University of Virginia Library

Scene 3.

A Street in the City. Gonseres and Inora meet.
Gon.
Thou, mother, in the city;—the wood-raven
Among the parrots! Thou! my wholesome dame
On the parade of fashion? Do I see
Aright, or are my senses all distraught?
What demon hath compelled thee from thy den
To scare the crowd with evil-omened brow
And this a holiday? See! how they quit
The balconies—those nurs'ry groups that wait
Th'advancing pageant. Thou hast the evil eye
And spoil'st the good folks mirth. Let us aside
And leave these youngsters to recover heart.
We play the mar-sport in this spectacle.

In.
What parson, boy, hath driven the devil out
And made a milk-sop of thee? Hast thou taken
To some fresh love-suit to be baulked anew—
And constru'st me into a school-girl's bugbear
Would chase the crimson from some pretty cheek?
Stay here!—I came to see this pageant, lad,
Not to bewitch and frighten silly chits;
I came to take a farewell peep at things.
This was my girlhood's haunt—that house, my home,
Thence, from yon balcony, I first beheld
Your sire—the Lord Soartes. Those young brats,
No wonder the contagion of our presence,
Brings terror with it to their timid faces!
I am their aunt. See!—the attraction holds—
A trembling hand and now a pallid brow
Divides the curtain—two—three—all at once,
Its minds me of old times. Let us move on.
Thou'rt right, Gonseres! where my shadow falls
Mirth flies. I had no thought of this.

Gon.
Nor I,
Nay, nay—abide one moment. Pity 'tis,
Now I have found this cousin-ship, to give
So quick a go-bye to it.
[Flourish of trumpets.
Hark! 'tis music!—
The state procession will be here anon;
These door-steps promise a good point of view
From which to observe it.

In.
Did I say, Gonseres,
I came to see this pageant? Ay, did I!
But not the bauble's self. I came to find
My Lord Soartes here, propped by our hands—
Rebuilt in his estate—free as of yore
T'associate with the haughtiest of the realm,
I came to mark him in his equipage—
The monarch's favourite and admire the scheme
That helped him back to fortune.

Gon.
Tush! thou'rt mad.

In.
Mad! true—oblivious of my former self,
It is a madness of its sort, sweet bud;
For thirty years I have not passed this way
And yet it seems the common thoroughfare
Which I am used to travel. Every spot
Is rife with the events of yesterday.
See, see—my brother's fledglings are grown bold.
The music hath inspirited them. They are back
Towards the balcony—their necks at stretch—
Their eyes intent to catch the cavalcade.
How quickly the pert youngsters have thrown off
Their shyness. It was thus, on such a day
Of royal parade, Gonseres, that I first
Beheld the Lord Soartes. Fate is just!
Why am I here to-day? why thou? why these
Our kin—all at this ominous spot convened
But to give fate its due? He comes—they come,
Nay, man, throw back thy mantle, shew thyself.
Thy sire and fellow robber rides in state
Behind his sovereign—mated with his peers.
'Tis time that the self-same effrontery
Should deck the uncovered brows of his accomplice.
Let us stare out this trial of our virtue
And none will dare affront us. The king smiles
And to the heir presumptive of his throne
Jestingly turns. We are set down as loyal.

[Procession passes.
Gon.
A doubtful inference! plausibly come to.
Thou'rt versed in court-craft, as thou wert in nursing,
Good mother!—Regal levity implies
Aroused suspicions. Smiles are oft with kings
The gleam of daggers from their sheathes provoked—
A beckoning and instruction to the headsman.

In.
'Tis majesty hath awed thee so to speak.
Here comes Soartes; mark him! He looks up
To my old post. Ha! how he winces. See!
That girl's resemblance moves and overcomes him—
I in his thoughts am uppermost at last.
Turn head this way, my bosom lord—this way—
Seek refuge here. 'Tis a convenient thing
To have two sides to look to. Nay—I meant not
So to have startled thee. Gonseres!—prop me—
I have not a reed's strength in all my frame,
Lend me a shoulder—boy! thy staff—

Gon.
Hold on!
The heaviest heart that ever anguish loaded
Presses as lightly on me, as a feather:
Mother is't thou with thy defiant soul?
My grave, ambitious dam—my love-condemnrix,—
My hating, cruel, cold, sarcastic mother?
Is't thou that moot'st the matter of scorned love
And tremblest under it? Go-bye!—go-bye!
Who taunted me? who bade me shew myself
And brave this holiday? Who urged it all?—
Painted the traitor's crime in hues of virtue
And to the cause of treason, plighted troth?
Who spake of love as glory's hinderance
And chided the surrenderings of nature?
Come! lean on me with resolution!
The sturdiest oak of boastful Albion,
Now that the Count Vicente meets my eye,
Is but a twig in strength. Bear up—my old one:
Our life's best spectacle is yet to come!
[Vicente passes.
See mother! this is he that wears my jewel.—
The courtly lord that smells my jessamine—
The insolent, disdainful of your cub,
Who with his hunting thong—'tis years ago—
Years have have not laid the sore—struck here and stung.
Well! I am calm, now to recount all this
And he before me blazing with renown.
All this—and more, good mother! which you know of
Hath your degenerate bastard overpassed.
His sire's poor blood within his veins begs way,
Blended, if not with red, maternal gore
So thick and spicy as thy heart-springs yield,
With creams instead, drawn from the pup-reft hound
To which thy gracious love commended me,
Such breeding is of some account, in faith!
Or why am I this prodigy of patience?
Why should I halt for the catastrophe
With dagger sheathed and not determine it?
Why be so timid in such braggart guise?
So unaudacious, when 'tis opportune
To take revenge? I am a dastard loon
Beside the bravo, who, gild but his palm,
Jumps at a job of blood. The screw is loose
Somewhere, good mother, in my mechanism.
Be the fault whose it may—thine or Soartes'
Or else my surly nurse's or all three—
I hav'nt the open courage which wronged men
Pride themselves in, nor yet the hireling's daring
Which for a petty coin, engages him
In the pale rider's service.

[Exeunt.