University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—The Mountains. Sunset.
Albert discovered, in the dress of a Hunter.
Alb.
Oh, mighty Nature! how powerful is the hold
Thou hast on our affections! The tinsel'd shows
And mockeries of the world may for a while
Win us from thy worship, but with what joy
We turn again to thee, no more to wander!
I am thy child, ye hills! I feel I love
Thy rugged forms as thing that memory
Hath hung with gems. The path I deemed
The nimble goat could not in safety tread,
My foot doth cleave to. I will not leave ye!
[The “Ranz de Vaches” is played at a distance.
That air! it was my mother's song, which sooth'd
My infant thoughts to slumber. Comes it now
To sound its sweet approval to my heart
For daring to be free? Oh, speak to me again!

[The Air is again played, and he stands listening attentively.
Enter Gortz, L. H.
Gortz.
The world's chang'd! human nature's chang'd!
Would I could change with them! Here have I
As grand a secret as ever fill'd the pate
Of a prime minister, and not a listener
Can I gain! “Psha!” says one. “Fool!” says
Another.
But none will listen, though 'tis a secret
Not for everyday carrying. Certes,
I sometimes lie; but then 'tis for their pleasure.
They like news, and if the world breeds it not
Fast enough for their stomach's, where's the harm
In fancying what might be? Yet now I'm “fool!”
Fool, quotha! If I've a tight shoe—take it off.
Ha! a stranger! hem! a good morrow, friend!
Bless me! he seems as deaf as Mount Righi!

[The Air is heard again.
Alb.
It is some spell my mother's holy spirit
Hath shed around me. Again she speaks!

Gortz.
Mad, by the Virgin! That is the Ranz de Vaches.

Alb.
But 'twas my mother's song!

Gortz.
She kept cows, then,
Or goats, very likely. My mother does likewise.

Alb.
And keeps you as a dog to bark them home.
Prithee attend thy calling! send home the cows!

Gortz.
(Turns away.)
Dog! If I've a ducat—but, no matter—
He is the loser, not I. My secret
Will not grow musty. I'll to Arnold's cottage—
If it is of ill to Austria, he has ear for it.
I wish he would look this way, I'd play the dog,
And snarl at him. He knows not the dog's tale, though!

[Exit L. H.
Alb.
Methinks, my mother, thou art with me here,
I feel so like a child. A wild new joy
My reason can define not fills my soul,
Like that which filled it, when my infant thought
Compass'd its first expression. It was thy name,
My mother, that I breath'd, and o'er and o'er
I echoed the word (for thou has told me so)
As the first minstrel tried the new-born sound
From his rude lyre of shell. Each joy'd the more;
His, that the magic tone obey'd his touch—
Mine that thy smile rewarded the essay.
Enter Bertha, thoughtfully, L. H.
No joy is full till we have found a sharer
In the gift—

Ber.
Then I'm not her thou seek'st.
I can become a partner in no joy—
Scarcely in a sorrow: that which I have
Has grown so mighty it nigh bursts my heart.

Alb.
I should have spoke of freedom.

Bertha.
A fitting theme,
Where in our homes the spoiler breathes and taints
The freshest of our loves. We wither up
As the scorched leaf. We see the bold man weep
And do not thank his tears. Our women look
Behind them as they run, and at a brother's
Voice do tremble, till their eyes assure them
That the sound is harmless.

Alb.
These are old griefs!

Ber.
Almost too old! For men have looked them
Till they do scarce behold their ugliness!
Their swords within their sheaths should rattle,
And tell their thirst for vengeance!

Alb.
These are bold words, more fitted for the camp
And boastful soldiers' mouths, than these green hills
And lips whose dew might tempt the roving bee.

Ber.
Albert, thou hast my heart! I know not why—
But yet thou hast it! Let me not deem thee less
Than thou must be to avoid my hate.
The courtly dame may thank thee for this tune—
I ask the rough untutor'd language
Of manly honesty! Antoine is dead!
I cannot weep, for she is with the blest!

Alb.
And William—

Ber.
Sits like an unmated dove
Beside her, wreathing the faded flowers
She wore upon her bridal midst her hair,
Fit emblems of her love, and gems her cheek
With tears so quickly shed, the wearied hand
Doth cease to wipe them off!

Alb.
And Hertman lives!
Had I a thousand lives, each should be given
To avenge this injury! I will to Stantz,
He dares not for his soldier's honour
Refuse to meet my challenge.

Ber.
No, not to Stantz;
She needs not an avenger! already
Hath this wrong become the evening's tale
By every hearth. A single life will not repay it!
To-night the Lion League
Meet to concert the means for our deliverance!
Be thou amongst them, and let them find
Thy hand as ready as thy willing word.
Betray us not—my troth is pledged for thine.

Alb.
I will redeem it, Bertha! So rich a pledge
Could never be belied. Thou shall'st not blame
Thy love that it did fall into my keeping.

[Exeunt R. H.