University of Virginia Library

Scene the Third.

A rocky shore on the margin of the Lake, overlooked by a Bastion of the Fort.
Narshkoff and his two Sons enter, and spread a Net on the Rocks.
Son.
[to his brother.]
Cheer you, my brother: here awhile take rest:
You are o'er-tir'd: here in the sun repose.

Narsh.
Give me the net, and I will spread it out,
And on the smooth rock dry its dripping meshes:
So, if perchance some soldier cross our way,
We shall not breed suspicion, but may seem
Intent on our day labour.

[He looks round earnestly.
Son.
Tell me, father,
Why do you seem disturb'd? what care comes o'er you?
Why point to yon dark nook?

Narsh.
We have o'er-shot it.
Look, my brave boys, our tough oars have o'er-shot
The little creek—'Tis there, beneath that rock,
Where yon huge birch bow'd down by weight of years
Hangs o'er the Neva.

Son.
'Tis a cheerless spot,
Gloomy as night—

Narsh.
That was th'appointed place;
There we must anchor our light skiff, and wait
The signal—When, at night, the torch thrice waves
On yon tall eastern turret—look—

Son.
I note it—

Narsh.
At the third signal, at a moment's warning
All must be ready: we must hoist the sail
If fair the breeze: if foul, brave boys, your sinews
Must not refuse to labour at the oar,
Till our good vessel o'er Ladoga's lake
Has safely wafted the entrusted charge—
It was no trifling bribe—

Son.
Our life's at hazard—

Narsh.
So is it, every day, when we do tempt
The wave, and cast our meshes in the flood.
Look you, so we but reach yon shore in safety
The rest of life we may carouse at will.
Take up the net—push off the boat—away—

Son.
My brother is o'er-tir'd; a little moment,
A moment rest. And, tell us, I entreat you,
Whom we must land in safety on yon shore?

Narsh.
I know not: but, no doubt, some high-born prisoner
Who has escap'd from chains.

Son.
Oh! were it Ivan,
This hand should from my arm first drop in the wave
Ere it let loose the oar. That hapless youth!
I know not why it is, whene'er I hear
His story, tho' it sorely grieve my heart,
Yet doth it chain mine ear.

Narsh.
'Tis ever so
When miseries unprovok'd command our pity.
In sooth his woe would melt a heart of stone.
Ivan is rightful emperor: he was crown'd
King in his cradle—

Son.
Out—alas the day!
It had been better, father, had poor Ivan
Our brother been, and born like us to labour.
Then—he had scap'd those torturers.

Narsh.
Would that Ivan
Had perish'd with the monk who lur'd him forth,
Ere to yon hideous cave the ruffians dragg'd him!
'Tis now, eight years gone by, and Ivan then
Scarce ten years old—'Twas a bleak eve, and loudly
The Neva roar'd: I never shall forget it.
Just as I moor'd my boat yon side the flood,
A band of soldiers hail'd me: loud their voice,
And fiercely, as in wrath, their swords unsheath'd
Wav'd o'er their prisoners. 'Twas a piteous sight,
And all was strife and tumult. I full fain
Had fled the spot, when one, with whose stern voice
I dar'd not parley, bad me to this isle
Ferry the prisoners, Ivan, and the monk,
Each bound in chains—

Son.
The boy, their king, in chains!

Narsh.
Sore manacled. The child sunk down oe'rpower'd,
Mute, motionless, save ever and anon
A big tear trickled, and a deep sigh burst
As it would break his heart. Not so the monk:
I heard his thrilling outcry, as he writh'd
And struggled with his chains, and with clench'd fist
In frantic rage oft struck his hoary temples.
And as I reach'd the fort, just as my oar
Spent its last stroke, the monk, uprising, dash'd
From either side the guard that closely grasp'd him,
Then plung'd into the flood with all his weight
Of fetters.—Never man beheld him more:
Save, yearly, on that day, that very hour
He perish'd, some have seen—

Son.
Seen what? Say, father—

Narsh.
His very self, that monk, so manacled,
Rise from the flood, and point with threat'ning hand
To Ivan's tow'r. But, hush! the air has ears,
And the whole isle is vex'd with vigilant spies.
[Ortosk, a Sentinel, appears on the bastion.
Come, let us hence—

Ort.
Speak—

Son.
'Tis the sentinel!

Ort.
I charge you, on your lives, say, wherefore here?
Why, on this spot?

Narsh.
We are poor fishermen
Who in these waters seek by daily labour
Our hard-earn'd food. We were o'er-tir'd, good soldier,
And came to dry our nets, and rest awhile
On this smooth beach.

Ort.
Away, nor loiter here.
If, when I challenge next, you here are found,
You are for life imprison'd.

[Sentinel goes.
Narsh.
Come, my boys!
'Tis dangerous tarrying here.

Son.
Oh grant, kind heav'n,
That this stout oar may bear poor Ivan hence,
And I will prize it as a monarch's sceptre.

[Exeunt.