University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A Cave amidst the Mountains.
Two Assassins disguised like the native Mountaineers.
1 Assas.
The time is past: they promis'd quick return.
This steel lacks blood.

2 Assas.
Our booty shall not fail. Be patient, brother.

1 Assas.
Why did you lure us from the southern plains?
There still, if plunder fail'd, earth's grassy bed
Refresh'd our weary limbs, and the blue sky
Look'd kindly on our slumber. Here—

2 Assas.
Be patient—
Our long expected prize, Tortona's wealth,
Ere long shall far o'erpay these transient toils.

1 Assas.
Aye, if we seize the Countess.

2 Assas.
If we seize her!
How can she 'scape?

1 Assas.
The pass below is open,
Secure from danger, by the Provost's guides
Clear'd from the snows.

2 Assas.
No, not if trusty Gualter
Has faithfully obey'd me.

Gualter and a Third Assassin enter.
1 Assas.
See, he comes.

2 Assas.
Well, Gualter!

Gual.
All is done: prepare your poniards.
Yet—'tis an easy prey. One man in arms
Alone attends the dame. When I had track'd
The Provost to the convent, I return'd
O'er pathless crags, and from the mountain peak
That beetled o'er the pass, with this good pole
Loosen'd the snow-mass. None can pass.

1 Assas.
Away.
Stab those that dare resist: but spare the Countess:
Her ransom shall enrich us.

Gual.
Lead us forth!

[Exeunt.
Scene, Mountains cover'd with Snow, overhanging the Pass, on the North Side of the Convent. Alfonso climbing over the Rocks.
Alfonso.
Alf.
What! force me back!
Roof me in cloyster'd cells, where never sun
Glanc'd on the face of man! must they explore
Which way I tread: and track me to my haunts,
Like some ferocious beast that makes his lair
In the unfrequented wilderness! what am I?
A wretch, moon-stricken, to be watch'd and bound:
Unfit to bide where man makes residence?
Would that I were not, what indeed I am!
Or being what I am, in form a man,
That heav'n had cast me in the ideot mould,
Of those that in the valley gasp in the sun,
With disproportion'd throats: and uncouth limbs,
That know not their own use.

Con.
[behind the scenes.]
Alfonso! ho!

Alf.
Shout on! shout on! here none will look to find me:
Or if they chance to spy me, who will dare
Climb up this giddy edge? they nigh had seiz'd me,
But for that jutting point on which I sprung,
While they past on beneath.

Sacristan and Confessor enter.
Sac.
See you the track
Of his uncertain step amid the snow?

Con.
It ceas'd on sudden.

Sac.
Long my eye pursu'd it,
In mazy shiftings all irregular.

Con.
Aye, purposely confus'd to mock pursuit.
He's fled, I fear, for ever.

Alf.
[wildly laughing.]
Ha! ha! ha!

Sac.
Heard you that noise?

Con.
Sure from the air it burst:
For never foot of man
E'er scal'd these mountains.

Sac.
Let us once more hail him.
Alfonso! ho—Alfonso!

[Clashing of swords heard behind the scenes.
Agnes.
[behind the scenes.]
Murder—Help—Murder.

Fran.
[behind the scenes.]
This good sword shall free you.

Agnes.
[behind the scenes.]
Help from the convent, help.

Sac.
What cry was that?

Con.
I heard the cry of murder.
Hark! 'tis the clash of swords.
Francis and the Infirmier enter.
[to Francis.
Speak—wherefore thus.
Thy looks stare wildly—there is blood upon thee.

Fran.
[to the Infirmier.]
Your limbs are fresh, back to the convent, haste.
Ring out th'alarum bell. [Infirmier goes.]
Three men, assassins,
Disguis'd like those that on the mountains urge
The chamois chase, have seiz'd the hapless ladies.
I battled, long as these sore-mangled limbs
Could stand their poniards.

Alf.
[leaping from the rock, and snatching his sword.]
See! th'avenger here!
Wash off, kind heav'n! the murder on this blade,
By the assassin's blood. Come, lead the way.
I have in battle cop'd with mighty men,
And foil'd proud warriors.

Fran.
Give me, Sir, your arm.
My wounds bleed fast

[Exeunt.
Scene, another part of the Mountains.
Agnes, Countess of Tortona, Ellen, Assassins.
Agnes.
If 'tis my wealth you seek, I gave you all.

Assas.
Dame, if your strength had match'd your fearless mind,
Your wealth had ne'er enrich'd us.

Agnes.
[to the other Assassins going to bind Ellen.]
Bind her not:
She scarce has pow'r to lift her hands in pray'r.

Assas.
To her, to her she points.

Ellen.
Oh wound her not.
Here, here, good men, these stones, they say, are diamonds:
This had escap'd you—take it—spare her life.
'Twas once a nuptial present—so—farewell.
[Kissing the picture, which she gives the Assassin.
I fondly thought to have worn thee in the grave.
Spare but her life, and I shall die content.

[Swoons away.
Agnes.
Hear me, unhappy men! and mark my words.
I am Tortona's Countess, and I come
To bear this sufferer, more than daughter to me,
To the lone vale below that gave her birth.
Let me pass on, and this last duty pay,
And, by yon heav'n! I vow,
[Gives a ring to one of the Assassins.
Whene'er you show this ring, I will redeem it
With riches, that shall free your future days
From deeds of guilt.

Assas.
[looking upon Ellen.]
Her pulse is still—it beats not.

Assas.
Let not this corse betray us. Plunge it, there,
Within yon snow-pit.

Assas.
Aye. I'll safely tomb her.
Give me the corse.

[One of the Assassins bears Ellen off.
Agnes.
Oh stay! she is not dead.
Restore her to my arms, I will repay you
With wealth, a monarch's ransom.

Assas.
Those will free
Thyself, or thou shalt join her.

Agnes.
Ye shall banquet
In golden halls, and o'er your tombs I'll raise
Convents, where holy men by force of pray'r,
Shall save your souls from fiends.

Assas.
You promise rarely,

Alfonso
[behind the scenes.]
Die wretch. Go—bear her to the convent.

Agnes.
Heav'n!
I hear the voice of succour. Man! unhand me.

[Struggling with them.
Assas.
[going to stab her.]
Nay—if you struggle, lady! you are dead.

Alfonso rushes in, stabs one of the Assassins, in struggling with the other, who flies, he is himself wounded.
Alf.
This to thy heart—fly, murderer—thou art free.

[to Agnes.
Agnes.
Oh what words
Can rightly praise, what earthly gifts reward thee?
Thus, on thy hand, the Countess of Tortona
Prints the warm kiss of gratitude.

Alf.
[falls prostrate.]
Oh—oh.

Agnes.
Whence that deep groan? the assassin's steel has pierc'd him.

Alf.
[looking up.]
Not that—I felt it not. Strike—strike me dead.

Agnes.
What—for this deed? Let it not grieve thy soul—
Long ages past, a voice from heav'n decreed,
“Who spills man's blood, by man his blood be spilt.”
Why art thou silent? Speak.

Alf.
But—but forgive me.

Agnes.
In what hast thou offended?

Alf.
[to himself.]
I must speak.
The threaten'd torments of the world to come,
Where sinners meet their doom, are center'd here.

Agnes.
In what hast thou offended?

Alf.
I have left
The path where Virtue led me: I have strown
In the smooth vale of innocence and peace,
Rank baleful seed: and I have pluck'd its fruit
That leaves a scar and blister on the soul,
When all of earth sinks to its native dust.
You know me now. Away—

Agnes.
I know none such.

Alf.
But you do know my voice.

Agnes.
Lift up thy cowl:
Thy features may instruct me.

Alf.
Ask not that.
You'll turn away in horror.

Agnes.
If thy guilt
Aught touches me, this act of rescu'd life
Obliterates all trace of past offence.
Lift up thy cowl.
[He lifts it up reluctantly.
Oh Heav'ns!—I know thee not.
Nay—go not hence.

Alf.
I would not shock thy soul—
[To himself.]
I will not see her more. But—oh—her pardon!
I am (but do not gaze on me) I was,
In happier years, when Virtue led my steps,
Thy husband—

Agnes.
[she recollects him, and screams.]
Thou—my husband! Julian! Julian!
And yet—I knew thee not. Thou shalt not leave me.
My arms shall hold thee. Thou art more than pardon'd,
Husband!

Alf.
Oh sound once grateful to my soul.
But do not stain thy unpolluted lip.
Look, look not so.

Agnes.
I cannot view on earth
One so belov'd.

Alf.
Not with that eye of kindness.
I cannot look on thee: oh, if thine eye
Flash'd vengeful light'ning, I'd not turn away.
Thou shalt not hold me more.

Agnes.
Am I so hateful?

Alf.
Next Heav'n, I honour thee, but ne'er shall saints
Stoop to a fiend's embrace. Why should'st thou weep?
I cannot shed a tear.

Agnes.
[embracing him.]
Weep in these arms:
And as I clasp thee to my heart, recall
Past years of bliss, and pray'rs once heard in Heav'n,
That in each other's arms, blessing and blest,
Our life at once might close, and one the tomb
Rais'd o'er us, join'd in death. Husband! sore woe
Has chas'd away the vision of delight,
That o'er the innocence of untried youth
Diffus'd th'enchanted day-dream: it hath pleas'd
The searcher of the heart, by misery's test,
To prove my soul, and, here, 'mid lonely wilds
Where none but Heav'n can witness, I invoke
His ministering host, again to grave the vow
That links my lot to thine. Come, on this bosom
Rest, and find peace once more.

Alf.
Peace! never, never.
'Tis Virtue's heritage.

Agnes.
It shall be thine.

Alf.
The past—the past.

Agnes.
Oh be it with these tears
Eternally forgotten!

Alf.
I have born
Unmov'd the shock of horror, but thy kindness
Unmans me.
Agnes, I thought not to have known once more,
The blessing of such tears.

[He weeps.
Agnes.
Oh thou hast groan'd
In bitterness of spirit to the storm,
That smote thee, sweeping by on icy wings,
And none has listen'd to thy woe, no voice
Spake consolation. Where, alas! was Agnes?
Ah! haply whilst thou call'd'st in anguish on me,
I, far away, unconscious of thy woe,
Pour'd unavailing sorrow on the tomb,
That clos'd not o'er thy sufferings. Now behold me
Thus at thy side, more blest to stand the storm,
And sooth thy misery, than in thoughtless years,
When the gay partner of vain joy, alone
I glitter'd in thy sunshine.

Alf.
Heav'n reward thee!

Agnes.
Heav'n hath rewarded me: once more we meet.
Oh give me all thy grief, and I will steal
Each pang away, and lull thee to repose.
These arms, amid the wilderness, shall stretch
Soft shelter o'er thee, here thy brow be pillow'd:
And ever as thou wak'st, the eye of Agnes
Shall gladden thine: till in the gradual peace
That gains upon thee, I shall taste, once more,
All bliss that earth can give.

Alf.
[falling on her neck.]
Thus let me thank thee—
No—no. [Starts back in horror.]
Guilt, guilt is on me.

Agnes.
None o'er earth,
Pass without stain.

Alf.
No common guilt is mine.

Agnes.
Bow not beneath despair! I woo thee not
To luxury, and light pleasures, and the dream
Of joy departed. No. But, hand in hand,
Now let us, in affliction doubly dear,
Right onward journeying thro' the vale of woe,
Soothe and support each other. Once again
Here have we met, and never, never more,
If virtue yet have force to sway the heart,
Shall earthly pow'r divide us.

Alf.
Oh thou know'st not—
I cannot tell it thee.

Agnes.
I know it all.
Oh thou art deeply wounded: drops of blood
Stream on the snow. Come—let thy wife support thee—
Lean on me, Julian. Let us to the convent.
Oh no—not there—not there.

Alf.
Support me not.
There was a time—let me depart, I pray thee,
While reason yet is mine. [more and more confused.]
'Tis not this wound.
'Tis in my head—my heart—the fiend that tends
On evil deeds, is busy with my soul.
Angel of light! (thou art not of this earth)
Who, from the mansions of the blest, descend'st
On gracious errand to repentant sinners,
Canst thou not quell this demon? drive him hence!
I cannot long sustain this terrible coil?

Agnes.
Father of mercy! calm his troubled spirit!

Alf.
[frantic.]
Woman! thou know'st me not. I know thee well—
Thou art Novara's daughter: the fair prize.
Gaily they came, brave gallants in their trim,
High-plum'd, and banners floating—the proud steeds
Caparison'd, career'd beneath thy throne.
Thou knew'st me then, when from the vanquish'd field
I bore the blushing bride—but—when he struck me—
Thou looking on, upon my nuptial day,
When the proud peasant struck me, at thy side,
Thou did'st forget me—hie thee to thy palace:
But there is one: and well I warn thee, lady!
One of low birth—look, if she flash before thee,
She claims me for her own. We meet no more.

Agnes.
We part not, till death parts us.

Alf.
Am I thine?
I know not what I speak—if I have utter'd
Sounds grievous to thy soul, thy pardon, Agnes.
It will not be controll'd.

Agnes.
Oh be the past
Eternally forgotten! mark me, Julian—
Thy wounds require relief—recall thy mind.
Is there amid these wilds a sheltering roof,
Save yonder convent?

Alf.
None—for miles around.

Agnes.
Oh go not to the convent—yet thou diest
Here without succour—but there is a cause.

Alf.
Oh! might I perish here! thus at thy feet,
Thy tears fast falling o'er me.

Infirmier enters with other Monks.
Inf.
Haste! oh haste.
The hapless Ellen!

Agnes.
Name her not—I charge thee.

Inf.
Thou must attend. For thee alone she grieves.
Her wilder'd fancy views thee pierc'd with wounds
Beneath the murderer's blade, speak comfort to her,
Ere her last breath in frantic horror pass.

Alf.
Ellen! and raving—oh! it cannot be.
It is—it is—said'st thou not now? I heard thee.
I must not to the convent? by the love
Thou did'st profess, I do conjure thee, speak:
Is it that hapless one? I may once more
Gaze on her as she dies; and her pale lip
May breathe forgiveness o'er me.

Agnes.
Yes—'tis Ellen.
I found her, lone, and raving on thy tomb.
Gaze not above so wildly.

Alf.
'Tis complete.
The measure is complete. The wife has sooth'd her.
What brought thee hither?

Agnes.
Pity for her woe.
Nay, more—
The word of Heav'n, that bids me not desert
The orphan and the helpless, nor abandon
To bitter scorn, one innocent of ill.
Alone my presence calms her troubled spirit:
It awes at once, and soothes her. I have hung
O'er her distemper'd dreams, and thro' the night
Bath'd with cool drop her lip of fire, and watch'd her,
As one who tends a daughter—but for me,
Dark brooding grief again had rous'd her soul
To frantic horror: but my voice has wean'd her
From earthly thoughts, and smooth'd her way to Heav'n,
And now ere life quite ceas'd—

Alf.
How! was she dying?
Thanks, gracious Heav'n! receive her to thy rest!
Soon will her misery cease—but thine, [to himself]
poor wretch!
Was she so near her end? then I will see her.
Oh, say, say what brought thee to these wilds?

Agnes.
Be calm!
She wish'd once more to view her native vale,
And there to die in peace, and nameless lie
With those from whom she sprung.

Alf.
Alas! poor Ellen!
No other wish but that! [with fervor.]
there shalt thou rest,
Where from the cradle to the grave, thy life
One blameless day, each tranquil as the last,
Had glided on unknown in lowly peace:
But I drew near, and like the tempter, stole
On thy lone paradise—there shalt thou rest.
[rushing off.
Restrain me not—

Agnes.
Hear—Julian—

Inf.
Stay, rash man!
Thy wound bleeds fast. Alas! you scarce have strength
To reach the convent walls.

Alf.
[in wrath.]
Oppose me not—
Ellen! no murderer's blade shall scare thee more.
Who shall delay thy passage? low he lies
[pointing to the Assassin.
Who turn'd thee from thy course. I, I will place thee
Beneath the sod, and in thy grave, find mine.

[rushes out.