University of Virginia Library

ACT IV.

SCENE I.

A prison in the castle. Antonio discovered disconsolate near the front of the stage. A high door at the bottom, with stairs from it, leading down into the prison.
Ant.
(after shifting his posture several times, and sighing heavily, raises his eyes on hearing the door open gently).
Another visit! do they vainly think,
By oft-repeated questions, to betray
A spent, enfeebled mind into confession?
It is a woman! it is Mencia's self!

Enter Mencia, descending the steps into the prison.
Men.
This is no time for words like these. I dread
E'en but to look upon thee, wretched man!
Take this disguise; it will ensure escape.
There is a faithful friend who waits without,
And by the postern will direct thy flight.
Speak not, but throw these weeds about thee quickly;
The time is precious.

[Holding out garments which she bears over her arm.
Ant.
Thou dreadst to look upon me, yet thou comest
To save my life—to save a murderer's life?

Men.
I said not so in pity of thy state;
That bloody deed I know hath been the act
Of frenzied passion: in some foreign land
Live and repent: Heaven grant thee grace for this!
Let not man's hand, the brand of public shame,
Be on thy wretched head!

Ant.
The hand of man, the brand of public shame,
Falls on the guilty head, by heaven's appointment.
Thou riskest the salvation of thy soul
In aiding my escape; and for my life,
If of thy love bereft, I care not whether
The headsman's axe, or the slow hand of nature,
Shall rid me of it. Nay; the first were best.

Men.
O no! upon my knees I do conjure thee.
[Attempting to kneel, but prevented by him.
If I offend in this, heav'n will forgive me:
For, oh! if thou art lost, I am most wretched.
My misery or peace hangs on thy life;
Therefore, upon my bended knees, I beg.
[Sinking from his hold to the ground.
'Tis for myself I plead; fly instantly.

Ant.
(raising her).
Ah dear, dear Mencia! And car'st thou thus,
For a foul criminal,—a man of blood?
What, then, had been thy care—may I not say—
What, then, had been thy love—had he been innocent?

Men.
Alas, alas! hadst thou been innocent,
I had defied the world, with all its lures,
Again to sever us. Yet, as thou art—

Ant.
Misfortune, thanks! Thou hast done more for me
Than the devoted care of many years.
Come, then, defy the world to sever us,
My generous Mencia; I am innocent.

Men.
Ha! dost thou say it? Saidst thou innocent?
And sayst thou truly so? Hast thou not done it?
Is it no mockery of joy? O no!
That look, that smile! Yes, thou art innocent;
And, heaven be praised, thou art!

Ant.
I am, indeed, of Juan's death most innocent.
And though some circumstances do at present
Accuse me strongly, yet, I trust in heaven,
That on my trial so it will appear.

Men.
Nay; do not trust. O no! for Don Henriquez,
Made savage by despair, will have a victim,
And catch with eagerness at every proof,
How slight soe'er it be. Fly; quickly fly,
And I will follow thee and share thy fortune
Or be it good or ill.

Ant.
O blessed words! my dear, my gen'rous love!
My heart throbs at the thought, but cannot thank thee.
And thou wilt follow me and share my fortune,
Or good or ill!
Ah! what of good can with a skulking outlaw
In his far wand'rings, or his secret haunts,
E'er be? O no! thou shalt not follow me.

Men.
Good may be found for faithful, virtuous love,
In every spot; and for the wand'ring outlaw,
The very sweetest nooks o' the earth are his.
And be his passing home the goatherd's shed,
The woodman's branchy hut, or fisher's cove,
Whose pebbly threshold by the rippling tide
Is softly washed, he may contented live,
Ay, thankfully; fed like the fowls of heaven
With daily food sent by a Father's hand.

Ant.
(pressing both her hands to his heart, and then kissing them).
Thanks, gentle, virtuous Mencia; but, alas!
Far different is the hapless outlaw's home
From what thy gentle fancy fashioneth.
With lawless men he must protection find.
Some murky cavern where the light of day
Hath never peer'd—where the pitch'd brand, instead,
Sheds its red glare on the wild revelry
Of fierce banditti; or the pirate's bark,
Where stalks the sabred ruffian o'er the deck,
Watching his distant prey—some home-bound ship,
With all its stores and freight of precious souls,
Who ne'er shall greet their native shores again,
Must be his guilty home.

Men.
Alas, alas!

Ant.
Thou shalt not follow me, nor will I fly.
Sever'd from thee I will not live, sweet love,
Nor shalt thou be the mate of one disgraced,
And by the good disown'd. Here I'll remain,
And heav'n will work for me a fair deliv'rance.

Men.
No, no! the present means for thy escape
Are sent to thee by heav'n. Be not so stubborn!
With or without me fly, even as thou wilt,
But do not linger here.
[Looking to the door on hearing it moce.
The door—O misery! we are surprised.
It is Henriquez; Heaven have pity on us!

Enter Henriquez, while Mencia shrinks behind Antonio.
Hen.
(advancing).
Ha! not alone! Who is it? Wretched Mencia!

Men.
(rushing forward).
Oh he is innocent! Have pity on us!
Turn not away from me, noble Henriquez.
[Catching hold of him eagerly.
Heaven knows that he is innocent.

Hen.
Then, pray thee, be at peace; heav'n will protect him.

Men.
Frown not; my wretchedness has made me bold.

Hen.
Away, away! I do not frown on thee.
Thou art the baleful cause of all this misery,
And yet I blame thee not. Away, and leave us!

Ant.
Retire, dear Mencia; to thy chamber go;
It is not fit that thou shouldst tarry here.

[She retires unwillingly; Henriquez waving his hand to quicken her retreat, and waiting in gloomy silence till she is gone.
Hen.
Unhappy youth; thou hast to thine accusers
Thine innocence asserted with the earnest
And simple manliness of truth; yet truth,
Supported only by the word of him
Who is accused, will nought avail. How is it?
If there be any circumstance that may
Support or prove thy words, I do entreat thee
To tell me freely, and I will, with speed,
Use every means that may unfold it fully
To aid thy exculpation. (Pauses.)
Is there none?
Bethink thee well: how slight soe'er it be,
It may to others lead of more import.

Ant.
Thanks, generous man!

Hen.
Nay, nay! What is thine answer?

Ant.
Alas! four days within that fatal wood
I have been hid; unseen of every one
But Mencia, and those hinds who did pursue me.
What circumstance can then avail me? No;
Heaven, in its justice, will unfold the truth;
In this I put my trust; proofs I have none.

Hen.
Take the deliv'rance, then, which heaven has sent thee.
Fly, save thy life. (Offering a purse.)
This will procure the means,
When thou hast clear'd the precincts of the forest.
All now is still, and favours thy escape.

Ant.
My lord, like one stunn'd with astonishment,
I thank your gen'rous care. But, Don Henriquez,
Though born of blood less noble than your own,
An outlaw's fate, from friends and country banish'd,
My honest fame blurr'd with imputed guilt,
Is not deliv'rance such as I accept,
Such as a true Castilian can accept.
You offer it in pity of my youth,
Therefore I thank you; but I'll here abide
Such vindication as becomes mine honour.

Hen.
But should it fail thee, canst thou better brook
A malefactor's death, the public gaze,
The scaffold's open shame, the executioner,
All the degrading ministry of death;
Even that which so attainteth noble blood
That ages wear not out th' abhorred blot,
Disgracing all thy line? Ay, think of this:
It makes me shudder as I utter it,
Who have in battle faced all dreadful things.

Ant.
In truth, it makes your strengthen'd features wear
A ghastly hue of horror. How is this,
That such strong sympathy should move you so?
You think me guiltless in the very front
Of proof that should condemn me: then, belike,
Some shrewd suspicion of the actual hand
That did th' accursed deed lurks in your mind.

Hen.
Ha! Cast an accusation on mine honour!

Ant.
No, Don Henriquez; with a friendly wish
To do me service cam'st thou here, and sacred
Is all that thou in privacy hast done
Or utter'd. Yea; though thou shouldst now confess
That thou thyself wert Juan's murderer
(Start not, these are but words of argument);
Yea, e'en supposing this, and that my rescue
From the uplifted axe depended on it,
Yet would I not betray thee.

Hen.
(turning away haughtily).
Thou art incorrigible: take thy will.
[Returning and laying down a key.
I leave thee this; thou wilt consider of it.
Say, is there aught that thou wouldst have me do?

Ant.
Send me a priest. Though only such transgressions
As youthful folly prompts rest on my mind,
Yet would my soul, shrived by some holy man,
His ghostly counsel take, and be at peace.

Hen.
And be at peace! Ay, ghostly counsel may
To such as thou give peace. O could it also—
I know an aged friar, wise and prudent:
Thou shalt be satisfied.

[Exit.
Ant.
(after following him with his eye as he ascends the stair at the bottom of the stage).
But that it were so horrid and unnatural,
A thing at strife with all consistent thoughts,
I could believe—No; 'tis impossible.

[Retires to the bottom of the stage, and the scene closes.

SCENE II.

An antechamber.
Enter Carlos and Friar by opposite sides.
Car.
Good morning, father! you are early here.
Whom come you to confess?

Friar.
I have already been with the poor prisoner.

Car.
And thou hast heard, no doubt, the horrid truth
Which he denies to every one besides?

Friar.
I've heard all he confesses.

Car.
Ay; what strange tales, what secret horrid things,
In thy long course of ghostly ministry,
Have in thine ear been pour'd! By this good hand,
But that I did prefer the jointed mail
And weapon's stroke to haircloth and the scourge,
The roar of battle to the chaunting choir,
I had become a friar, to learn, like thee,
All those dark mysteries of human nature,
To which thy mind is conscious.

Friar.
Gentle son!
Pardon my words; thou talkst in ignorance.
A tale of guilt, wrung from the sinner's soul,
Strikes not the fancy like a winter's tale
Of moonlight witchery, or murder done
I' th' secret chamber. No; a counter sympathy
Doth quell the fancy then. Thou speakst in ignorance.

Car.
True, father, this may be. With your permission
I will attend you to the gate.

Friar.
Not now.
I'm summon'd: Don Henriquez waits for me.

Car.
At the confessional?

Friar.
So I believe; I meet him in the chapel.

Car.
I am right glad of this. We marvell'd much
He did not sooner think of ghostly comfort.

Friar.
I have been summon'd by him once before;
But when I came, capricious in his sorrow,
He would not see me.

Car.
Speak comfort to him, and enjoin some penance
For the indulgence of such frantic grief;
So wayward, so excessive. May God bless thee!
[Exit friar.
Here comes our keen and fiery secretary.

Enter Balthazar.
Bal.
Ay; every cot and castle in the realm
At my command must open gate and hold,
Chamber and bower; e'en the sepulchral vault,
Whose sable scutcheon'd door hath not for years
Upon its hinges jarr'd, must be unlock'd,
And show its secrets to the searching light.
But as I learn you have secured the murderer,
I am content; here ends my brief commission.
I pray you lead me to the prison-house:
I burn to see the wretch.

Car.
Come, follow me

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

A chapel. Henriquez discorered on his knees by the confessional, the Friar bending over him, and muttering words in a low voice.
Friar
(aloud).
Rise, son, in humble but assured faith!
Repentance, and these penances endured,
Will gain from heavenly grance full absolution
Of this most guilty deed—of all thy sins.
Rise, and be comforted!
[Raising him, and leading him forward.
Be comforted!
The worst of sinners league not with despair,
But by their own untoward disbelief,
The greatest sin of all. Thou smit'st thy breast,
And shak'st thy drooping head: thou must not doubt.
All sin is finite, mercy infinite;
Why shouldst thou doubt that God will pardon thee?

Hen.
I doubt it not. God's mercy pardons all
Who truly do repent; and O how truly,
How deeply, how intensely I repent!
But in my breast there is a goading sense,
An inward agony, a power repelling
In dire abhorrence every better thought.
The bliss of heaven for me! incongruous hope!
My soul, my fancy, yea my very will
Is link'd to misery; and happiness
Comes to my thoughts like gleams of painful day
To owls and bats, and things obscene and hateful,
Fitted by nature for their dismal dens.
O that I were like such! in the reft rock
Of some dank mine coil'd up, dull and unconscious
Of the loud hammer's sound, whose coming stroke
Should crush me from existence!

Friar.
Alas, alas, my son, have better thoughts.

Hen.
Let them arise in better hearts, for mine
A nest of stinged scorpions hath become,
And only fit for such. Each recollection,
Each waking fancy, like a barbed fang,
Pierces its core with thrilling agony,
Which yields to a succeeding, sharper sting,
And that again to others keener still.
So kind, so dear, such manly, true affection!
Friendship so pure! such noble confidence!
Love that surmounted all things! When, in passion,
I did an outrage on his fiery blood,
What would have hurl'd on any other head
The instant stroke of death—he only waited—

Friar.
Give o'er, my son; thou art too vehement.

Hen.
He waited till my senseless rage was spent,
Then smil'd—O such a sweet, upbraiding smile!
Open'd his arms, and clasp'd me to his heart.
That smile, those open'd arms, I see them now,—
I see them constantly; where'er I turn,
They front me like a vision of delight
Changed to a gorgon terror.
Yet no restraining love did plead for him:
As though he had some common rev'ller been,
All base suggestions were received against him,
Were cherish'd, brooded on by dint of thought,
Work'd to a semblance of consistent truth,
Which, but for this, hateful ingratitude,
All other crimes surpassing, ne'er had found
Credence so wild. Iron heart and ruffian hand!
Ye took your cursed will, and slew the noblest,
The bravest, and the best, like a vile traitor!

[Beating his forchead and striding away.
Friar.
My son, this is wild ecstasy of passion,
Which leads not to that humble true repentance
Our holy church enjoins.

Hen.
(returning).
Or had I met him as an open foe,
With accusation of defiance fairly
Preceding vengeance; but unheard, i' th' dark!
Tremble, ye venerable roofs, ye towers
Of my brave fathers, men without reproach;
Fall on my cursed head, and grind to dust
What bears the honour'd semblance of their son,
Although unmeet to bear the human form.

Friar.
Nay, nay! I pray forbear; this violent grief
For thy soul's weal is most unprofitable.
Betake thyself betimes to prayer and penance.
The sufferings of the body will relieve
The suff'rings of the mind.

Hen.
The sufferings of the body! They are powerless.
[Showing his hand.
See here, short while, in agony of thought,
Pacing the armoury where hangs the mail
Which Juan wore, when in Tolosa's field
We fought the turban'd Moslems side by side;
It was his gift, which I did beg of him,
In the proud joy I felt at his high deeds.
How swell'd my heart! A braver knight in arms
Fought not that day. Bold heart and potent hand,
And lofty mien and eyes that flash'd with valour!
Where run my words? I have forgot their drift.

Friar.
Something which happen'd in the armoury.

Hen.
Ay, in the armoury, as I have said,
I struck my hand, in vehemence of action,
On a spik'd shield, nor knew till afterwards,
When the wild fit was past, and oozing blood
Loaded my clammy touch, that in my flesh
The broken iron was sheath'd.
No; what can corporeal pain or penance do?
That which inflicts the mental wound, which rends
The hold of pride, wrenching the bent of nature;
'Tis that alone hath power. Yet from the effort
Nature starts back; my mind, stunn'd at the thought,
Loses the use of thought.

Friar.
I do not understand you, good my lord.

Hen.
It matters not; you will, perhaps, hereafter.

Friar.
You are at present feeble and exhausted,
And lack repose; retire awhile, my son.
Hark! on the walls without, do you not hear
The warder's call to note the rising morn?

Hen.
The morn! And what have I to do with morn?
The redd'ning sky, the smoking camp, the stir
Of tented sleepers rousing to the call,
The snorting steed, in harness newly dight,
Did please my fancy once. Ay; and the sweetness
Of my still native woods, when, through the mist,
They show'd at early dawn their stately oaks,
Whose dark'ning forms did gradually appear
Like slow approaching friends, known doubtfully.
These pleased me once in better days; but now
My very soul within me is abhorrent
Of every pleasant thing; and that which cheers
The stirring soldier or the waking hind,
That which the traveller blesses, and the child
Greets with a shout of joy, as from the door
Of his pent cot he issues to the air,
Does but increase my misery.—
I loathe the light of heaven: let the night,
The hideous unbless'd night, close o'er me now,
And close for ever!

Friar.
Cease, cease! and cherish not such dark despair.
Retire to your apartment, and in prayer
Beseech Almighty Goodness to have pity
On a perturbed soul.

Hen.
Pray thou for me; I will pray when I can.

Friar.
Hark! steps along the corridor; they come
To say an early mass for the repose
Of the interr'd: they must not find you here.

Hen.
And to the dead they give repose! What mass,
What prayers, what chaunted hymns can to the living
Give respite from this agony of soul?
Alas, alas! there is no cure for this.

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

A small court before the door of the prison, which is open. Blas and other domestics discovered waiting near it.
1 dom.
(to Blas).
Goes Don Henriquez with the prisoner?

Blas.
He does; his noble courser at the gate,
Black Sultan, saddled stands, champing the bit,
And casting from his mouth the flaky foam.
Stand back; they're coming now.

Enter Antonio, Carlos, Friar, Balthazar, and Diego, from the prison.
Friar
(to Antonio).
Be not cast down, my son, but trust in heaven!

Ant.
And so I do; that is my stay, good father;
And yet, methinks, these fetters might be spared.
By Don Henriquez' orders am I thus
Like a vile felon chain'd?

Car.
'Tis by his orders; 'tis a stated form.
I fear they gall you; are they clench'd too tightly?

Bal.
Who doth a felon's deeds must e'en submit
To bear a felon's manacles.

Ant.
(to Baltiiazar).
Yes; man of pens, and records, and old lore,
Such is thy narrow and ungen'rous nature.
[Turning to Carlos.
This rough but noble soldier, bred in camps
And midst the broil of battle, is more gentle.
Henriquez seem'd inclined to pity me,
To think me innocent; then, wherefore these?

Car.
Come, we lose time, we must begin our journey
To reach the town by close of day, Henriquez
Being intent to gain a royal audience
Before the sitting of to-morrow's court.

[Exeunt all but Diego, to whom enters Leonora, with something in her hand.
Leo.
My good Diego, hie thee to the gate;
And ere thy master mount, give him this scarf,
These gloves too, and his signet, which, in haste,
He left behind.
[Giving them to him.
He has forbidden me to follow him,
And he must be obeyed.

Diego.
He shall receive them.

Leo.
How look'd Antonio when they led him forth?
Greatly dejected?

Diego.
No; he bears it stoutly.

Leo.
Asserting still that he is innocent?

Diego.
Ay, ay; but every villain does the same.
Does not my lord believe that he is guilty?

Leo.
I cannot doubt it. When he left the chapel
A long time in his chamber he remain'd;
When he came forth again, I watch'd his eye,
And it was calm, though gloomy. Then forthwith
He gave his orders that a band of spearmen
Should be in readiness to guard the prisoner
Bound to Zamora; and were he in doubt,
He were not now so calm, being before
So greatly agitated. Hie thee quickly.

[Exeunt severally.