University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—A Chamber in the Castle.
Enter Duke and Ulrick.
Duke.
She loves the serf? Impossible!

Ulrick.
My lord,
'Tis true.

Duke.
It cannot be! Her pride alone
Forbids belief. More loftily, my lord,
The stateliest of all her ancestors
Ne'er wore his rank, than she.

Ulrick.
She loves the serf.

Duke.
Give me some reason stronger than averment.

Ulrick.
Such I have given already. What, my liege
But love, such contradiction could beget?
When did cold scorn look, speak, and act like love?
Woman or man is known by fits and starts,
More than by habits, which may be put on;
For those so take the judgment off its guard,
That inmost thoughts are shown. With care for him,
She all forgot herself. Had doubt remain'd,
It had vanish'd when assurance of his safety
Restored collectedness, which brought with it
Slight of the man that, but a moment gone,
Seem'd essence of her being.

Duke.
You are right.
'Tis the solution of the mystery,
That, with the progress of the season, comes not
Fulfilment of its promises; and no sign
Of blight or canker, but the blossom rich
As ever knit into the perfect fruit!
Her girlhood, longer past than some would own—
Put forth a bloom like many another's prime,
That often, then, I fancied love would come.
When her prime came, nor love along with it,
With many a suitor have I sigh'd to think
Her breast was ne'er intended lodge for that
It seem'd most fitted for, and little dream'd
The guest we miss'd, already was within.

Ulrick.
And never fear'd the serf?

Duke.
No.

Ulrick.
Was't not strange?

Duke.
Not to consider him as I did; creature
Made for her pride to vent its mood upon—
Her pride insufferable—which alone
Seem'd fruit of her capricious womanhood.

Ulrick.
That foil'd you.

Duke.
When the serf was but a boy—
His mistress then an infant—taken with
His forward parts, I put them to the test
Of scholarship, which they robustly stood,
A hundred-fold repaying cultivation;
Nor stopp'd I there; but as he grew to manhood,
Gave training to him in those exercises,
Wherein our youths of gentle blood indulge—
Preludes to feats in peace, and deeds in war—
That I might boast a serf supreme in arms;
As many a knight unwillingly has own'd,
Accepting challenge to make proof of him.

Ulrick.
What didst propose him for?

Duke.
Instructor first,
Then page and secretary to my child.

Ulrick.
Instructor, didst thou say? Companion of
Her hours of privacy? Her age was then—

Duke.
Twelve, if I err not.—Yes; twelve times I then
Had bless'd the day that gave my daughter birth.

Ulrick.
Her spring was mellowing into summer then,
Young summer; at whose genial glow, the heart
Finds wishes and affections shooting up,
Known but by name before, and thrills and swells
With rapture of the strange and plenteous verdure.
She prosper'd with his aid?

Duke.
O, wondrously.

Ulrick.
And loved at first her tutor?

Duke.
Much: but soon
A change, which grew with her, the nearer she
Approach'd to womanhood. 'Twas distance first;
Then sullenness; then scorn, which she gave sway to
Incontinent, and chiefly of those feats
Of high address wherein he match'd the noble,
And which it seem'd her pastime he should practise
For recompense of aggravated spite.

Ulrick.
Which he endured for love!

Duke.
He dies! That ends it.

Ulrick.
Yes; confirming it,
Perhaps. Beware, sir, of a tragedy
So deep! Her scorn may melt at it, and help
Her tears to keep them flowing on until
She weeps her life away. You must not play
With a first passion, once it has taken root.
For it strikes deep—to the foundations even
Of the heart—entwining with the fibres there,
Of life itself, that, pluck the other up,
These, often, come along.

Duke.
He shall to exile,
Thousands of miles away, 'midst snows and deserts!

Ulrick.
So may you tempt her, sir, with pity for him,
To turn a pilgrim—take up staff and scrip,
And follow him. She scorns him for the scorn
Which others' eyes behold his station with.
Removed from their regards, her rank unknown,
For her rich charms were his embrace, a lodge
She'd change your palace for.

Duke.
Impossible!

Ulrick.
O, never did achievement rival Love's,
For daring enterprise and execution.
It will do miracles; attempt such things
As make ambition, fiery as it is,
Dull plodding tameness, in comparison.
Talk of the miser's passion for his store—
'Tis milk and water to the lover's, which
Defies the mines of earth and caves of ocean
To match its treasure! Talk of height, breadth, depth—
There is no measure for the lover's passion,
No bounds to what 'twill do!

Duke.
Advise me, then,
What's best.

Ulrick.
Induce the serf to marry. That
Were cure, in the end, for your fair daughter's passion;
Whose wound were his desertion, so resentment
Would blunt the edge of disappointed love.
For, doubt not, though she ne'er espouses him,
She trusts so far to keep him to herself,
As that he ne'er shall pillow with another.

Duke.
'Tis done. I have a bride for him, at once.
One of his class, enfranchised by the will
Of my cousin, who preceded me; indeed,
Supposed love-daughter to him, and endow'd
With wealth of his, that makes her coveted
As fitting mate, by men of gentle blood.
Her humour 'tis to keep her freedom still;
But to my wish, as soon as known, she'll bend,
Aware I may encoil her in the mesh
My cousin's love or bounty freed her from.
But say I wed the serf to Catherine,
What profit then? My child may still persist
To keep her virgin state.

Ulrick.
I should commit
To Heaven the election of her husband;—let
The tournament determine who shall wed her.

Duke.
Thereto I have made provision in my will;
And further, sir, as I am due to death
Now many a year, and momentarily
Expect his summons, pray you keep by me
The little space I have to tarry yet;
For on your wisdom I have all reliance.
Your prince, I know, will not gainsay me, here.
And when it pleaseth Heaven to leave my body
Without the breath, it has inherited
So long; no minute lose, but take occasion
Of the fresh flow of sorrow in my child—
When her young heart is soften'd, and will mould
Itself unto his will, who is no more—
To break to her, on this particular head,
My dying testament.

Ulrick.
I shall remember.

Duke.
So please you, I shall join you with the Empress,
Liege lady and good cousin to my child,
Executor.

Ulrick.
I shall discharge the trust.

Duke.
My lord, send Huon to me. Question not,
Advise me not. He marries, or he dies.
[Ulrick goes out.
Life spent to waste! My pride become my shame!
For this I rear'd her—rear'd to tow'ring thoughts.
A gasp of being only left, and that
To sigh that being has been spent in vain
For her, last shoot of an illustrious tree!
I loved my serf, was vain of him, and made
My vanity to smile through his deserts;
And now, their light is cloud to all my hopes.
Through mine own pride my high aspirings fall.
They shall not fall! Good-bye to ruth! He dares
To love my child—to covet her, I grudged
Surrender of to those could boast estate
Equal to mine! Born at my very foot,
How durst he lift his eyes so giddy high!
He comes. I see! The passion never yet
I dream'd of, stares upon me, in his look,
His air, his gait. 'Tis dead—or he must die!
Enter Huon.
Huon!

Huon.
My lord?

Duke.
I have been thinking of thee.

Huon.
My lord is ever good.

Duke.
I have a notion
'Twould profit thee to marry.

Huon.
Marry!

Duke.
Yes.

Huon.
I first must love.

Duke.
And hast thou never loved?
Why art thou silent? Wherefore holds thy tongue
Its peace, and not thy cheek?

Huon.
My cheek!

Duke.
It talks!
A flush pass'd o'er it, as I spoke to thee;
And now it talks again—and on the ground
Thou cast'st thine eye. “Thou first must love”—My friend,
Thou art in love already! Art thou not?
Art thou not, Huon?—Never mind, but keep
Thy secret.—I have fix'd that thou shalt marry.

Huon.
My lord—

Duke.
[Interrupting him.]
I know it will advantage thee,
And I have look'd around my court to find
A partner for thee, and have lit on one.

Huon
[more earnestly].
My lord—

Duke.
[Interrupting him again.]
She has beauty, Huon, she has wealth;
And that which qualifies her better still—
As of unequal matches discords grow—
She's of thy own class, Huon, she is a serf.

Huon
[impetuously].
My lord—

Duke.
[Interrupting, indignantly.]
My serf!—How now?—Wouldst thou rebel?

Huon.
Rebel, my lord!

Duke.
I trust I was deceived!
I did not see defiance in thine eye,
And hear it on thy tongue? Thou wouldst not dare
So much as harbour wish to thwart thy lord,
Much less intent? Thou know'st him!—know'st thyself!
Thou mayst have scruples—That thou canst not help;
But thou canst help indulging them, in the face
Of thy lord's will. And so, as 'tis my will
Thou marry straight, and I have found thy match,
I'll draw a paper up, where thou shalt make
The proffer of thy hand to Catherine,
And thou shalt sign it, Huon.

[Writes.
Huon.
That I were dead!
O, what is death, compared to slavery!
Brutes may bear bondage—They were made for it,
When Heaven set man above them; but no mark,
Definite and indelible, it put
Upon one man to mark him from another,
That he should live his slave! O heavy curse!
To have thought, reason, judgment, feelings, tastes,
Passions, and conscience, like another man,
And not have equal liberty to use them,
But call his mood their master! Why was I born
With passion to be free—with faculties
To use enlargement—with desires that cleave
To high achievements—and with sympathies
Attracting me to objects fair and noble,—
And, yet, with power over myself, as little,
As any beast of burden? Why should I live?
There are of brutes themselves that will not tame
So high in them is nature;—whom, the spur
And lash, instead of curbing, only chafe
Into prouder mettle;—that will let you kill them,
Ere they will suffer you to master them.
I am a man, and live!

Duke.
Here, Huon, sign,
And Catherine is your wife.

Huon.
I will not sign.

Duke.
How now, my serf!

Huon.
My lord, I am a man;
And, as a man, owe duty, higher far
Than that I owe to thee, which Heaven expects
That I discharge. Didst thou command me murder,
Steal, commit perjury, or even lie,
Should I do it, though thy serf? No! To espouse her,
Not loving her, were murder of her peace.
I will not sign for that! With like default,
To compass mastery of her effects,
Were robbery. I will not sign for that!
To swear, what I must swear, to make her mine,
Were perjury at the very altar. Therefore
I will not sign! To put forth plea of love,
Which not a touch of love bears witness to,
Were uttering a lie. And so, my lord,
I will not sign at all!—O, good my liege,
My lord, my master, ask me not to sign!
My sweat, my blood, use without sparing; but
Leave me my heart—a miserable one
Although it be! Coerce me not in that,
To make me do the thing my heart abhors!
I beg no more!

[The Duke draws his sword, and resolutely approaches Huon. At the same minute the Countess enters, unperceived, and stops short.
Duke.
Huon, I love thee,
And would not do thee harm, unless compell'd.
Thou shouldst not play with me, and shalt not. Take,
Therefore, thy choice—death, or the paper.

Huon.
Death!

Duke.
Thou makest thy mind up quickly, in a strait.

Huon.
I do not wish to live.
[Opens his vest, takes the point of the Duke's sword, and places it opposite his heart.
Set here thy point;
'Tis right against my heart! Press firm and straight;
The more, the kinder!

[A pause.
Duke.
As thou wishest death,
I will not kill thee for thy disobedience.
An hour I grant for calm reflection. Use it.
If, on the lapse of that brief space, I find
The page without addition, thou mayst learn
That even slavery hath its degrees,
Which make it sometimes sweet! Our felons throng
The galleys; but 'tis hard, or we shall find
A bench and oar for thee!

[He goes out.
Huon.
My lord, come back!
My lord! What now my mind, be sure 'twill be
At the end of the hour! of the day! of my life!—My lord!
He does not hear, or will not. Most sweet cause
Of most insufferable misery,
Wouldst thou not weep at this? Couldst thou look on,
And keep pride sitting in thy woman's eye—
The proper throne of pity—which for me,
The melting queen has yet refused to fill,
But to a stern usurper all abandon'd!—
Wouldst thou not weep? Or would my name alone—
My sole condition set 'gainst all myself;
The vivid thoughts, the feelings sensitive,
The quick affections, passions of a man,
Despite his misery of birthright; flesh,
Warm, warm; of as high vitality as though
His lot had been an heirdom to a throne—
Would that, prevailing 'gainst such odds as these,
Prevent thee? Yes! Thou wouldst not weep for me.
O, knew I what would make thee! Would my corpse?
Then to thy father! own my passion for thee,
Tell him his serf aspires to love his daughter,
Boasts of it, though he sends him to the galleys,
Will glory in it, chain'd beside the felon,
Ay, with the tasker's whip whirling above him,
Reiterate it, when he threatens me,
And when again he threatens, justify it,
On the broad rights of common human nature,
Till with his own hand he transfixes me!

[Following the Duke.
Countess.
[Interposing.]
Stop, Huon!—What's the matter?

Huon.
Huon—Huon!
Didst thou say Huon—and with gentleness?
Madam—my mistress—I am your slave!—I am nothing
But the poor serf!

Countess.
See if that door is free
From list'ners.

Huon.
[Going to the door.]
There is no one here.

Countess.
Come in,
And shut it again.

Huon.
'Tis shut.

Countess.
Now, what's the matter
With my father and you?

Huon.
He bade me sign that paper,
And I refused.

Countess.
What is it? Let me see it.

Huon.
[Hands the paper, and watches the Countess while she reads.]
How her eye fastens on the writing—seems
To grasp it, as her hand the paper! What!
Did she start? She did! O, wherefore?—What is this?
Her sweet face, that just now was all a calm,
Shows signs of brooding tempest! Yes, 'tis on—
Lowers on her brow, and flashes on her cheek,
Like cloud and lightning. How her bosom heaves!
What makes it heave? She has let the paper drop,
Yet there she stands as though she held it yet!
And where, but now, all was astir—now, all
Again is stillness! Dare I speak to her?
She is not like to faint—no—no—she breathes!
Her haughty spirit wakes in her again,
Towering, alas! as ne'er it did before.

Countess.
[After a violent struggle, giving way.]
Huon, I die!

Huon.
Heavens!—Mercy!

Countess.
[Bursting into tears.]
It is over.
Do not speak to me! Let my tears flow on!

Huon.
Flow they for me?

Countess.
I told you not to speak.

Huon.
Sweet Heaven! your voice is tears!
Your looks are tears; your air, your motions, all
Are tears! floods! floods! to those that course your cheeks,
And fall more bright than diamonds on the hands
Which now I clasp to thee in supplication,
That thou wilt deign this once vouchsafe me audience,
To give my fatal passion vent before thee—
For years pent up within my wretched breast—
And then I'm mute for ever!

Countess.
Huon, peace—
I know thou lov'st me!

Huon.
Thou know'st it, dost thou?
And sayest it!—and mildly sayest it!
Not with a tone of scorn, not with a threat,
Nor accent yet of cold indifference
For the poor serf, who, body, soul, and all,
Not being worth a tithe of thee, yet dares
To love thee!—dares to wish for thee!—yes, wish,
Although he knows thee out of reach of him,
As the sun!—as the stars—a million, million times
Beyond the sun! The poor despiséd serf,
Despiséd of himself—of thee—of every one—
Thou see'st he loves thee, and thou deign'st to say it!
Say it with pity—with most tender pity!
Behold'st him kneeling at thy feet, and know'st
The passion throws him there, and suffer'st him
To stay there!—Let him die there! Let him die
At thy feet!

[Falls at her feet.
Countess.
Rise, Huon!—Huon!—Hear'st thou me?
And dost thou not obey me? Wilt thou not?
Listen to me!—Lo, I entreat thee, Huon,
By the love thou bear'st me, rise!

Huon.
[Rising to his knee.]
Again! “By the love
“Thou bear'st me, Huon!” And thy accents did sound
Like those of one that love repaid with love!
Thou start'st at that! and terror, all at once,
Looks from the eyes, whence something look'd before
I'd give the vision of my own to see there
But for one other moment, so it set
My soul a-blaze with hope!—Can I believe it,
My arm encircles thee!

Countess.
[With forced dignity.]
Remove it.

Huon.
Ah!
Thou changest!—Yes!—Thou art returning fast
To what thou wast before.

Countess.
No, Huon—but
Obey me—kneel no longer at my feet,
But rise. [He rises.]
It pleaseth me thou dost my will.
Huon, wilt do my will?

Huon.
Wilt do thy will?
It is the nature of my blood as much
As its colour—current! In thy every mood,
I will obey thee, lady.

Countess.
Promise me
Thou'lt do the thing I bid thee.

Huon.
What is it?

Countess.
Promise me first, and then I'll name it to thee.
Huon, wilt do the thing I wish?

Huon.
I will.

Countess.
But swear thou'lt do it.

Huon.
Yes. What shall I swear by?

Countess.
Thy love for me!

Huon.
Then, by my love for thee,
I'll do the thing thou bidd'st me.

Countess.
Sign the paper!—
Thou art about to speak—but don't—don't, Huon,
As thou wouldst not offend me; as 'twould grieve me—
I won't say, anger me—that thou couldst offend me.
Listen! I'll bear that thou shouldst love me, if
Thou signest—else command thee ever from me.
Wilt thou not? Speak not—give me acts, not words.
Or sign it, or begone!

Huon.
I'll keep my word,
And so do both.

[Takes paper to table, and peruses it.
Enter Attendant.
Countess.
[To Attendant.]
Is Catherine in the castle
If not, go to her house, and bring her hither.

Attendant.
She is in the castle. Now she enter'd it.

Countess.
Conduct her to my chamber. Stay. My chaplain—
Tell him, and do it straight, to wait me in
The chapel. Tarry. See that the chapel else
Is clear—Make sure of it. That ascertain'd,
Take post at the door, and mind that no one enter,
Except the serf and the two ladies that
Shall follow him. I shall be one. A mouse
Besides, thou diest!

[Attendant goes out.
Huon.
[Signs paper.]
It is sign'd—Farewell!

[Going.
Countess.
Stay!—To the full thou must redeem thy pledge.
Unless thou marriest, it is not sign'd;
The paper is but air, the ink but water,
Without fulfilling of the written deed;
And thou but jugglest with me, shamefully,
Saying thou lovest me, and for thy oath
Staking thy love, and leaving all undone
As thou hadst sworn by nothing. Thou art bound
To marry Catherine, failing which to do,
Thou dost not love me,—thou art not a man.

Huon.
I am indifferent to what I do.
All things of earth are now the same to me;
Good, bad, love, hate, wrong, kindness, life, or death.
What hour you please, I'll marry Catherine.

[Going.
Countess.
Now!
[Stopping him.
This very moment! She will meet thee in
The chapel, whither thou must straight repair.
Thou wilt?

Huon.
I will.

Countess.
The chaplain thou wilt find
Expecting thee—and, if he be not come
Already, still he will be sure to come.
Thou wilt not juggle with me?

Huon.
No.

Countess.
Thou darest not—
I mean, thou darest not, as thou lovest me.

Huon.
I'll keep the oath, and then, farewell for ever!

[Aside.—Goes out.
Countess.
'Tis done!

[Sinks into a chair.
Enter Duke.
Duke.
Where's Huon?

Countess.
Gone to do thy will.

Duke.
Who work'd this miracle? I never dream'd
He would conform to it! Who work'd it?

Countess.
I.

Duke.
Thou?

Countess.
[Giving him the paper.]
There.

Duke.
My child! Thou art thy father's child,
My proud child still! Where is he?

Countess.
In the chapel,
By this. The chaplain waits upon him there.
Catherine is in my room, expecting me.
So please you, sir, since I have help'd the match
Thus far, I'll e'en o'erlook the ceremony.

Duke.
Do so.
My barque no more is fit for sea;
A ripple threatens it with foundering,
Almost 'tis founder'd now. Did Huon tell thee
How he withstood me?

Countess.
All is known to me.
But pray you, for the sake of Catherine,
Grant him his freedom. 'Tis not meet her husband
Should drag the chain, hath been unloosed from her.

Duke.
This document accomplishes your wish,
E'en now prepared to win him to my purpose.
I give it freely, for I love the boy;
Ay, now entirely love him! See him married;
And may he plight a happy, happy troth
To her he weds! My child, I am failing fast.
'Tis time—don't heed!—go to the chapel—and
My blessing on the errand takes thee thither.
Enter Attendant.
Ha!—you are come in time, sir! I shall need
Your help to my chamber. Tell the boy, I bless him!
Come hither, bless thee, too! And bless the work
Thou goest to do! While I remember it,
Regard Count Ulrick as thy father's friend,
One of his household now, with sanction of
The Prince of Milan. I am very feeble!
Must to my chamber!

Countess.
[Rushing towards him, and kneeling.]
Bless me again! my father!

Duke.
Again, my child?—Again!
[Blessing her.
Heaven bless thee! It is wiser—better knows
Thy good—can better help thee to't—ay!
Better than thy father! May it bless thee, then,
And be its will, before thy father's, done!

[Goes out.
Countess.
Now, fail not Catherine, and the die is cast!

[Goes out.

SCENE II.

—The Corridor of the Castle.
Enter Sir Conrad.
Sir Con.
What calls the chaplain to his sacred post,
And why this privacy? About to pass
The porch, I was admonish'd 'twas forbid
To all to enter! 'Tis no day of fast,
No hour of customary rites! 'Tis nought
To me. I only wonder at its strangeness.

Sir Rup.
[Entering.]
Where is the Prince of Milan?

Sir Con.
In the courtyard—
Unless departed thence this moment.

Sir Rup.
Find him,
And bring him to the chamber of the Duke.
If on your way you meet the Duke's physician,
In search of whom I go, he, too, is summon'd,
And tell him so.

Sir Con.
Why, what's the matter?

Sir Rup.
Woe!
The Duke!—the Duke!—No question, but away!

SCENE III.

—Chamber of the Countess.
Enter Christina and the Countess's Maid.
Chris.
My mistress marry Huon?

Maid.
Even so!
Now hand in hand with him before the priest;
Unless the knot be tied already—said
The blessing and amen.

Chris.
No bridemaid?

Maid.
Yes,
My lady.

Chris.
What! the Countess! bridemaid she
To Catherine that was before a serf!
Yet she was ever fond of Catherine.

Maid.
You should have seen them both as forth they went,
Like two sweet sisters for the altar veil'd.

Chris.
A sudden marriage this!

Maid.
And lonely, too;
None but the principals admitted—friends
Nor attendants!

Chris.
It is strange! Well. Huon gets
A wealthy wife—a freewoman, to boot;
And, sooth to say, a worthy husband, she—
Ay, were she better still—for many a prince
Looks not his rank so well as Huon would,
Were he one. Softly—they return—yes.

Maid.
No;
My mistress comes alone. How slow she moves!

Enter the Countess faint; her Maid runs to support her.
Countess.
Help to unveil me, girl. I cannot lift
My hand to my head—and I want air! Remove
My veil. There! Now I breathe!—A minute only,
And all the world seems changed. Is this my room?
Art thou my waiting-maid?—Am I myself?
Where is my father?

Maid.
In his chamber, lady.
He is complaining.

Countess.
He is very old.
His life spun out into a very film.
I did not gainsay him! Thank Heaven for that!
I would that I could go to him, but sooth
My limbs have done their best to bring me hither.
I am next to dead; almost dissolved to nothing.
Is that Christina? Girl, what do you here?
Home with all haste; your mistress there before you
Waits your assistance with most instant need.

Chris.
It is all wonder.

Countess.
Art thou gone?

Chris.
I am!

[Curtsies and goes out.
Count Ulrick enters.
Ulrick.
Madam!

Countess.
Count Ulrick, is it you? I am glad
To see you, sir; my father told me, or
I dreamt it, he design'd to take you, sir,
Into his service. If 'tis so, I'm glad of it.

Ulrick.
I grieve to think my office was a brief one!

Countess.
Your office was a brief one!—Speak!—alas!
When silence is a substitute for speech,
The heart must be o'er full of joy or pain!
Enough. I read your errand-in your looks—
I am an orphan.

Ulrick.
Madam, 'twas a debt
Long due to nature.

Countess.
Still, sir, we must grieve
To see it paid. At what a time to leave me!
I cannot pay him half his due of sorrow.
My heart is spent—benumb'd! this shaft of Fate
Lights on a corpse!—a corpse! Alas, my father!

[Weeps.
[A pause—Enter Attendant, hastily.
Atten.
Madam!

Ulrick.
Keep silence! Do not interrupt
The sacred flow of sorrow for the dead.

Countess.
No; let him speak; there's matter in his looks.

Atten.
The banquet, as you order'd, is prepared,
But neither bride nor bridegroom can be found.

Countess.
You mean the bride cannot be found!

Atten.
Nor yet
The bridegroom.

Countess.
Search for him, and you will find him—
Must find him!
[Attendant goes out.
What a cross! at what a time!
When all my thoughts should be with him that's gone!
My father! I adored my father, sir:
Indeed, I did!

Ulrick.
Then let me now fulfil
His last behest, whereof the substance this,
In full recorded here—which he enjoin'd
You should be instantly possess'd of—proof
Of his most fatherly regard and care.
Of those who seek your hand you must make choice
Of one to share the labours of the dukedom,
Or else abide the issue of the lists—
Your suitors summon'd to a tournament—
When he who rests the victor wins your hand.

Countess.
I am content! I'll do my father's will,
And bide the issue of the tournament,
Or choose myself the man shall take my hand.

Ulrick.
Jointly the Empress and myself are named
Executors, to give the will effect.

Countess.
It was not needed. It had been respected
Without o'erlooking, how much less enforcement!
My brain and heart are here and there! I haven't
The use of them. Stop! [Thinks]
Some one told me now
Of something—What was it?

Ulrick.
One said the serf—

Countess.
Call him that name again!—Whom speak'st thou of?
Huon?

Atten.
[Entering.]
This letter is from Huon, madam.
Mounted upon a steed, your father's gift,
He threw it me, and fled.

Countess.
[Reading.]
“Eternally
“Farewell—Your will is done—I use my freedom.
“Fortune my mistress hence—the richest boon
“She can award me, death!—Once more, farewell!”
O rashness most perverse and ruinous!
Let them pursue him; and provide them with
The fleetest of the stud, and gold beside,
For new relays. If they o'ertake him—if?—
They must!—'Tis an affair of life or death!
They must not quit him, but return with him—

Atten.
The bride—

Countess.
No heed of her. Bring Huon back
By fair means or by foul—persuasion vain,
Let them resort to force—but not to harm
A hair of his head. So be their numbers such
As makes resistance idle. They are sure
To track him, so they lose not time—and see
They do not! If they waste a moment only.
They answer for't. Stay, sir; a purse of gold
To every one of them—of gold, you mark—
So that they bring him back; and one for you
In like event. A minute hence, observe,
I look into the court-yard, and expect
To see them in their saddles, and away!
Upon their lives I charge them bring him back!

[They go out.