University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The inside of a cave: an old man discovered sitting by a small table made of coarse planks, with a lamp burning dimly upon it: the thunder heard still very loud.
Old man.
Doth angry heav'n still roll its loudest peal
O'er th' unblest head? Ay, through its deaf'ning roar
I hear the blood-avenging Spirit's voice,
And, as each furious turmoil spends its strength,
Still sounds upon the far-receding storm
Their distant growl.
'Tis hell that sends its fire and devils up
To lord it in the air. The very wind,
Rising in fitful eddies, horribly sounds,
Like bursts of damned howlings from beneath.
Is this a storm of nature's elements?
O, no, no, no! the blood-avenging spirits
Ride on the madding clouds: there is no place,
Not in the wildest den, wherein may rest
The unblest head.
[Knocking heard without.
—Ha! knocking at my door!
[Pauses and listens, much alarmed: knocking heard still louder.
Say, who art thou that knockst so furiously?
Thinkst thou the clouds are sparing of their din,
That thou must thunder too? Say who thou art,
And what thou wouldst at such an hour as this,
In such a place?

Ray.
(without).
I am a lone and tempest-beaten traveller,
Who humbly begs a shelter from the night.

Old man.
Then art thou come where guest yet never enter'd.

Ray.
(without).
I do not ask admittance as a guest.
Wouldst thou not save a creature from destruction,
E'en a dumb animal? unbar the door,
And let me lay my body under shelter.

[Old man makes no answer; the storm heard very loud.
Ray.
(without).
If thou'rt a man in nature as in voice,
Thou canst not sit at peace beneath thy roof,
And shut a stranger out to the rude night.
I would, so circumstanced, have shelter'd thee.

Old man.
He tries to move me with a soothing voice. (Aloud.)

Thou art a knave; I will not let thee in.

Aside.
Ray.
(without).
Belike I am, yet do not fear my wiles:
All men are honest in a night like this.

Old man.
Then I will let thee in: whoe'er thou art:
Thou hast some sense, shouldst thou lack better things.

[He unbars a small door, and Rayner enters, much ruffled and exhausted by the storm, and without his hat.
Ray.
I'm much beholden to thee.

Old man.
No, thou art not.

Ray.
The violence of the night must plead my pardon,
For breaking thus unask'd upon your rest.
But wand'ring from my way, I know not how,
And losing my companions of the road,
Deep in the 'tangled wood the storm o'ertook me;
When spying through the trees this glimm'ring lamp,
And judging it, as now it doth appear,
The midnight taper of some holy man,
Such as do oft in dreary wilds like this
Hold their abode, I ventured onwards.

Old man
(offering him bread and dried fruits).
Perhaps thou'rt hungry.

Ray.
I thank you gratefully.

Old man.
There is no need.
Fall to, if thou hast any mind to it.

Ray.
I thank you truly, but I am not hungry.

Old man.
Perhaps thou'rt dainty: I've nought else to give thee.

Ray.
I should despise myself, if any food
Could bear such value in my estimation,
As that it should to me a straw's worth seem,
To feed on homeliest, or on richest fare.

Old man.
So much the better.

[They sit down.
Ray.
If I may guess from all I see around me,
The luxuries and follies of the world
Have long been banish'd here.

[Old man looks sternly at Rayner, who looks fixedly upon him again, and both remain for some time silent.
Old man.
Why lookst thou so?
What is there in my face that thou wouldst scan?
I'm old and live alone: what wouldst thou know?

Ray.
I crave your pardon, and repress all wishes
That may disturb you.

Old man.
The night wears on, let us both go to rest.

Ray.
I thank you, for in truth I'm very tired.

Old man
(pointing to his couch).
There is thy place.

Ray.
Nay, I am young; the ground shall be my couch.
I will not take your bed.

[Old man then gives Rayner a cloak, which he wraps about him, laying himself down in a corner of the cave. The storm now heard at a distance. After walking up and down for some time, the old man goes close up to Rayner, who appears asleep, and looks earnestly upon him; Rayner, openign his eyes, seems surprised.
Old man.
Be not afraid, I will not cut thy throat.

Ray.
(starting half up from the ground).
Nay, heaven such deed forefend! I fear thee not.
I can defend myself.

[Grasping his sword.
Old man.
Be not offended; but methought thy looks
Did seem as though thou wert afraid of me.
Rest thou in peace—rest thou in peace, young man:
I would not do thee harm for many worlds.

Rayner goes to rest again, still keeping his drawn sword in his hand. The old man goes to rest likewise, but shortly after starts from his couch in great agitation.
Old man.
It is mine hour of horror: 'tis upon me!
I hear th' approaching sound of feet unearthly:
I feel the pent-up vapour's chilly breath
Burst from the yawning vault:—It is at hand.
[Turning towards the door as if he saw some one enter.
Ha! com'st thou still in white and sheeted weeds,
With hand thus pointing to thy bloody side?
Thy grave is deep enough in hallow'd ground!
Why com'st thou ever on my midnight rest?
What dost thou want? If thou hast power, as seeming,
Stretch forth thine arm and take my life; then free
From fleshy fears, in nature as thyself,
I'll follow thee to hell, and there abide
The searing flames: but here, upon this earth,
Is placed between the living and the dead
An awful mystery of separation,
Which makes their meeting frightful and unhallow'd.
[In the vehemence of his agitation he throws out his arm, and strikes it against Rayner, who, alarmed at his ravings, has left his resting-place, and stolen softly behind him.
Ha! what art thou?

[Starting, and turning round to Rayner.
Ray.
Nay, thou with bristling locks, loose knocking joints
And fixed eyeballs starting in their sockets,
Who speakst thus wildly to the vacant space,
Say rather, what art thou?

Old man.
I am a murderer.
[Rayner starts back from him, and drops his sword.
Ah! wherefore dost thou stare so strangely on me?
There's no blood on me now! 'tis long since past.
Hast thou thyself no crime, that thus from me
Thou dost in horror shrink?

Ray.
Most miserable man!

Old man.
Thou truly sayst, for I am miserable.

Ray.
And what am I?
[After a disturbed pause.
The storm did rage and bellow through the air,
And the red lightning shiver'd:
No traveller would venture on his way
In such a night.—O, blessed, blessed storm!
For yet it hath not been, and shall be never.
Most Great and Merciful! saved from this gulf,
May I to thee look up?—No: in the dust—
[As he bows himself to the earth, and is about to kneel, the report of fire-arms is heard without, and he starts up again.
'Tis done!—O, it is done!—the horrible act!

[Exit, beating his forehead violently.
Old man.
What may this be? Some band of nightly robbers
Is near my cave, committing violent deeds.
Thy light, weak flame, shall not again betray me,
And lure unwelcome visitors.

[Puts out the lamp; and, after a dark pause, enter Count Zaterloo, supporting himself an first gentleman, who bears a dark lantern, which he sets down on the ground, and fastens the door of the cave carefully behind them.
Zat.
I am wounded grievously: who would have thought
Of such a powerful guard of armed men
Attending on his journey. He is slain:
Didst thou not see him fall?

1st gent.
Yes; we have kill'd our bird, but lost the eggs.
Fortune has play'd us false, yet we've escaped:
Here we may rest; this cave is tenanted
With some lone being whom we may control,
And take possession—
[Discovering old man.
Something living here!
What art thou?

Old man.
I am a thing no better than yourselves.

1st gent.
The better then for thee that thou art so.

Zat.
Conduct me onward: I perceive an opening
Which leads, I guess, to some more close recess:
Lay me down there, for I am very faint.

1st gent.
I will obey thee,—Come thou too, old man;
Not from my sight one moment must thou budge.
Come on; for, mark me well, shouldst thou betray us,
Though fetter'd down with chains in grated dungeons,
Our arms were long enough to reach to thee.

[Exeunt.