University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

The sea-shore after a storm, with the masts of a wrecked vessel seen above the water at a distance, and casks and various chests, boards, &c. floating on the waves. Enter shipwrecked mariners and passengers, followed by Sebastian, who keeps apart from the others.
1st pass.
Well, sirs! to tread on firm dry earth again
Makes the heart glad and thankful.

1st mar.
With good cause;
For a dry grave at home is, after all,
The secret wish and prayer of every seaman,
Ay, even the boldest of us.
None hath so long or roughly lived at sea
As to be careless where his bones are laid,—
In sacred ground, or in the gulfy deep.
And thou, too, thinkst so, if I read thee right.

[To 2d passenger.
2d pass.
Ay, so in truth thou dost; I said my prayers
Devoutly as the tempest louder wax'd,
Nor am ashamed to own it.

2d mar.
Nor needs to be so; seaman as I am,
Let me, as oft as fortune beckons me,
On summer seas or rough December's waves,
Career it boldly with my jolly mates;
But let me die at last in mine own cot,
With all my kinsfolk round me. My poor wife!
She listens to the winds when others sleep,
And thinks,—Well, well! we are all safe on shore.

3d mar.
But, saving this, what have we else to cheer us?
Men on dry land are hungry and lack food;
We cannot live on safety only. See,
Here comes a countryman. Ho! friend, I say!
[Calling off the stage.
(Voice answering without.)
What dost thou say? I cannot hear thy words.

3d mar.
Come hither, if thou hast a Christian heart,
Or any charity; come near, I pray thee.

Enter Pietro.
Pie.
What is your will with me?

3d mar.
I pray thee, friend,
What shore is this? Be there or food, or shelter,
Or Christian pity in these parts? Thou seest
What miserable shipwreck'd men we are.

Pie.
Yes, ye are cast upon a shore, where shelter
And Christian pity never are withheld
From those who want them. Seest thou through the trees
That castle? There a noble lady dwells,
Who will have pity on you.

3d mar.
Thank Providence for this! Your noble ladies,
When once they take to goodness, are most bountiful:
The best of all; the men to them are nothing.

1st pass.
She hath no lord then?

Pie.
He is absent now,
Kept at the king's high court, as it is said,
But my opinion is—

3d mar.
Whate'er it be,
That is not our concern. What is his name?

Pie.
They call him Don Romiero.

Seb.
(advancing hastily).
What saidst thou? Is he absent?

Pie.
He is, but his good lady will relieve you,
Ye need not fear for that.

Seb.
We will not fear. Ye love that lady, then,
Who is, ye say, so good?

Pie.
How should we else? A very brute would love her.

Seb.
Yes, thou sayst well; she was e'en from her birth—
I mean, all ladies sprung from noble blood
Are, from their birth, to generous actions train'd;
At least, it should be so.

Pie.
And is so, friend; for I have oft observ'd
Good birth and breeding, as in my own lady,
With gracious kindness join'd.

Seb.
What is her name?

Pie.
Donna Zorada. Thou hast heard, belike,
How her poor father—

Seb.
(turning away).
No; I hear no stories;
I am a man withdrawn from worldly coil,
Who hears or cares for nothing.

Pie.
(to 3d mar.)
This is no mariner? and he speaks strangely.

3d mar.
The strangest thing is that he spoke at all.
We took him up at sea from a small boat,
Which, by the moonlight, we descried afar,
Like a black cockle on the glimmering waves;
But whether earth or hell had sent him to us,
We doubted much.

1st mar.
Nay; when the hurricane wax'd to its pitch
We scarcely doubted, and were once resolved
To cast him overboard. Yet, ne'ertheless,
He hath escaped; and God be praised, we did not.

Pie.
Hush! he returns again. Go on, poor souls,
In lucky hour ye come; for in that wood
Not many paces hence, amongst the trees,
Donna Zorada takes her morning walk;
You'll find her there. Come, I will lead you to her:
And, as we go, there are some words of counsel
Which I shall give to you. They may be useful;
For age, and some small share of shrewd observance,
Have made me, though I say it, fit to counsel.

1st mar.
Do so, good man, and heaven reward thy kindness!

[Exeunt all but Sebastian.
Seb.
(alone).
So near her! Led, as by the hand of heaven,
Even to her very door! And I shall shortly
See her again, and hold her to my heart!
My child! my child! Oh! when those gentle eyes
Look on my woe-worn face and alter'd form,
And these coarse weeds, how will thy piteous heart
Swell e'en to bursting! In that wood hard by,—
So near me! Blessed heaven hath brought me here.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A wood, with various walks and alleys cut through it. Enter Zorada and Beatrice, speaking as they enter.
Bea.
In truth, I slept it out. At times, indeed,
A sound came to my ears, as it had been
The distant roar of wheels, and then I dreamt
Of coursing chariots and approaching crowds,
And courtly tournaments, and tried in vain
To cast my richest mantle o'er my form,
To meet the coming show!

Zor.
Thy mantle for the show!

Bea.
Yes, but perversely,
Still, as one tassell'd end across my shoulders
I had composed, the others to the ground
Fell dangling all awry. Then I look'd down,
And, O sight of confusion! Canst thou guess
What saw I then?

Zor.
Some fearful thing, no doubt.

Bea.
My own bare feet unslipper'd and unhosed,
That on the chequer'd floor began to move
In dancing measure. Yea, the very blood
Rush'd to my cheeks; I felt it in my dream.

Zor.
How could a dream so vain find harbourage
In thy fantastic brain, my little friend,
On such a dreadful night?

Bea.
It was the tempest's sound that brought the dream.

Zor.
So grand a cause producing thoughts so vain!

Bea.
Who takes account of that? Thou wert awake,
Else thou, belike, hadst ta'en the mighty blast
For the quick waving of some gallant's hat
To cool thy glowing cheek, or the soft winnowing
Of outstretch'd pinions—Cupid's wings, perhaps;
Or those of downy swans, as I have seen them,
Scared from the sedgy margin of the lake,
Bending their hurried flight across thy path.

Zor.
I was, indeed, awake, and heard with awe
The war of elements, whose mingled roar
Brought to mine ear the howl of raging fiends,
The lash of mountain billows, the wild shrieks
Of sinking wretches; and at intervals
Cross'd strangely with the near distinctive sounds
Of clatt'ring casements, creaking beams and doors
Burst from their fastenings, swinging in the blast.
It was a fearful night; and many a soul,
On sea and land, have found a dismal end.

Bea.
Ay, we shall hear sad tales of this ere long,
When seated round our evening fire. Alas!
It will be piteous; but, the ill then past,
It will be soft and pleasing piteousness.

Zor.
Sad tales, I fear! O how my sympathy
Follows the seaman's hardy, perilous life;
And the poor passengers, torn from their homes
To toss upon the rude and fathomless deep,
Who shall no more on the dry land set foot,
Nor find a peaceful rest e'en for their bones.
It is a dismal thought.

Bea.
And yet how fair and bright the morning shines,
As if it laugh'd at all the late turmoil!
There's not a cloud in the whole azure sky.

Zor.
None, save those little wanderers, pure as snow,
Those wild bewilder'd things, so hasting on
Like sea-birds to their rock.—What men are these?

Enter Mariners, &c.
1st mar.
We are, an' please ye, good and noble lady,
Poor shipwreck'd seamen, cast upon your shore;
Our all is lost; and we are spent and faint
For want of food.

Zor.
Ye shall not want it long.
Go to the castle, where all needful succour
Will be provided for you.—From what port?
But stop not now to answer idle questions.
Are ye all mariners?

1st mar.
(pointing to pass.)
Those men are merchants;
And he who lingers yonder 'midst the bushes,
Is one we found at sea, some leagues from shore.
We know not what he is.

Zor.
Why keeps he thus aloof? Call to him, friend.

1st mar.
(calling off the stage.)
Ho! there; come this way, sir; the lady calls ye.

Zor.
He has a noble air, though coarsely clad.
How is it that he moves so tardily?

3d mar.
He's wayward, lady; neither mores nor speaks
Like other men.

Zor.
Enter Sebastian, bending his head, and keeping his eyes fixed on the ground.
[He bows in silence, and she seems agitaled. (To the mariners, &c.)
Pass on, my friends; this lady will conduct you.
Wilt thou, my Beatrice, do this kind office?
And I will follow shortly. Tell my people
To serve these shipwreek'd strangers bountifully.

Mariners, &c.
(speaking all together).
God bless your liberal heart, my noble lady!

[Exeunt all but Zor. and Seb.
Zor.
(eagerly).
Who art thou?

Seb.
Hush, till they be farther off.

Zor.
Oh! is it thou?

Seb.
Stand from me; no embrace;
They may look back and see us.

Zor.
How slow they move! Will they ne'er gain the thicket?
My yearning heart will burst; how slow they move! (Stands looking after them impatiently and trembling all over for a few minutes.)

Now they are out of sight. (Rushing into his arms.)

My father! my dear father!

Seb.
My dear child!

Zor.
Oh! art thou here in dread? come here to see me
In peril of discovery? too, too kind!
Dear father! kind, and good, and dear to me,
How and where'er thou art. I fear, I fear
Thou art not as I would: tears in thine eyes,
And anguish on thy face! How hast thou fared?

Seb.
Thou shalt hear all when I have words to tell thee.

Zor.
Not now; take breath awhile, and be composed.
Lean on the grass, and I will fetch thee nourishment.

Seb.
(preventing her from going).
Not now, dear child
I am composed again, and from my side
Thou shalt not move, till I have told thee all. (After a pause.)

Thou knowst the bitter wrongs and foul affront,
Which my ungrateful monarch put upon me,
As meet reward for many years of service.
Ay, though I say it, valiant, faithful service
In field and council.

Zor.
I know it all too well; a burning shame
That he should so requite thee! Some base wretch
Hath tempted him with—

Seb.
Say his noble nature,—
I think it once was noble,—was abused
By the base machinations of my foes.
Say what thou wilt; I was a man, a soldier,
And sought revenge, that baleful remedy
For bitterness of heart.

Zor.
Nay, pause, I pray you! do not tell it now:
Thou art too much distress'd.

Seb.
No, hear it now; 'tis short, and when once told,
One misery is past. Leagued with three chiefs,
Resentful as myself, we did in secret
Derise the means, and soon had reach'd our mark.

Zor.
Your mark! O what was that?

Seb.
I see the fearful meaning of thine eye;
But be not so disturb'd.—Our mark indeed
Was vengeance, but not murder.—On his throne
We meant to place a nobler prince, whose hand
Had even justice to his subjects dealt.
We meant to place on Pedro's worthles brow
That which became it better than a crown.

Zor.
I understand;—a monk's unseemly cowl.
I'm glad you did not mean to shed his blood.

Seb.
My gentle child, we meant but as I say.
And while revenging my especial wrongs,
We should have freed Castile from a hard master,
Who now sheds noble blood upon the scaffold,
As lavishly as hinds the common water
Of village pool cast o'er their arid fields.
And yet to kindle in our native land
The flames of civil discord, even this
Has often rack'd my mind with many doubts,
Recoiling thoughts, and feelings of remorse.

Zor.
Ha! that indeed had been a fearful consequence,
Had your concerted enterprise succeeded.
But speak not now of this. How did you fail?

Seb.
Amongst our number, one accursed traitor
Like Judas lurk'd, and to the royal ear
Divulged the whole.—But we were warn'd of this,
And fled, each as he might. I gain'd the coast,
And lay disguised till I could find a boat,
In which I reach'd last night that founder'd bark,
Whose slender mast just peeps above the surge,
Like some black wizard's wand, token of ill.

Zor.
No, not of ill, dear father, but of good.
'Tis heaven hath sent thee here.
My lord did write to me some distant hints
Of your sad story. When he shall return,
He will protect you. Cherish'd here with us,
You shall in secret live, till fair occasion
Shall offer to convey you where you would,—
Some land of safety.

Seb.
Thy lord's return! no, no! beware of that!
He may not be my friend.—Nay, it is said
That he and others, from their kindred ties
Suspected as abettors of our treason,
To clear themselves, have sworn unto the king,
Dead or alive, wherever they may find us,
Our bodies to deliver to his power.

Zor.
'Tis false! thou wrongst Romiero.
Do not believe it. Some false Judas also
Hath, in this point, deceived you. No, he did not—
He swore no oath so cruel and so base.
Do not believe it.—Hark! the castle bell!

[Bell sounds.
Seb.
Some traveller of note must be arrived.

Zor.
And I must quit my dear and honour'd parent,
With heartless ceremony to receive
A most unwelcome guest.—
Enter that tangled path; it leads to shelter,
An aged woman's cot, where thou mayst rest
And have refreshment. She will minister
To thy necessity. O woe is me!
That any hand but mine should have that office!

Seb.
When shall we meet again?

Zor.
At fall of eve beneath the castle wall,
Near to the northern postern. Heaven watch o'er thee!
There's some one coming! part as we were strangers,
Without one sign of love. That is the path.

[Exit Sebastian; and, after a pause, Don Maurice enters by the opposite side.
Maur.
Good tidings! Don Romiero is arrived.

Zor.
My lord return'd? and art thou sure 'tis he?

Maur.
Yes, I am sure; why should I doubt it, madam?
His train is in the court, and joyful vassals,
Hearing the notice bell, crowd in to greet him.
I have not seen him yet, but am in haste
Come to apprise you of it.
[Observing Zorada motion with her hand, and point as to something at a distance.
What man is that to whom you motion so?

Zor.
A shipwreck'd stranger, who inquired his way,
But was about to take the erring path.

Maur.
He has a stately air, though mean his garb;
I'll go myself and guide him through the wood.

Zor.
No, no! I pray thee, let us to the castle.

Maur.
I'll follow thee: but, 'faith, I fain would go
And hold some parley with that stranger. Surely
He is no common man.

Zor.
I do beseech thee!

Maur.
I'll soon return.

[Going.
Zor.
O stay, Don Maurice, stay.

Maur.
Why? How is this?

Zor.
I cannot stir without thee.

Maur.
What is the matter, lady? You are pale.

Zor.
I've wrench'd my foot: I'm lame; I'm faint with pain.
I pray thee let me lean upon thine arm.

Maur.
Ay, to the world's end. Nay, lean all thy weight,
And let me bear thee up: thou dost but grasp me
As if to hold me fast. The pain is violent.

Zor.
No, it is better now; 'tis almost gone,
But I walk lamely still. Let us proceed.

[Exeunt.