 | Orra |  |
SCENE II.
The forest near the castle; in front a rocky bank crowned with a ruined wall overgrown with ivy, and the mouth of a cavern shaded with bushes. Enter Franko, conducting Hughobert, Hartman, Eleanora, Alice, and Urston, the Soldier following them.Franko
(to Hugh.).
This is the entry to our secret haunts.
And now, my lord, having inform'd you truly
Of the device, well meant, but most unhappy,
By which the Lady Orra from her prison
By Falkenstein was ta'en, myself, my outlaws,
Unhappy men—who better days have seen,
Driv'n to this lawless life by hard necessity,
Are on your mercy cast.
Hugh.
Which shall not fail you, valiant Franko. Much
Am I indebted to thee: hadst thou not
Of thine own free good will become our guide,
As wand'ring here thou foundst us, we had ne'er
The spot discover'd; for this honest soldier,
A stranger to the forest, sought in vain
To thread the tangled path.
El.
(to Franko).
She is not well, thou sayst, and from her swoon
Imperfectly recover'd.
Franko.
When I left her,
She so appear'd.—But enter not, I pray,
Till I give notice.—Holla, you within!
Come forth and fear no ill.
[A shriek heard from the cave.
Omnes.
What dismal shriek is that?
Al.
'Tis Orra's voice.
El.
No, no! it cannot be! It is some wretch,
In maniac's fetters bound.
Hart.
The horrid thought that bursts into my mind!
Forbid it, righteous Heaven!
[Running into the cave, he is prevented by Theobald, who rushes out upon him.
Theo.
Hold, hold! no entry here but o'er my corse,
When ye have master'd me.
Hart.
My Theobald,
Dost thou not know thy friends?
Theo.
Ha! thou, my Hartman! Art thou come to me?
Hart.
Yes, I am come. What means that look of anguish?
She is not dead!
Theo.
Oh, no! it is not death!
Hart.
What meanst thou? Is she well?
Theo.
Her body is.
Hart.
And not her mind?—Oh! direst wreck of all!
That noble mind!—But 'tis some passing seizure,
Some powerful movement of a transient nature;
It is not madness?
Theo.
(shrinking from him, and bursting into tears).
'Tis heaven's infliction; let us call it so;
Give it no other name.
[Covering his face.
El.
(to Theo.)
Nay, do not thus despair: when she beholds us,
She'll know her friends, and, by our kindly soothing,
Be gradually restored.
Al.
Let me go to her.
Theo.
Nay, forbear, I pray thee;
I will myself with thee, my worthy Hartman,
Go in and lead her forth.
[Theobald and Hartman go into the cavern, while those without wait in deep silence, which is only broken once or twice by a scream from the cavern and the sound of Theobald's voice speaking soothingly, till they return, leading forth Orra, with her hair and dress disordered, and the appearance of wild distraction in her gait and countenance.
Orra
(shrinking back as she comes from under the shade of the trees, &c. and dragging Theobald and Hartman back with her).
Come back, come back! The fierce and fiery light!
Theo.
Shrink not, dear love! it is the light of day.
Orra.
Have cocks crow'd yet?
Theo.
Yes; twice I've heard already
Their matin sound. Look up to the blue sky;
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Are fresh and fragrant round thee: every sense
Tells thee it is the cheerful early day.
Orra.
Ay, so it is; day takes his daily turn,
Rising between the gulfy dells of night
Like whiten'd billows on a gloomy sea;
Till glow-worms gleam, and stars peep through the dark,
And will-o'-the-wisp his dancing taper light,
They will not come again.
[Bending her ear to the ground.
Hark, hark! Ay, hark!
They are all there: I hear their hollow sound
Full many a fathom down.
Theo.
Be still, poor troubled soul! they'll ne'er return:
They are for ever gone. Be well assured
Thou shalt from henceforth have a cheerful home
With crackling faggots on thy midnight fire,
Blazing like day around thee; and thy friends—
Thy living, loving friends still by thy side,
To speak to thee and cheer thee.—See, my Orra!
They are beside thee now; dost thou not know them?
(Pointing to Eleanora and Alice.)
Orra
(gazing at them with her hand held up to shade her eyes).
No, no! athwart the wav'ring garish light,
Things move and seem to be, and yet are nothing.
El.
(going near her).
My gentle Orra! hast thou then forgot me?
Dost thou not know my voice?
Orra.
'Tis like an old tune to my ear return'd.
For there be those, who sit in cheerful halls,
And breathe sweet air, and speak with pleasant sounds;
And once I liv'd with such; some years gone by;
I wot not now how long.
Hugh.
Keen words that rend my heart!—Thou hadst a home,
And one whose faith was pledged for thy protection.
Urst.
Be more composed, my lord, some faint remembrance
Returns upon her with the well-known sound
Of voices once familiar to her ear.
Let Alice sing to her some fav'rite tune,
That may lost thoughts recall.
[Alice sings an old tune, and Orra, who listens eagerly and gazes on her while she sings, afterwards bursts into a wild laugh.
Orra.
Ha, ha! the witched air sings for thee bravely.
Hoot owls through mantling fog for matin birds?
It lures not me. — I know thee well enough:
The bones of murder'd men thy measure beat,
And fleshless heads nod to thee.—Off, I say!
Why are ye here?—That is the blessed sun.
El.
Ah, Orra! do not look upon us thus!
These are the voices of thy loving friends
That speak to thee: this is a friendly hand
That presses thine so kindly.
[Putting her hand upon Orra's, who gives a loud shriek, and shrinks from her with horror.
Hart.
O grievous state. (Going up to her.)
What terror seizes thee?
Orra.
Take it away! It was the swathed dead!
I know its clammy, chill, and bony touch.
[Fixing her eyes fiercely on Eleanora.
Come not again; I'm strong and terrible now:
Mine eyes have look'd upon all dreadful things;
And when the earth yawns, and the hell-blast sounds,
I'll 'bide the trooping of unearthly steps
With stiff-clench'd, terrible strength.
[Holding her clenched hands over her head with an air of grandeur and defiance.
Hugh.
(beating his breast).
A murd'rer is a guiltless wretch to me.
Hart.
Be patient; 'tis a momentary pitch;
Let me encounter it.
[Goes up to Orra, and fixes his eyes upon her, which she, after a moment, shrinks from and seeks to avoid, yet still, as if involuntarily, looks at him again.
Orra.
Take off from me thy strangely-fasten'd eye:
I may not look upon thee, yet I must.
[Still turning from him, and still snatching a hasty look at him as before.
Unfix thy baleful glance: art thou a snake?
Something of horrid power within thee dwells.
Still, still that powerful eye doth such me in
Like a dark eddy to its wheeling core.
Spare me! O spare me, being of strange power,
And at thy feet my subject head I'll lay!
[Kneeling to Hartman and bending her head submissively.
El.
Alas the piteous sight! to see her thus;
The noble generous, playful, stately Orra!
Theo.
(running to Hartman, and pushing him away with indignation).
Out on thy hateful and ungenerous guile!
Thinkst thou I'll suffer o'er her wretched state
The slightest shadow of a base control?
[Raising Orra from the ground.
No, rise thou stately flower with rude blasts rent:
As honour'd art thou with thy broken stem,
And leaflets strew'd, as in thy summer's pride.
I've seen thee worshipp'd like a regal dame
With every studied form of mark'd devotion,
Whilst I in distant silence, scarcely proffer'd
E'en a plain soldier's courtesy; but now,
No liege-man to his crowned mistress sworn,
Bound and devoted is, as I to thee;
And he who offers to thy alter'd state
The slightest seeming of diminish'd revirence,
Must in my blood—(To Hartman.)
O pardon me, my friend!
Thou'st wrung my heart.
Hart.
Nay, do thou pardon me: I am to blame:
Thy nobler heart shall not again be wrung.
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There must be some control.
Theo.
O none! none, none! but gentle sympathy
And watchfulness of love.
My noble Orra!
Wander where'er thou wilt; thy vagrant steps
Shall follow'd be by one, who shall not weary,
Nor e'er detach him from his hopeless task;
Bound to thee now as fairest, gentlest beauty
Could ne'er have bound him.
Al.
See how she gazes on him with a look,
Subsiding gradually to softer sadness.
Half saying that she knows him.
El.
There is a kindness in her changing eye.
Yes, Orra, 'tis the valiant Theobald,
Thy knight and champion, whom thou gazest on.
Orra.
The brave are like the brave; so should it be.
He was a goodly man—a noble knight. (To Theobald.)
What is thy name, young soldier?—Woe is me!
For prayers of grace are said o'er dying men,
Yet they have laid thy clay in unblest earth—
Shame! shame! not with the still'd and holy dead.
This shall be rectified; I'll find it out;
And masses shall be said for thy repose;
Thou shalt not troop with these.
El.
'Tis not the dead, 'tis Theobald himself,
Alive and well, who standeth by thy side.
Orra
(looking wildly round).
Where, where? All dreadful things are near me. round me,
Beneath my feet and in the loaded air.
Let him begone! The place is horrible!
Baneful to flesh and blood.—The dreadful blast!
Their hounds now yell below i' the centre gulph;
They may not rise again till solemn bells
Have giv'n the stroke that severs night from morn.
El.
O rave not thus! Dost thou not know us, Orra?
Orra
(hastily).
Ay, well enough I know ye.
Urst.
Ha! think ye that she does?
El.
It is a terrible smile of recognition,
If such it be.
Hart.
Nay, do not thus your restless eye-balls move,
But look upon us steadily, sweet Orra.
Orra.
Away! your faces waver to and fro;
I'll know you better in your winding-sheets,
When the moon shines upon you.
Theo.
Give o'er, my friends; you see it is in vain;
Her mind within itself holds a dark world
Of dismal phantasies and horrid forms!
Contend with her no more.
Enter an attendant in an abrupt disturbed manner.
Att.
(to Eleanora, aside).
Lady, I bring to you most dismal news:
Too grievous for my lord, so suddenly
And unprepar'd to hear.
El.
(aside).
What is it? Speak.
Att.
(aside to El)
His son is dead, all swell'd and rack'd withpain;
And on the dagger's point, which the sly traitor
Still in his stiffen'd grasp retains, foul stains,
Like those of limed poison, show full well
The wicked cause of his untimely death.
Hugh.
(overhearing them).
Who speaks of death? What didst thou whisper there?
How is my son?—What look is that thou wearst?
He is not dead?—Thou dost not speak! O God!
I have no son.
[After a pause.
I am bereft!—But this!
But only him!—Heaven's vengeance deals the stroke.
Urst.
Heaven oft in mercy smites, e'en when the blow
Is most severe.
Hugh.
I had no other hope.
Fell is the stroke, if mercy in it be!
Could this—could this alone atone my crime?
Urst.
Submit thy soul to Heaven's all-wise decree.
Perhaps his life had blasted more thy hopes
Than e'en his grievous end.
Hugh.
He was not all a father's heart could wish;
But, oh! he was my son!—my only son:
My child—the thing that from his cradle grew,
And was before me still.—Oh, oh! Oh, oh!
[Beating his breast and groaning deeply.
Orra
(running up to him).
Ha! dost thou groan, old man? art thou in trouble?
Out on it! though they lay him in the mould,
He's near thee still.—I'll tell thee how it is:
A hideous burst hath been: the damn'd and holy,
The living and the dead, together are
In horrid neighbourship—'Tis but thin vapour,
Floating around thee, makes the wav'ring bound.
Pooh! blow it off, and see th' uncurtain'd reach.
See! from all points they come; earth casts them up!
In grave-clothes swath'd are those but new in death;
And there be some half bone, half cased in shreds
Of that which flesh hath been; and there be some
With wicker'd ribs, through which the darkness scowls.
Back, back!—They close upon us.—Oh! the void
Of hollow unball'd sockets staring grimly,
And lipless jaws that move and clatter round us
In mockery of speech!—Back, back, I say!
Back, back!
[Catching hold of Hughobert and Theobald, and dragging them back with her in all the wild strength of frantic horror, whilst the curtain drops.
| Orra | |