University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

A square court, surrounded on all sides by the gloomy walls of a prison, the windows of which are narrow and grated, and the heads of one or two of the prisoners seen looking ruefully through the grates. Enter Hardibrand, and looks round him for some time without speaking.
Har.
Gloomy enough, gloomy enough, in faith!
Ah! what a wondrous mass of dreary walls,
Whose frowning sides are riv'n in narrow slips,
As I have seen full oft some sea-worn cliff,
Pierced with the murky holes of savage birds.
Ah! here the birds within are clipt o' wing,
And cannot fly away.
Enter Ohio with a tankard in his hand, crossing the stage.
Holla, my friend! I pray thee not so fast;
Inform me, if thou canst, where I may find
The keeper of the prison.

Ohio.
Know you what prince you speak to? saucy knave!
I'll have thee scorch'd and flay'd, and piece-meal torn,
If thou dost call me friend.

Har.
Good words at least; I meant thee no offence.
I see thou hast a tankard in thy hand,
And will not question thy high dignity.
Softly; here's money for thee.

[Giving him money.
Ohio.
Silver pieces!
He! he! he! he! hast thou got more of them!

Har.
Nay, thou art greedy; answer first my question;
Tell me at which of all these gloomy doors
I needs must knock to find out the chief gaoler.
Thou lookst like some fetch-carry to the prisoners;
Dost understand me?

Ohio.
Ay, there's the place, go knock at yonder door.

Har.
(after knocking).
This door is close nail'd up, and cannot open.

Ohio
(grinning maliciously, and pointing to another door).
No, thou art wrong; it is the door hard by,
With those black portals.
[Hardibrand knocks at the other door.
Knock a little louder.

Har.
(after knocking some time).
A plague upon't! there is no one within.

Ohio
(still grinning maliciously).
No, thou art wrong again: it is not there:
It is that door upon the other side.

[Pointing to the opposite wall.
Har.
What, dost thou jest with me, malicious varlet?
I'll beat thee if thou tell me false again.

Ohio.
Negroes be very stupid, master friend.

Enter the Keeper of the prison.
Keeper
(to Ohio).
Thou canker-worm! thou black-envenom'd toad!
Art thou a-playing thy malicious tricks?
Get from my sight, thou pitchy viper, go!

[Exit Ohio.
Har.
What black thing is it? it appears, methinks,
Not worth thine anger.

Keeper.
That man, may't please you, sir, was born a prince.

Har.
I do not catch thy jest.

Keeper.
I do not jest; I speak in sober earnest;
He is an Afric prince of royal line.

Har.
What sayst thou? that poor wretch who sneaketh yonder
Upon those two black shanks?

[Pointing off the stage.
Keeper.
Yes, even he:
When but a youth, stol'n from his noble parents,
He for a slave was sold, and many hardships
By sea and land hath pass'd.

Har.
And now to be the base thing that he is!
Well, well, proceed.

Keeper.
At last a surly master brought him here,
Who, thinking him unfit for further service,
As then a fest'ring wound wore hard upon him,
With but a scanty sum to bury him,
Left him with me. He ne'ertheless recover'd;
And though full proud and sullen at the first,
Tamed by the love of wine which strongly tempts him,
He by degrees forgot his princely pride,
And has been long establish'd in these walls
To carry liquor for the prisoners.
But such a cursed, spite-envenom'd toad!—

Har.
Out on't! thou'st told a tale that wrings my heart.
Of royal line; born to command, and dignified
By sufferings and dangers past, which make
The meanest man ennobled: yet behold him;
[Pointing off the stage.
How by the wall he sidelong straddles on
With his base tankard!—O, the sneaking varlet!
It makes me weep to hear his piteous tale,
Yet my blood boils to run and cudgel him.
But let us on our way.

Keeper.
You are a noble stranger, as I guess,
And wish to be conducted through the prison.
It is an ancient building of great strength,
And many strangers visit it.

Har.
It is indeed a place of ancient note.
Have you at present many criminals
Within these walls?

Keeper.
Our number is, thank God! respectable,
Though not what it has been in better days.

Har.
In better days!—Well, do thou lead the way.

[As they are about to go off the stage, they are stopped by a voice singing from one of the highest windows.
SONG.

Har.
Alas, poor soul! I would that thou wert free!
What weary thrall is this that sings so sweetly?

Keeper.
A restless, daring outlaw;
A fellow who hath awed the country round,
And levied contributions like a king,
To feast his jolly mates in wood and wild;
Yea, been the very arbiter of fortune,
And as his freakish humours bit, hath lifted
At one broad sweep the churl's saved store to leave it
In the poor lab'rer's cot, whose hard-worn palm
Had never chuck'd a ducat 'gainst its fellow.

Har.
'Tis a brave heart! has he been long confined?
But list! he sings again.

SONG.
Light on the hanging bough we'll swing,
Or range the thicket cool,
Or sit upon the bank and sing
Or bathe us in the pool.

Har.
Poor pent up wretch! thy sou roves far from home.

SONG.
Well, good-man time, or blunt or keen,
Move thee slow or take thy leisure,
Longest day will bring its e'en,
Weary lives but run a measure.

Har.
'Tis even so, brave heart, or blunt or keen,
Thy measure has its stint.
Enter Bertram from one of the doors of the prison.
I think thou hast the air of an old soldier:
[To Bertram as he is burrying past him.
Such, without greeting, never pass me by.
Ha, Bertram! is it thou?

Ber.
What, mine old general?

Har.
Yes, and mine old soldier.
How dost thou, man? how has it fared with thee
Since thou hast left the service?

Ber.
I thank your honour; much as others find it;
I have no cause to grumble at my lot.

Har.
'Tis well, but what's the matter with thee now?
Thine eyes are red with weeping, and thy face
Looks ruefully.

Ber.
I've been to visit, here, a noble youth,
Who is condemn'd to die.

Har.
A noble youth!

Ber.
Yea, a soldier too.

Har.
A soldier!

Ber.
Ay, your honour, and the son
Of a most gallant soldier.

Har.
But he is innocent?

Ber.
He is condemn'd.

Har.
Shame on it! were he twenty times condemn'd,
He's innocent as are these silver'd locks.
[Laying his hand vehemently on his head.
What is his name?

Ber.
Rayner.

Har.
Ha! son to my old comrade, Rayner!
Out on the fools! I would as soon believe
That this right hand of mine had pilfer'd gold
As Rayner's son had done a deed of shame.
Come, lead me back with thee, for I must see him.

Ber.
Heav'n bless your honour! O, if by your means
He might have grace!

Har.
Come, let us go to him.

Ber.
Not now, an' please you: he is now engaged
With one most dear to him. But an hour hence
I will conduct you to his cell.

Har.
So be it!
Mean time, stay thou with me, and tell me more
Of this unhappy youth: I have a mind,
With the good keeper's leave, to view the prison.

[Exeunt.
Enter Mira and Alice by opposite sides, both muffled up in cloaks and their faces concealed.
Mira
(stopping Alice).
Nay, glide not past me thus with muffled face:
'Tis I, a visitor to these grim walls,
On the same errand with thyself. How goes it
With our enthralled colleague? doth he promise
Silence to keep in that which touches us
Of this transaction, for the which he's bound?

Alice.
He is but half persuaded; go thyself
And use thy arts—hush, here's a stranger near us.
[Enter a man who gives a letter mysteriously to Mira, and upon her making a sign to him, retires to the bottom of the stage whilst she reads it.
What readst thou there, I pray thee, that thy brows
Knit thus ungraciously at ev'ry line?

Mira.
Knowst thou that I must doff my silken robes,
Despoil my hair of its fair ornaments,
And clothe me in a gown of palmer's grey,
With clouted shoon and pilgrim's staff in hand
To bear me o'er rude glens and dreary wastes
To share a stony couch and empty board,
All for the proving of my right true love
For one in great distress. Ha! ha! ha! ha!
So doth this letter modestly request:
I pray thee read it.

Alice
(reading the letter).

“A deadly wound
rankles in my side, and I have no skilful hand to
dress it, and no kind friend to comfort me. I am
laid upon the cold earth, and feel many wants I
never knew before. If thou hast any love for me,
and as thou hast often wished to prove that love,
come to me quickly: but conceal thyself in the
coarse weeds of a pilgrim; my life is a forfeit to the
law if any one should discover where I am. A
friend in disguise will give into thy hands this letter,
and conduct thee to thy miserable Zaterloo.”

(Returning the letter.)
And what sayst thou to this?

Mira.
I have, in truth, upon my hands already
Troubles enough; this is, thou knowst, no time
To take upon me ruin'd men's distresses.

Alice.
But 'tis thyself hast brought this ruin on him:
'Twas thy extravagance.

Mira.
Thou art a fool!
His life's a forfeit to the law: 'tis time,
Good time, in faith! I should have done with him.
Why dost thou bend these frowning looks on me?
How many in my place would for the recompense
Betray him to the officers of justice!
But I, thou knowst right well, detest all baseness,
Therefore I will not.

Alice.
Hush, hush! thou speakst too loud:
Some one approaches.

Enter Countess Zaterloo.
Countess
(to Mira).
I pray you, madam, pardon this intrusion;
Tracing your steps, I have made bold to follow you.
I am the mother of an only son,
Whom for these many days I have not seen:
I know right well nought is conceal'd from you
Of what concerns him; let me know, I pray you,
Where I may find my child.

Mira.
Madam, you speak to one who in his secrets
Has small concern.

Countess.
Nay, now, I pray you, do not keep it from me:
I come not with a parent's stern rebuke:
O tell me where he is, for love of grace:
But, if you will not, say if he is sick,
Or if he is distress'd with any want.
Tell, for love's sake! I have no child but him.

Mira
(giving her the letter).
There, madam; this is all I know of him.
'Twas yonder stranger gave it to my hand;
[Pointing to the man.
We need not interrupt you with our presence;
And so good day.

[Exeunt Mira and Alice.
Countess
(after reading the letter).
Alas, my son! and art thou low and wounded?
Stretch'd on the cold ground of thy hiding place
In want and fear? Oh art thou come to this?
Thou who didst smile in thy fair op'ning morn,
As cherubs smile who point the way to heaven.
And wouldst thou have a stranger come to thee?
Alas! alas! where can thy aching head
So softly rest as on a parent's lap?
Yes, I will wrap me in the pilgrim's weeds,
Nor storm nor rugged wild shall bar my way.
And though declining years impair my strength,
These arms shall yet support thy feeble frame,
When fairer friends desert thee. (To the messenger, beckoning him to come forward.)

Good friend, this is no place to question thee!
Come with me to my home.

[Exeunt.