University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—A Cave amidst the Mountains.
Enter two Assassins.
1st Assassin.
The time is past—they promis'd quick return.
This steel lacks blood—

2d Assas.
Our booty shall not fail—be patient, brother.

1st 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—

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

1st Assas.
Aye—If we seize the Countess—

2d Assas.
If we seize her!—
How can she escape?

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

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

1st Assas.
See—he comes.

2d Assas.
Well!—Gaulter—

Enter 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 crags unknown to others,
And from the rock that butted o'er the path
With this good pole
Loosen'd the snow-mount—None can pass.

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

Gual.
Lead us forth.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

The Storm-house on one Side of the rocky Pass amid the Mountains.
Enter Francis and Blanche.
Blanche.
The men are hurt—No golden bribe will tempt.
Francis, the Countess wills that you proceed,
And, ere assistance from the Convent come,
Explore the rocks below.

Fran.
I shall obey:
But say, how fares it with the hapless Ellen?
For, though my soul abhor the deeds of guilt
Caus'd by her fatal beauty; yet, in sooth,
When I behold the sufferer rack'd with woe,
Yet never uttering plaint, that no faint sigh
May strike the Countess' ear; oh! when I view her
In speechless anguish lifting her meek eye
In pray'r to Heaven, the big tear gushes from me:
And, hard as is my heart, and steel'd by war,
I could, methinks, e'en with a father's fondness,
Soothe her on this stern breast.

Blanche.
A leaden slumber,
Still as the sleep of death, now lies upon her.

Fran.
Here may her miseries end! she has not strength
To reach her native vale.—Unhappy Ellen!
Far better hadst thou died, when first the Countess
Found thee a stranger raving on the tomb
Rais'd by her Lord's command—yet he, alas!
He rests not there, but wanders o'er the world
A wretch without a home!—I must be gone.
Go to thy charge.

Blanche.
Good Francis! haste—farewell!

[Exit Francis.
Enter from a Cave—Agnes, Ellen (on a Litter) sleeping, and Laura.
Agnes.
So, gently bring her to the open air—
A soothing sleep steals o'er her.—Soft she breathes!
How sweet her tranquil look! and lo! that smile;
As if an angel, touch'd with earthly woe,
Look'd down upon her slumber.

Blanche.
Such art thou
In mortal semblance.

Agnes
(Looking on her.)
Sleep, poor hapless Ellen.
Three painful years are past since I have watch'd thee,
And laid thy stranger brow upon my breast,
As that had been thy native nurturing place.
I have assuag'd thy bitterness of grief,
Sooth'd the wild dreams of a distracted mind,
And led thee to the view of opening heaven,
Where tears are turn'd to gladness; but such sleep,
Till now, has ne'er been thine. If rightly wish'd!
So sleep, and wake no more.

Enter Francis.
Agnes.
Kind girls,
Look to her slumber. We must speak apart.

Fran.
I have explor'd the further track.

Agnes.
Well! Francis—

Fran.
It is impassable.

Agnes.
Oh, say not so.—
I will myself explore it.

Fran.
None can pass.
The rocks more rugged far: and that bright sun,
Which cheer'd at dawn of day, now past its noon,
Has turn'd the melted ice to foaming streams.

Agnes.
Yet if the Convent send sufficient aid,
Still, still we may proceed.

Fran.
Prone from a crag that overhung the pass,
A snow-mount, lately fallen, has barr'd all progress.
Some from the Convent soon will join our guide,
And warrant safe return. And—pardon, Lady!
I have long serv'd you—

Agnes.
Say whate'er thou wilt:
Thy Lord high valu'd thee.

Fran.
Aye: these old arms
Oft dandled him in childhood.

Agnes.
By his side
Oft hast thou stood the battle, when brave chiefs
Fled from the field. The man whom Julian honour'd,
I hold my friend. Say on, nor fear offence.

Fran.
Would I had died in battle, at his feet,
Ere this sad day; ere seen what now I see,
The Countess of Tortona, like a slave
Tending a peasant girl: one, too, who lur'd,
Aye, and by witching wiles—

Agnes.
(Interrupting him.)
No, not thy virtues,
Nor privilege of years, nor length of service,
Zeal for my house and honour, shall avail,
If ere thy rash unhallow'd breath shall cast
Disgrace on her. Rather aloud revile
The memory of him whom most I honour;
And who, but, but for this, had proudly soar'd
'Mid men, unrivall'd. If thou deem it base
To serve my will, because I sooth her woe,
Such service I disclaim. Gold thou shalt have,
But never look to see my face again.
Thou art in tears!—nay, rise.

Fran.
Not look on me!
And give me gold at will! I am most base!
I never felt what service was till now.
If you do wish my death, bid me be gone.
I rashly spoke what zeal for you inspir'd.
She was not the seducer.

Agnes.
Peace, good Francis.
You touch a string that vibrates on my heart:
(To the Attendants.)
Still calm her sleep?

Blanche.
Most tranquil.

Agnes.
Such repose,
I fear, bodes nought but evil. From the Convent
None yet arrive! 'tis vain, without their aid,
To move her hence.

Fran.
They will be here, ere long.
The Guide, whose ready zeal so won our hearts,
Was fresh and nimble-footed.

Agnes.
Go, my friend!
Yon height commands, afar, the winding path.
Look if you see ought hastening. (Exit Francis.)
Julian! Julian!
Thy word enjoin'd not this: but not till death
Has still'd that woe-worn frame, will I forsake her.
But thou!
Oh, art thou with the living, or with those
That grieve no more; what earthly voice can speak?
Since that dread hour, (oh, let me not recall it!)
My search, how vain! and, save that fatal scroll
Which bad me raise thy tomb, and deem thee dead,
Gave me thy worldly wealth, and loos'd the tie
That binds eternally my soul to thine,
Of thee I nought have heard. Wert thou on earth,
This, this had been thy office. No, I wrong thee.
He who sustains my soul, and bids me here
Shelter, in life's last agonies, the orphan,
And her that has no helper, had once more
Made one our wedded hearts.

Enter Francis, the Infirmier, Claude, Page, Guide, and Laymen.
Fran.
Come, holy father.

Infir.
Where is the sufferer?

Agnes.
Here, in still repose,

Infir.
Has she long slumber'd thus?

Agnes.
An hour, or more.

Infir.
Rouse, rouse her quickly. Chafe her temples, lady!
Apply this pungent spirit.

Agnes.
(Hearing Ellen sigh.)
Oh, that sigh!

Infir.
You of the southern climes, you haply know not,
Amid these chilling snows when sleep steals on
How fatally it ends. The blood, too, rests,
And every vital part forgets its function.
Sleep here is but the harbinger of death.

Agnes.
The harbinger of death! Oh, rouse her not!
Sir, she is broken-hearted—let her sleep,
Sleep and wake never more.

Infir.
I must perform
What duty bids; and with unwearied zeal
Apply all earthly means to bring back life.
The rest is Heaven's.

Agnes.
She stirs—stand, stand apart.
How is it with you, Ellen?

Ellen.
Well, quite well.
Free from all pain.

Agnes.
Your cheek, methinks, is ting'd
With a faint flush, like renovated health:
But weak, most weak your voice. Why do you gaze
So earnestly around? Lo, here your friends,
Those of my household, whom you ever lov'd,
Blanche, and kind-hearted Laura, this good man,
One of the Convent brethren.

Ellen.
I scarce knew
Whether I breath'd or not. I've been in heaven:
You, too, were there. Indeed I ever thought you
Too good for this vile world.

Agnes.
Compose thyself.

Ellen.
I am most calm.

Agnes.
Oh, hush!

Ellen.
I am not wand'ring.
But most distinctly as I now behold you, (pointing above.)

I saw you there—and I, poor Ellen, help'd
To place a crown of glory on your brow.
And there came—one—I dare not, saint on earth,
Before your honour'd presence, breathe his name.
He, in this world, has had his doom of woe.
Oh, say, that you forgive me—ne'er, till now,
While my poor mind was mine—

Infir.
(Interrupting her.)
This must not be!
Daughter! be still—speak to her, gentle lady!
Speak, if thy gushing tears permit the utterance.

Agnes.
Sweet Ellen! clasp my hand.

Ellen.
Thou more than parent!
Had not your eye met mine, when first I 'woke,
I had not thank'd this charitable man
For forcing life upon me—Oh, I faint!

Agnes.
Here, on my bosom rest.

Ellen.
This is most kind.
Yes, I shall soon have rest, eternal rest,
And those thy heavenly crowns.
(Faints.)

Infir.
Here, bear her up.

Agnes.
Oh, gently with her.

[Exeunt.