'd these elf-locks. I have known
Dire want and loneliest savage wanderings.
The fearfullest glens, the tangled precipice,
Have been my lair; the demon of the tempest
My comforter: to sights abhorr'd of men
And fellowship with every cavern's inmate
Use has made me familiar; the gaunt wolf,
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And in compassion to man's outcast yields
Share of his bloody banquet. Where I roam'd,
The nightdew was my balm, the baleful clouds
My canopy; and, by their sulphurous bolts
Illumed, my rocky threshold gleam'd with splendor
That did outshine the emblazon'd halls of kings.
Nor envied I man's palaces.—But such
Was not fit cradle for weak infancy.
The firm endurance of an injured soul
May smile mid nature's terrors, and even hail
The fiend that nurtures them; but helpless years
Lack milder mother's-milk.
SWENO.
What phrensy then,
Mysterious phantom, say, what hateful purpose
Now, in the prime and summer of its growth,
Strikes down that glorious scion, deck'd with honors,
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Had safely planted it?
WANDERER.
Look upon me;
Proud mortal, mark this gaunt and abject being;
These skeleton-like limbs and sun-parch'd skin
Which once had bloom and beauty!—See me now
The haggard child of want, and scorn, and wo!
Whose hope is but despair! The very dogs
Howl after me, as if the mouldering grave
Had cast me from its foul abhorred womb
Polluting with my breath the face of heaven.
Sunk as I am, perchance amid the blaze
Of yon gilt banners, girded with the pomp
Of gorgeous chivalry, some bosom shrinks
From inward horror, to whose nightly visions
My lot were paradise. I would not change
These tatter'd garments for your bravery.—
Ubald, awake! If I have dash'd from thee
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If all the friends of thy proud-budding youth
Drop off from thee, as from the wither'd tree
The worms that fed on it; if glory's course
Rejects thee, offspring of despair and want;
Know, thou hast friends among the wrecks of nature.
O there is joy amid the crashing storm,
When the rack scuds before the rushing winds,
And all is ruin! Where the sea-mew screams
Mid desert caves may be thy nuptial bower;
The howling wolves shall yield thee minstrelsy.
Ha! ha! ha! (She laughs hideously).
SWENO,
(rising.)
Out of my sight, accursed of heaven! away!
WANDERER.
(Withdrawing slowly, with a look and action of threatening and savage contempt.)
The curse of heaven will be soon fulfill'd.
[Exit.
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Brave champions, this our joy is turn'd to sadness.
Ubald, we still uphold thee; and thy deeds
Shall win thee rank and reverence and honors:
But such alliance suits not with our bearing;
And we perforce must name, of those whose rank
May make them bold to be our daughter's suitors,
Reynald, though vanquish'd, victor.—Welcome, Reynald!
Child of my heart, come with me.
AGNES.
Ubald! Ubald!
(Exeunt all but UBALD, who remains alone in deep thought. The Scene falls in front representing a Woodland outside the Lists. UBALD enters slow and thoughtful, and leans on the point of his sword. He starts suddenly into a defensive attitude.)
UBALD.
Avaunt! spectre of hell, avaunt!—Stay, Ubald!
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(Starting again.)
Who dared to call this wretched being Ubald?
There was a time, I well remember me,
When that name sounded in the lists of fame,
Valor's first minion: 'twas a gallant name,
And he who bore it, vail'd his crest to none,
And men would doff their caps, and cry “Live Ubald!”
'Tis past—it was a dream—I am not Ubald!
All, all's unsound! the very earth we tread on
A counterfeit! a faithless sod, that mantles
The bubbling of a bottomless abyss.
Nature itself is false.—There is no Ubald!
He, who usurp'd that name's a slave, an upstart!
A liar, a pitiful, a base-born slave!
(A pause.)
I have heard tell, that, when the unchaste moon
Peeps with her broad eye glaring from above,
Men's thoughts are phrensied: I do well believe,
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Through fate's invisible and airy maze,
Even as the tides of ocean ebb or swell
At her strong bidding. Life's a mockery,
And we, that tread this motley earth, are fools,
And madmen. Else, amid the battle's hurley
Why has this arm oft turn'd the flood of war,
Outvying opposition, till the cry
Of victory through all the welkin rang,
Filling the trump of glory? if that name,
Once bright like Lucifer, and like him lost,
Falls as a star from heaven!—O Agnes, Agnes,
What demon from my hand has dash'd the chalice,
Which thou hadst crown'd with bliss!—Ha! if thy faith
Forswear me now,—baseborn—despised—rejected.
I will not, dare not think it.—Joy of my soul,
I still have trust in thee!
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WANDERER,
(aside.)
My son!—alas,
In that brief word how many thoughts lie blended!
O long divorced, estranged, from this lone heart,
And yet my son!—I thought my soul was steel'd
Against all fond impression, trebly arm'd
With the keen temper of the merciless blade!
And yet how painfully the name of son
Falls on this wither'd heart!—O Ubald, Ubald,
The cherub peace is waking in my soul,
Which has not carol'd there since thou wert born!
(Aloud.)
My son!
UBALD,
(seizing her vehemently.)
Call me not son!—O Satan's mate!
By what foul spell hast thou atchieved my ruin?
What traitor has suborn'd thee? Make thy treason
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Thy shrivell'd flesh, and cast it to the wolves.
Hast thou not told a tale of damning falsehood?
WANDERER.
If I be Satan's mate, thy fury speaks thee
Child of my womb.
(He lets go his hold.)
'Tis meet that I, fate's tool,
Should be accurst of mine own issue. Smite me,
Fierce Ubald! Bury in eternal night
The secret of thy birth! Slay her, who bore thee!
UBALD.
O terrible of women, I will kneel
Even in prostration meekly to the hem
Of thy rent garment, so thou wilt reveal
The name of him whose stamp I bear.
WANDERER.
'Twould need
A raven's note to name him. Rather ask
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Would have dissolv'd the fabric of this world
And all the gorgeous firmament above us,
Letting hell loose from its eternal chain.
UBALD.
And though the sky should reel, the rock-staid sea
With the foundations of the crazy earth
Quake to their base, I would demand it.
WANDERER.
Ubald,
There stands between thee and thy burning wishes
A wide gulph fixt, which to o'erleap were death.
By all heaven's flaming lights thou art my child!—
Wilt thou avenge me, Ubald?—The event
Hangs on my word, whether to uphold or plunge thee
Deep, deep, into that fiery gulph of ruin.
UBALD.
My heart yearns painfully to know my father.
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Thou shalt learn nothing, till I am revenged!
Rave, thou hot youth! Strike rashly, strike thy mother!
Or kneel, and, Ubald, swear to slay the man
Who made thee fatherless! I tell thee, son,
If that thou hast an ear, a heart, a soul,
That cry for vengeance, which appals me nightly,
Must have been heard by thee. Swear, Ubald, swear!
UBALD.
There needs no oath to spur me to that goal,
No, nor blind curse! By heaven, show me the man,
That made an orphan of ill-fated Ubald,
And I will drag him to such strict account,
No second sun shall dawn on him and me.
WANDERER.
Swear it!
UBALD.
By all heaven's gifts I swear it!—Name him.
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Sweno! proud Sweno made thee fatherless!
Haste, Ubald! slay him!—Wilt thou not avenge me?
UBALD.
The spirit of Satan dwells in thy foul lips!
Thou darest not say it!
WANDERER.
Wilt thou not avenge me?
UBALD,
(with great emotion.)
Say, who! and when, and where! how fell my father?
WANDERER.
Nay, not a word, till that dread debt be paid:
Then shall my speech reveal no humble rights.
Ubald, thine oath! Vengeance on haughty Sweno!
UBALD.
Mysterious Being, thy words fall like drops
Of poison, blistering whate'er they touch.
My soul is horror-struck. Shall Ubald slay
One sire, kind substitute for nature's tie,
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Of his lost birthright, and unknown his father?
WANDERER.
Wilt thou not slay him?
UBALD.
By the living light,
I will not touch his hoary brow with harm,
For all that thou and thy fell crew can tempt with!
WANDERER.
O say not thus—'twere better for thee, Ubald,
To riot in the blood of innocents,
To earn the mark of Cain, than bear the doom
Which must o'erwhelm thee if thou brave this bidding.
Stay! the ground quakes beneath thee!
UBALD.
Let it gape:
I will not hurt the head of honor'd Sweno.
WANDERER.
Beware; his lot is seal'd; and thine hangs trembling
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Thy glorious heritage, or wear a curse,
Which but to whisper would make the horrent hair
Bristle thy youthful brows. Wilt thou kill Sweno?
UBALD.
Not, though the firm earth yawn'd, and from its depth
Fate own'd thy ministry.
WANDERER.
O fiends of vengeance,
Sear up my milk of nature! Dry the source
Of pity's womanish tears, or let them fall
Like water on the hissing furnace cast,
Giving new strength to all-devouring flame!
Devoted Ubald, be fate's will atchieved,
Though it must shiver thee! If vengeance move not,
Love shall perforce arouse thee! Shall that Reynald
To-morrow, triumphing in thy disgrace,
Lead Agnes to the altar! Shall Ubald gape,
And cry, “Long live the bride! Health and ripe joys
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And beg some base coin from the lusty bridegroom!
UBALD.
The voice of fiends is in thee. O thy words
Have rush'd like molten fire upon my soul!
Thou canst not say that she will wed with Reynald.
WANDERER.
Will!—nay, she must.—Is not the faith of Sweno
To Reynald pledged? or is that haughty chief
In love a laggard? Know this, by thine abasement
To-morrow Agnes is his bride, unless
She be to-night thine, Ubald.
UBALD.
Ha! how say'st thou?
WANDERER.
This night or never must Agnes be thy wife.
UBALD.
To-night?—They say the devil sometimes speaks true.
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(Giving him a key.)
Take this, love's talisman. The wierd scorn'd Wanderer
May crown thy wishes yet: its powerful spell
Shall yield thee entrance to young Agnes' bower,
When earth is wrapt in gloom.
UBALD.
Woman of might,
Give to thy meaning words. If love prevail,
Where and how wedded shall mine Agnes be
At that still season?
WANDERER.
In Helen's ruin'd chapel.
When first the moon upon your secret flight
Throws her slant beam, beneath the porch a priest
Shall wait thy bidding.—Speed! arouse her love!
Triumph o'er maidish dread! or the next sun
Must dawn on Reynald's bliss.
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On Reynald's death,
Or shall see Agnes mine.
WANDERER.
Under that chapel
A secret cell is hewn; that obscure vault
Shall be thy bridal chamber.—Fear'st thou, Ubald?
Splendor it lacks, and soft luxurious ease,
To cheer a dainty fair one; but its stillness
Is fitting such a stealth. This night or never!
Ubald, time flies.
UBALD.
Befriend me, powerful Love!
My thoughts are all amazed and unarray'd,
I walk as in a mist; be this night, Agnes,
Our first fond entrance into weal or wo!
[Exit UBALD.
THE WANDERER,
(alone.)
He's gone; he's gone.—Be still, thou coward heart!
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The world seems dark around me, and such deeds
Are doing, that the sun must shrink for ever.
Methought I heard the voice of one, who drowning
Cried, “mother, save me! help me, ere I sink!”
And then methought two spirits strongly strove
To drag me diversely; one pure as light,
The beam of radiant mercy on its brow;
The other foul and loathsome, fierce as death,
Mocking the agony of convulsive sobs,
And its fell strength prevail'd. O powers of evil,
There be some hallow'd moments, when this soul
Can wrestle with your might, and dovelike peace
Seems like a lovely vision, seen far off!
Now all is dark: the Spirit of revenge
Knocks, Sweno, at thy gate. Thy knell is rung.
[Exit.
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Scene III.
—Sweno's Hall.SWENO, REYNALD and others.
SWENO.
We do admit thy claims, but some short space
Crave ere the accomplishment. A troublous star
Lowers o'er our house: we lack the pulse of joy
For bridal revels.—I fear my child had framed
Some hopes which must prove vain; but Sweno's daughter
Will know what fits her station.
[Enter Attendant.]
Attendant.
Ubald craves
Admittance.
SWENO.
By your leave.
(Reynald and others fall back to the further end of the stage.)
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(alone.)
Wo to who rears
The tyger's young! and yet I love thee, Ubald.
[Enters Ubald.]
Be welcome, Ubald! Sweno's hall is open
To all his knights; to none, than thee, more freely.
UBALD.
There was a time, nor is it long by-gone—
An hour or two perchance—when Sweno's hall
Was open to his son—his foster'd son,
Who, from life's earliest dawn to manhood, knew
No other sire;—nor now.—Dost thou disclaim me?
SWENO.
Would that thou wert my son! Brave youth, this heart
Would leap to see my crest and gallant bearings
With all the honors that my house has earn'd
Worn by mine issue. 'Tis the curse of fate
A stranger shall gird Sweno's sword, a stranger
Lord o'er this princely fief, when I depart,
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My wealth thou wert my son.
UBALD.
It hath pleased God
To shrowd the fountain of my birth, perchance
For some unpurged offence. And yet methinks,
If there be one upon this lower earth
To whom it stands reveal'd, that should be Sweno.
SWENO.
Ha! how say'st thou?
UBALD.
I say, it should be Sweno.
Why didst thou rear me as thy child, if baseborn?
The lion brings not to his tawny mate
The jackall's cub. O Sweno, I adjure thee
By the one hope I harbor this side heaven,
Unveil my secret birth.
SWENO.
Am I a prophet,
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Of thy sad story?
UBALD.
Nothing! I stand alone,
Sever'd from every tie, but such as bind me
To thee and thine. My birth is wrapt in gloom
Thick as the inaccessible cloud, which hides
The shrine upon the peak of Caucasus.
SWENO.
Ubald, when first I saw thee, thou wert smiling,
A helpless infant, upon Bertha's bosom.
The fearless smile craved pity. From that hour
(For we esteem'd thee sprung of gentle stock)
Thou hast lack'd nothing, which a parent's fondness
Could lavish on the heir of all his fortunes.
Like a king's issue hast thou been upbrought
With every princely gift; and last, not lightest,
The boon of knighthood.
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Sir, that debt is written
Here with indelible characters, and claims
The service of this arm till death.
SWENO.
O Ubald,
I have e'en loved thee like an anxious father;
And thou hast fill'd that void in my affections
Which nature left, denying me a son.
Now haply it behooves me cast thee from me
Adown the vale of life, seeing (though late)
That thou hast clomb unto this lofty nest
From such a lowly and disgracious fortune.
But still I love thee, and will uphold thy knighthood
At no mean cost; but higher hopes are wreck'd
By thy base origin.
UBALD.
O thou dost not, canst not,
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The tongue that did avouch it is accurst.
SWENO.
Ubald, intemperate wrath does ill become
Thy present station. Be of humbler strain!
We are to blame, who have uprear'd thy youth
In boisterous license. Think, what now befits thee.
UBALD.
It fits me, sir, to guard with jealous honor
The rights you gave me; nor will I renounce
Of those one smallest title, while I gird
This sword of knighthood, which departs not from me,
Save in the grasp of death. Were my race abject,
As the blood cries within me it is noble,
I have earn'd that, in perilous fields of fame,
Which doth outshine the best and loftiest birthdom,
A soldier's rank. Upon thy pledged word
I claim my prize, the hand of Agnes.—Start not,
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Who can deny my right.
SWENO.
I—Sweno—tell thee,
I, I, would plunge this sword, my father's weapon,
Like he of Rome, into my daughter's bosom,
Abolishing with her each joy of age,
Ere she should soil by such a foul alliance
The blood of my fore-elders.
UBALD.
It is false;
It were no stain to wed with Ubald. Hark ye,
Sir—fearless I assert—mark well my words—
Thou canst not, durst not, Sweno, for thine honor,
Uphold that wizzard's tale.
SWENO.
Nay, by my sword,
Her proofs admit not doubt or question.
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O monstrous! By that selfsame speech convicted,
Thou wert a murderer. Ay, start now, and learn
What 'tis to have the jewel of thy life
Hang on a traitor's proof!
SWENO.
Boy, thou art frantic.
UBALD.
By heaven, I am calm; I speak the things I know,
And I embrace with juster apprehension
Their form and bearings, than thou dost. Take me with thee,
I do not charge on thee that damning guilt;
Here I discard the thought, as loathsome treason
Gender'd in hell. But, if her speech were true,
Thine hate has robb'd me of a princely father.
She speaks—not I.—Her voice cries loud for vengeance.
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And not take home to thine that charge of murder.
SWENO.
What ho!
(Reynald, &c. come forward.)
Sirs, we are bearded in our hall;
The whelp, which we have nurtured, turns upon us
With rabid fang. Thus from our love we cast him!
Base-born, away! we brook not thy rash words.
UBALD,
(drawing his sword.)
Say'st thou? And yet I have no sire but thee.
No other tongue had scorn'd me thus, and lived!
No other eye upon my fallen fortunes
Had glared, as thine does now! I will not harm thee.
Thou, Reynald, thou whose bold pretensions
Assail my rights, stand forth. Let heaven decide
Which be the better and the nobler champion.
Thou didst erewhile defy me unto death.
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I did; and thy bold arm eschew'd the cartel
Even in the shelter of a woman's bower.
That arm perhaps is abject as thy birth.
UBALD,
(fighting.)
Thus—thus—we shall be quickly weigh'd.
SWENO,
(interposing.)
Stand back!
I do forbid the challenge. Lay hands on him.
(The Knights interpose with drawn swords.)
We have been far too mild; but Sweno's presence
Shall not be braved. Our will is thus determined;
To-morrow, Reynald, thou shalt wed our daughter.
But if thou wieldest sword or lance before,
We cast thee from our love.
(To UBALD.)
Thou, sir, begone.
We would not willingly let thee down the wind,
But thou, unruly tarsel, quitt'st thy perch
To strike too high a quarry. Lead him forth.
98
Which is the vassal will lay hands on Ubald?—
I quit thee, Sweno.—Thou hast done me wrong,
Which haply should wipe out the memory
Of all I owe thee:—but it is not so.
Thou, haughty Reynald, mark me. It were safer
To take the fleshless and abhorred death
To be thy mate, than lay the hand of power
Upon mine Agnes.
[Exit.
REYNALD.
Faith, thou bear'st thee nobly;
And I could prize thee rather in its ebb,
Than brook the rash flow of thy better fortune.
SWENO.
We do desire the Lady Agnes' presence.
[Exit Attendant.
Reynald, I am much moved. This headstrong youth
Has part in my affections, and my daughter
99
We must be brief, and use authority,
Though it sound harsh.
(Enters AGNES.)
(SWENO, embracing her.)
My child!
AGNES.
My gracious sire!
SWENO.
Thou art pale, and yet, believe me, child, I love thee
As my best hope on earth.—Said I my best?
My only hope!
AGNES.
Ever my own kind father!
SWENO.
I have no son. A son is to his father
A mirror, in the which his aged eyes
May read their image; ay, a magic mirror,
Which doth give back himself, his form and likeness,
100
Thou would'st speak, but the inarticulate sound
Dies on thy lips.
AGNES.
Sir—Something I would say,
But it might savor of presumptuous wishes
To think a worthless maiden could reflect
Ought of her father's virtues, in whom the mould
Of nature's noblest pattern is most perfect:
Yet gazing on them, living in the shine
Of all thy glories, something my thoughts must borrow
From thine high attributes; and store it here
As the pale ineffectual orb of night
Drinks the sun's lustre.
SWENO.
I do esteem thee, Agnes,
Worthy thy blood; one in whom gentle pleasance
101
Thy noble lord and rear his princely issue
To wear our dignities.
AGNES.
Sir?
SWENO.
We lack an heir
To bear them worthily. Behold the Knight
Whose unmatch'd prowess we have this day chosen,
To uphold our race. Thou art a bride to-morrow.
AGNES.
Say not unmatch'd—O, sir, you are too hasty.
(Kneeling.)
Pray you, recall that speech! 'Twas but yestre'en
You said, my lord must stand in arms unrivall'd;
I do take sanctuary on those thy words,
The altar of thy truth.
SWENO.
And so he does.
102
O father, I address me to your justice!
I will not plead, as other maids are used,
The dreamings of the fancy. I adjure thee
By thine own blood which throbs within this heart,
Do not that wrong! for Ubald is the victor.
And if that strange tale (false perchance) have thrown
A shade upon his fortunes, and ta'en from him
The sunshine of thy favor, let me bide
E'en as I am, thine own, thy loving handmaid!
Or if that be too blessed, and his fall
Must marr my joys and cast me forth from thee,
O let me in some barren cloister chew
The bread of solitude, but do not curse me
With such worse thraldom!
SWENO.
Daughter, thou offendest.
Thou sinn'st against thy name. I bid thee purge
The avenues of thy thoughts, and from that bosom
103
With all its baseness. Gods! shall Sweno's child
Stoop to a beggar's wooing?—Leave my cloak.
AGNES.
Say not to-morrow, father!
SWENO.
Loose me! rise!
The valiant Reynald has my word. Receive him,
As fits thee, courteously.
(Going, while she stretches her arms to follow him.)
I bid thee stay.
[Exit SWENO, &c. Manent AGNES, REYNALD.
AGNES.
My father!—He has left me.—Now, good angels,
Arm me with strength. I will embrace my shroud
Ere I prove faithless.
REYNALD.
This hand, midst war's alarums,
Has purchased honor in the hazardous field
104
Of lovely woman I am ill wont to strive with.
AGNES.
There is no strife between us, sir.—What mean you?
I wear my temper evenly, as fits
The daughter of a prince; if thou hast cause
Of strife, declare it.
REYNALD.
No cause, fair Agnes,
Saving such war, as oft-times is the herald
Of gentle love. Permit . . . .
(He offers to take her hand.)
AGNES.
Touch me not, sir!
I may not brook thy freedom.
REYNALD.
On my knee . . .
AGNES.
Go to, go to; I take no fallen champion,
105
Unto that Syrian princess whom you rescued!
You soar too high.
REYNALD.
Ha! Dost thou scorn me, lady?
AGNES.
Hast thou ne'er heard, how they of heathendom
Stood back in awe, before the livid corse
Which to their gods was consecrate by lightning?
E'en such am I; amid the joys of youth
Struck by the angry bolt of heaven, and will
Henceforth hold fellowship with nothing earthly.
I do embrace the altar, and will rather
Wear out my years in solitary penance
Than wed with thee.
[Exit.
REYNALD.
'Tis strange; this baseborn churl
Spreads an infectious rashness. Scornful maid,
106
In all thy flood of beauty, and must bend.
This splendid heritage outweighs thy love.
[Exit.
END OF ACT III.
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