 | Rayner |  |
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A wood: dark night, with a pale gleam of distant lightning seen once or twice on the edge of the horizon. Advancing by the bottom of the stage, a few moving lights, as if from lanterns, are seen, and at the same time several signal calls and loud whistles are heard, with the distant answer returned to them from another part of the wood. Enter Count Zaterloo, Rayner, Sebastian, and others of the band, armed, and a few of them bearing in their hands dark lanterns. It is particularly requested, if this play should ever be acted, that no light may be permitted upon the stage but that which proceeds from the lanterns only.Zat.
(to Seb.).
They must be near: didst thou not hear their call?
Seb.
Methought I did; but who in this wild wood
May credit give to either eye or ear?
How oft we've been deceiv'd with our own voices,
From rocky precipice or hollow cave,
'Midst the confused sound of rustling leaves,
And creaking boughs, and cries of nightly birds,
Returning seeming answer!
Zat.
Rayner, where standest thou?
Ray.
Here, on thy left.
Zat.
Surely these wild scenes have depriv'd thy tongue
Of speech. Let's hear thy voice's sound, good man,
To say thou art alive. Thou'rt marvellous silent:
Didst thou not also hear them?
Ray.
I know not truly if I did. Around me,
All seems like the dark mingled mimicry
Of fev'rish sleep; in which the half-doubting mind,
Wilder'd, and weary, with a deep-drawn breath,
Says to itself, “Shall I not wake?”
Zat.
Fy man!
Wilt thou not keep thy soldier's spirit up?
To-morrow's sun will be thy waking time,
And thou wilt wake a rich man and a free.
Ray.
My waking time!—no, no! I must sleep on,
And have no waking.
Zat.
Ha! does thy mind misgive thee on the brink?
Ray.
What passes in my mind, to thee is nothing,
If my hand do the work that's fasten'd on me.
Let's pass to it as quickly as thou wilt,
And do not speak to me.—
Enter Bernard and others, armed, &c.
Zat.
Well met, my friends! well met! for we despair'd
Of ever seeing you.
Seb.
Yet we have heard your voices many times,
Now calling us on this side, now on that,
As though you had from place to place still skipp'd,
Like Will o'the Wisp, to lose us on our way.
Ber.
We've fared alike: so have we thought of you.
Zat.
Have you discover'd aught of those we seek?
Ber.
No; all is still, as far as we have traversed:
No gleaming torch gives notice from afar,
Nor trampling hoofs sound on the distant road.
Zat.
Then must we take again our sev'ral routes,
That haply we may learn, ere he approach,
What strength we have to face, and how he travels:
And that we may not wander thus again,
This aged oak shall be our meeting place;
Where having join'd, we'll by a shorter compass
Attack them near the centre of the wood.
Seb.
The night grows wondrous dark: deepswelling gusts
And sultry stillness take the rule by turns;
Whilst o'er our heads the black and heavy clouds
Roll slowly on. This surely bodes a storm.
Zat.
I hope the devil will raise no tempest now,
To save this child of his, and from his journey
Make him turn back, crossing our fortunes.
Ber.
Fear not!
For, be the tempest of the devil's raising,
It will do thee no harm. To his good favour
Thou hast (wrong not thy merit) claims too strong.
Zat.
Then come on, friends, and I shall be your warrant!
Growl sky and earth and air, ne'er trouble ye;
They are secure who have a friend at court.
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A different part of the wood, wild and savage: the scene still darkened, and a storm of thunder and lightning, accompanied with hail. Enter Rayner.Ray.
I know not where these men have shelter'd them.
I've miss'd their signal: this loud stunning din
Athwart this arch of deep embodied darkness,
Swift shiv'ring lightnings glare, from end to end
Mantling the welkin o'er in vivid flames;
Or from aloft, like sheeted cataracts
Of liquid fire, seem pour'd. E'en o'er my head
The soft and misty-textured clouds seem changed
To piles of harden'd rocks, which from their base,
Like the up-breaking of a ruin'd world,
Are hurl'd with force tremendous. Patt'ring hail
Beats on my shrinking form with spiteful force:
Where shall I shelter me? Ha! through the trees
Peers, near at hand, a small but settled light:
I will make quickly towards it; perhaps
There may be some lone dwelling in the wood.
[Exit.
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.
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.
SCENE IV.
Another part of the wood. At a distance, on the background, are discovered two men watching a dead body by the light of a torch stuck between the boughs of a tree: the stage otherwisc perfectly dark. Enter Gobus on the front of the stage.Gobus.
I fear they will all escape from us amongst
these 'tangled paths and vile perplexing thickets.
A man cannot get on half a dozen paces here but
some cursed clawing thing catches hold of him, and
when he turns round to collar his enemy, with a
good hearty curse in his mouth, it is nothing but a
thorn-bush or a briar after all. A plague upon't!
I'll run no more after them if they should never be
taken. — Who's there?
Enter a Companion.
Com
What, are you here, Gobus? I thought
you had been in search of the robbers.
Gobus
So I was; but what does it signify? they
have all got the start of us now, and we can scarcely
expect they will have the civility to wait till we
come up with them.
Com.
Ay, ay, Gobus, that is a lazy man's argument.
Why, there was one of them seen by Bertram
not five minutes since, with his head uncovered,
stalking strangely amongst the trees like
a madman, and he vows he will follow the scent
through every path of the wood but he will have
him, either alive or dead.
Gobus.
But if he be a young stout robber, he may
knock Bertram on the head in the mean time, and
relieve him from the obligation of keeping his vow.
Com.
Never fear that: his bugle-horn is by his
side, and as soon as he comes up with him he will
give his companions notice, and they will run to his
assistance.
Gobus.
Well, well, let them manage it the best
way they can, and let us join our friends yonder,
who keep watch by the body; there is good store
of dried sticks in that corner, we may make a fire,
and warm ourselves till they return.
[Horn heard without.
Com.
Ha! there is the signal, and close at hand
too. He has caught his man and wants assistance;
let us run to him, or the villain will escape.
[Exeunt companion and Gobus, who follows rather unwillingly, whilst the men who were watching the body run eagerly to the front of the stage.
1st man.
It sounded to the right hand of us; let
us strike into this path.
[Horn sounds again.
2d man.
Ay, there it sounds again; it is to this
hand of us, but it is so dark, there is no finding our
way.
1st man.
We have been so long by the torch-light
that the darkness is darker to us: run back
and fetch the light with thee.
[Several other attendants from different parts of the wood run across the stage, calling to one another with great eagerness, whilst the 2d man, running back again to the bottom of the stage, snatches the torch from the tree, and comes forward with it.
Enter Bertram, Gobus, and others, with Rayner as their prisoner.
Gobus
(speaking as they enter).
Here is light!
here is light, friends! bring him near it, I pray
you, that we may see what kind of a fish we have
caught in our net. Ay, just as I said now, as
hanged a looking villain as ever scowled through
the grates of a dungeon. See what a wild murderous
look he has with his eyes! this is the very
man that did the deed, I warrant ye. Let us pull
the cords faster round his arms though: if he get
one of his mischievous hands loose again, there is
no knowing which of our brains he may knock out
first.
1st man.
It will never be thine, I am sure, thou'rt
always safe when the knocking out of brains is
going on.
Gobus.
As I'm a sinner he'll get one of his hands
loose if we do not take care of him.
(Attempting to tighten the cords round Rayner's arms.)
Ber.
(putting him away with indignation).
For shame, man, he is bound tight enough; I will not
suffer thee to lay a finger upon him; and as for
the hanged face thou talkst of, alack a-day! it
goes to my heart to see him, such a goodly-looking
gentleman, for such I'll be sworn he is.
Gobus.
Ay, no doubt! it is ever thus with thee.
Thou didst never in thy life see a thief go to the
gallows without crying out, “alack a-day! what a
fine looking fellow it is!” Ay, and if he could but
make shift to howl out half a verse of a psalm
along with his father confessor, thou wert sure to
notch him down upon thy holiday tables as one of
the new made saints. Ay, there be no such great
saints now-a-days as those who pass, with the help
of a Dominican, through the hangman's hands to
the other world; he beats your pope and your
cardinals all to nothing in smuggling a sinner
cleverly in by the back door to heaven.
Ber.
So much the better for thee; it is the only
chance thou hast of ever getting there.—Stand off,
I say (pushing
Gobus
away)
, and do not stare thus
upon the prisoner! art thou not ashamed to stare
in an unhappy man's face after this fashion? we
don't know what hard fate may have brought him
into these circumstances. (To the attendants.) Move
on: we are losing time here.
Gobus.
What, will you not pinion him more closely?
Ber.
No, beast! I would rather flay the skin off
that fool's back of thine than gall a hair's breadth
of his body. (In a softened voice to Rayner.)
Speak,
sir, if the rope hurts your arms; we will not use
you cruelly.
Ray.
What didst thou say to me? was there kindness in thy voice?
Ber.
Yes, sir, there was kindness in it. Do the
ropes hurt your arms? if they do we will loosen
them a little.
Ray.
I wist not that my arms were bound: but
if thou hast any kindness in thee, give me a drink
of water when thou canst get it, for my mouth is
very parched.
Ber.
Yes, sir, that you shall not want, though I
should pay gold for it.—Move on, comrades: the
night is far advanced, and we must guard the
prisoner and the dead body of our master back to
the city before the morning break.
[Exeunt.
| Rayner | |