University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—A Bay near Messina.—The Sea.—Fishermen's Boats; in the offing a Fleet.—Moonlight.
Enter John of Procida and Guiscardo.
Pro.
You look your news! 'Tis dire, but not unwelcome,
Nor out of place nor out of season, that
Men should cry “God forbid!”—That is, good men.
It is the scourging, at report of which,
Men, that rely on Heaven, upon their breasts
Will cross their arms, though shuddering, and look up,
In dread, yet gratitude. Chance has outdone
Foresight; and Preparation, looking on
With idle hands, can scarce believe its eyes
To see the work, it labour'd for, fulfill'd
Almost without its aid. Tell me again
The cause and manner of the massacre;
And leisurely. What you related now
Seems like a dream, which he that has awaked from't
Tries to recall, but finds the substance vapour,
Which in the tracing of it—vanishes!
You said, the hour of the vespers?

Guis.
Yes; that hour,
That annual hour religiously observed
In Sicily, our tyrants made a plea
For new and worse aggression. On pretence
Our act of piety might mask revolt,
Assembling in such numbers; though we held
Our warrants in our hands, our wives and children,
Which, who that loved them, would to strokes expose
From swords and knives in sudden tumult drawn,
Where rage might miss a foe and smite a friend?

Pro.
Well, upon this pretence, orders, you said,
Were pass'd to search for arms—

Guis.
O Heaven, the acts
Of an unbridled soldiery—of men
Who reckon war a game—regarding all
The charities—the tender charities
Of human life—as stakes!—Interpreting
This order by the hint of most depraved
And devilish appetite, the myrmidons
Of France presented to amazed Palermo,
O'er-acted in her streets, exposure, which
Her liberal haunts keep close—attested by
The shrieks of maids and matrons, powerless
With loathing and affright; whose friends look'd on,
Aghast with rage that knew not where to turn.

Pro.
Go on!—I see it!

Guis.
Know you one Venoni,
The son of Nicolo Venoni?

Pro.
No;
But knew his father well.

Guis.
He married lately,
And his young bride, accompanying him
To church, was thus encounter'd. Now Venoni,
That kind of spirit is endow'd with, which,
If once 'tis chafed, serves its own impulse solely,
Reckless of cost. As a high-temper'd horse
That's rashly given the spur, throws off all guidance
Save that of its own fury; spikes itself
Upon a palisade, plunges into
A flood, or dashes o'er a precipice
As soon as keep the road. With naked hand
He struck the caitiff down!

Pro.
'Twas like the son
Of his father!—'Twas well done!

Guis.
How one brave man
Showing himself will make a thousand brave
That play'd the hound before! The miscreant
At once was stoned to death. His fellows, seeing,
For the first time, how, more from habitude
Than proper power, a handful sways a crowd,
To save themselves took straight to flight. And now
The uproar!—While the guard the larum beat,
The citizens—the women and their fry
Huddling into their houses, without heed
Whether their own or neighbours', and, as freely,
Such weapons snapping up as came to hand—
Trebled in numbers from the rousing cry
Of the exploit, which ran like wildfire through
The city, shouting for Enfranchisement,
Vengeance, and Freedom, towards the citadel,
Devoted, moved—one street of waving arms!

Pro.
The sight appall'd their enemies!

Guis.
It did!

Pro.
No monster half so dire as that which meets
The eye of tyranny, when it beholds
Its thralls make stand against it, all at once,
While at its foot it thought them! They o'erthrew
The garrison?

Guis.
O'erthrew?—Ay, did they, sir,
As the red flood of Etna would a wall
With touching it. Then came the Massacre,
'Mid yells for quarter, answer'd by despair.
The strugglings then—the blows—the kinds of death!
Some falling by a single stroke, and some
By none at all but grasp of strangling horror.
By pieces some despatch'd—gash upon gash—
Their bodies hack'd, yet life without a wound.
How variously they met their fate—some mad,
Some as all sense were lapsed, some seeking it—
Some flying from it; and with all the signs
As the blood works in such extremity!
Some, pale as ashes; some, with face on fire;
Some, black as though with premature congealing!
Here tears; there scowls; there laughter—yes, I saw
Some that did die with laughter! Some did groan,
Some groan'd, some shriek'd. Most died with curses. Few
With prayers, and they were mix'd with imprecations.
More than one wretch, thrust through and through, that laugh'd
With simulated bravery, masking despair!
Not one encounter'd death with constancy;
But most as, to its pangs, were superadded
The sharper stings of conscience.

Pro.
Heaven have mercy
Upon their souls!

Guis.
Their wives and children, now—

Pro.
Don't tell me that again! I shudder still!
The work of slaughter should have stopp'd at them!
Woman and infancy have Nature's word
Against the blows of men, whom she made strong
For their protection! It is damage done,
Irreparable to a righteous cause;
Which, else, all men, contemporary with it,
As well as all to come, had wholly lauded.
It is a glorious page in history,
So blotted, men will say of it, hereafter,
As well as now, “Better it ne'er were written!”

Guis.
Nay, John of Procida, that friend whose zeal
Despatch'd me to you, and your trust in whom
Made him the master of your hiding-place—
For, it behoved you, being what you are,
The friend of Sicily, like a wild beast
To house!—that friend, with other thoughts than yours
Beheld the work of vengeance. In the midst
His voice was loudest, “Death to all that's French!
Spare not—nor sex—nor age!”

Pro.
I love the zeal,
But hate the excess.

Guis.
Think 'twas the lava, sir;
And had it been, what then would you have said?
But, that it was the hand of Heaven, stretch'd forth,
Most righteously. For when was mercy shown,
To us or ours, by them? To say no more,
Our sisters, wives, and daughters, with their cheeks
Burning at shames, which, thought of, drives us mad,
Cried for atonement not one tittle short
Of that which we exacted! Be prepared.
Palermo marches on Messina. Not
A minute but she's nearer, by the strides
Impatient vengeance takes, with first success,
Flush'd and invigorated! You are look'd for,
As soul and limb of the enterprise. Beware,
The fire you wish to blaze, you put not out,
By damping it. For me, my sword abstains
From nothing that owns kindred with the blood
Whose pestilent poison, worse than pestilence,
Has cursed my native land! Look to yourself,
Fernando! [Rushes out.]


Pro.
By that name they call my son!
Is he devoted? Friend!—No! Let me think!
No; better I remove him from the rage
I might in vain attempt to mitigate;
They shall depart together. Who goes there?
Francisco?

Enter Francisco [a Sailor].
Fran.
Yes.

Pro.
You keep your time. Where lies
The boat?

Fran.
In the shade of yonder jutting rock
On which the moonbeam strikes.

Pro.
'Tis well. When those,
With whom I mean to freight her, shall arrive,
I'll summon you; when they are safe bestow'd,
Pull for the fleet, right to the Admiral's ship.
Away and watch. [Francisco goes.]
Nature forebodes a shock.
She is not herself, but motionless and still,
Like one that holds his breath with strong suspense!
Etna seems dead, as though her fires were out.
At morn, I watch'd her; and, again, at noon;
At sunset, last; I could not see a reek;
No, not so much as the light gauzy wreath
Shook from the veil which vaporous night hath left,
And morning, lifting with his glowing hand,
Melts, as he touches, into viewless air!
Charybdis holds her peace and Scylla sleeps!
The welkin does not stir! A heaviness,
Stillness, and silence, all unwonted, and
Portentous, hold possession of the world
As on the eve of some dread prodigy!

Fernando and Isoline enter.
Fern.
Who is there?

Pro.
A friend.

Fern.
My father?

Pro.
Yes, my son.
You are come in time. Methinks not yet the moon
Has topp'd the hill of night. How is it, lady?
You seem to droop?

Iso.
'Tis very sultry, sir.
I never felt the like. There's not a breath.

Pro.
No; not a breath, indeed. 'Tis a deep calm.
Wilt trust me, lady, as a friend?

Iso.
I will!
As better than a friend—a father, sir—
The father of my husband!—By that title
In a brief hour almost as much endear'd
As he who call'd me daughter all my life!

Pro.
A most sweet nature! Slaughter shall not force
The house of such a heart. Fernando!

Fern.
Sir?

Pro.
Anon a storm will burst upon Messina
More fierce than ever yet the elements
In wildest fury bred. Do you see a cloud?

Fern.
No.

Pro.
Understand me, then.

Fern.
I understand you!

Pro.
It brings no squall, no bolt, yon fleet need fear.
There you shall house to-night—your bride as well.

Fern.
My father—

Pro.
Peace!—Believe I love you, lady;
Not that I say so, but that I will show you
The deeds of love. Behoves it, though, at present,
You give me credit on my word alone,
And largely, too.

Iso.
To what amount you will.
Provided, should you fail—and that, I am sure,
Would be the shame of fortune and not yours,—
My losses only light upon myself!

Pro.
'Tis frankly answer'd. Frankly, then, thus far
Give me your confidence on trust, alone,
To change, to-night, your lodging for a berth
On board a barque that rides in yonder fleet,
Whereof the chief bears me a brother's love,
Which I, alike, return. Hard by, there waits
A boat, and he that holds your hand e'en now,
And has most right to it of all the world,
Shall go along with you.

Fern.
O father, thanks!

Iso.
For what, dear husband? Those were hearty thanks!
Such payment waits not on small benefits.
What heavy debt do you and I incur
By sleeping, love, on board yon fleet to-night,
That you acknowledge it so largely?

Fern.
Nay!
Question not, sweet! but come!

Iso.
Nay; by your leave,
I'll think, a little, first. The thanks you pay
Mind me of thanks which I myself do owe
And ought to pay as well as you.—Did we lodge
With a mere friend—a friend of every day—
The common'st friend—we would not leave his house
Without “Good-bye and thank you.” I have lived
With a good friend of mine for twenty years—
One that still made me feel his house my own;
As welcome to it every bit as much
As he himself!—Should I treat such a friend
Worse than I would a friend of every day?
No, love.—I'll go.—But you and I must bid
“Good-bye and thank you” to my father first.

Pro.
[Aside.]
That note now jars the tune that late ran sweet!

Iso.
What is't offends your father, that he frowns
And moves with step disturb'd? What angers him?
I see! I see!—I must return to mine.

Fern.
It may not be!

Iso.
Nay, by your leave, it must!
And say it must, dear love! Oh, make me not
The thing I would not be—a froward wife.
'Tis time enough for that—if e'er that come,
Which, I'll be bound, 'twill never, with my will.
I would not for a thousand thousand worlds
Gainsay you, any time, and chiefly now,
Just when I have paid my freedom down for you.
Oh, be a gentle master to me, love!
Don't overtask me, lest the duty, which
'Twere sweetness to discharge, grows weariness,
And I should cast the heavy burden down
I lack the strength to bear.

Fern.
This once be ruled!
Only this once, and I'll obey you, love,
For all my life to come! Give you command,
And try to overtask me, if you will,
And see if I complain—much less, rebel.
Bear with me only now!

Iso.
I will not, love,
Unless I know the reason; and when known,
Approve of it! Husband, deal fair with me.
Is't fit I do the thing my soul condemns?
How may it fare with you? Is she a wife
Who, as a daughter, fails? She cannot be!
Duty is uniform where duty is,

Clif.
Reverse of fortune, lady, changes friends;
It turns them into strangers. What I am
I have not always been!

Julia.
Could I not name you?

Clif.
If your disdain for one, perhaps too bold
When hollow fortune call'd him favourite,—
Now by her fickleness perforce reduced
To play an humbler part, would suffer you—

Julia.
I might?

Clif.
You might!

Julia.
Oh, Clifford! is it you?

Clif.
Your answer to my lord.

[Gives the letter.
Julia.
Your lord!

[Mechanically taking it.
Clif.
Wilt write it?
Or, will it please you send a verbal one?
I'll bear it faithfully.

Julia.
You'll bear it?

Clif.
Madam,
Your pardon, but my haste is somewhat urgent.
My lord's impatient, and to use despatch
Were his repeated orders.

Julia.
Orders? Well,
I'll read the letter, sir. 'Tis right you mind
His lordship's orders. They are paramount!
Nothing should supersede them!—stand beside them!
They merit all your care, and have it! Fit,
Most fit they should! Give me the letter, sir.

Clif.
You have it, madam.

Julia.
So! How poor a thing
I look! so lost, while he is all himself!
Have I no pride?
[She rings, the Servant enters.
Paper, and pen, and ink!
If he can freeze, 'tis time that I grow cold!
I'll read the letter.
[Opens it, and holds it as about to read it.
Mind his orders! So!
Quickly he fits his habits to his fortunes!
He serves my lord with all his will! His heart's
In his vocation. So! Is this the letter?
'Tis upside down—and here I'm poring on't!
Most fit I let him see me play the fool!
Shame. Let me be myself!
[A Servant enters with materials for writing.
A table, sir,
And chair.
[The Servant brings a table and chair, and goes out. She sits awhile, vacantly gazing on the letter—then looks at Clifford.
How plainly shows his humble suit!
It fits not him that wears it! I have wrong'd him!
He can't be happy—does not look it!—is not.
That eye which reads the ground is argument
Enough! He loves me. There I let him stand,
And I am sitting!
[Rises, takes a chair, and approaches Clifford.
Pray you take a chair.
[He bows, as acknowledging and declining the honour. She looks at him awhile.
Clifford, why don't you speak to me?

[She weeps.
Clif.
I trust
You're happy.

Julia.
Happy! Very, very happy!
You see I weep, I am so happy! Tears
Are signs, you know, of nought but happiness!
When first I saw you, little did I look
To be so happy!—Clifford!

Clif.
Madam?

Julia.
Madam!
I call thee Clifford, and thou call'st me madam!

Clif.
Such the address my duty stints me to.
Thou art the wife elect of a proud earl,
Whose humble secretary, now, am I.

Julia.
Most right! I had forgot! I thank you, sir,
For so reminding me; and give you joy,
That what, I see, had been a burthen to you,
Is fairly off your hands.

Clif.
A burthen to me!
Mean you yourself? Are you that burthen, Julia?
Say that the sun 's a burthen to the earth!
Say that the blood 's burthen to the heart!
Say health 's a burthen, peace, contentment, joy,
Fame, riches, honours! everything that man
Desires, and gives the name of blessing to!—
E'en such a burthen, Julia were to me,
Had fortune let me wear her.

Julia.
[Aside.]
On the brink
Of what a precipice I'm standing! Back,
Back! while the faculty remains to do't!
A minute longer, not the whirlpool's self
More sure to suck me down! One effort! There!
[She returns to her seat, recovers her self-possession, takes up the letter, and reads.
To wed to-morrow night! Wed whom? A man
Whom I can never love! I should before
Have thought of that! To-morrow night! This hour
To-morrow! How I tremble! Happy bands
To which my heart such freezing welcome gives,
As sends an ague through me! At what means
Will not the desperate snatch! What's honour's price?
Nor friends, nor lovers,—no, nor life itself!
Clifford! This moment leave me!
[Clifford retires up the stage out of Julia's sight.
Is he gone!
O docile lover! Do his mistress' wish
And can no more with disobedience bide
Than honesty with fraud. Am I not right?
Am I the guardian of your honour, love?
Ay, before any one!—before yourself!
Then, by myself, must I approve the trust,
And make fidelity my law in all things.
I'll see my father ere I seek yon fleet,
Or know the reason why I must not see him,
And find that reason right.

Pro.
Yet more and more
It turns to discords!—Girl! your husband's life
Depends on your obeying him.

Iso.
Does mine?

Pro.
Yes.

Iso.
And my father's, too?—I'll answer—No!
I comprehend. Some storm that's gathering
Around my father, you would save me from;
And, to that end, would lead me to forsake him.
Forsake my father!—Sir, are you a father
To counsel so a child? Is this the ruin
You told me of, and would have left me to,
Fernando?—but you did not leave me!—No!—
You were mine own love still! Sir, have you rule
Over the wind that brings this thunder-cloud,
Divert it! Think how merciful is Heaven,
And copy it! My father is your foe,
But spare him—I spared you!

Pro.
I would return
Your bounty, would you let me.

Iso.
Could I let you,
On terms like yours, I were unworthy of it!
Plead for my father! Will you not, Fernando?
Do it!—He was a father, love, to you!

Pro.
Do it, and think upon your mother, boy!
Are you a man?—The boat lies round the rock;
There stands your wife; destruction is at hand.
Seize her and snatch her from it!

Iso.
If he dares!
'Twould make me hate him!—Yes, Fernando—love
Can turn to e'en as opposite a thing
As hate!—ay, in a moment!—Do not try it!

Pro.
Listen, and learn the fate that threatens you,
And I would save you from! The men that were
But yesterday the spaniels of the French,
To-day are bloodhounds that eat up their masters.
Palermo knows it! Of thy country, all,
That late drew breath in her, have proved it—Man
Woman, and Child! The rule is Massacre!
And now the dogs, mad with the game of blood,
Hark hither to repeat it.—There they are!

Iso.
Where?

Pro.
Don't you hear?

Iso.
I do!—a distant sound.

Pro.
It is their yelping as they speed along
On foam with haste and fury. Save your wife!

Iso.
Fernando, touch your wife and she's a corpse!
Make but the offer and she slays herself!
Which is the way?—Point out the way to me—
The way to my father!—Sirs, which is the way?

Pro.
They'll intercept you ere you reach the town!

Iso.
Were it the lava that came boiling on,
I'd cross it to my father!

Pro.
You forget
Your husband!

Iso.
He is safe—my father not:
I now am wife to danger!

Fern.
Isoline!

Iso.
Ha!—Yes!—There 'tis!—That light—O blessed light!
Blest though 'tis shining from a tomb!—I greet it
As never did I yet the rising sun.

[Rushes out.
Pro.
[Stopping Fernando.]
Whither, my boy?

Fern.
Father, to bring her back,
Or share her fate!

Pro.
Fernando!

Fern.
Better die
Than live—and, honour dead—nay, manhood dead—
Still bear thy name, living of all mankind
The execration! Farewell, father!

Pro.
Stop!
Embrace me ere you go!

Fern.
[Struggling with Procida.]
Nay, father!

Pro.
Nay,
But I will hold thee, boy!

Fern.
She vanishes!
I have lost sight of her!—O, loose thy hold!

Pro.
I cannot part with thee!

Fern.
She will escape me!

Pro.
What! is my strength gone from me?—Is my child
Stronger than I?—Can I believe I have dwindled
While he has grown to brawn!

Fern.
[Bursting away.]
Farewell!

Pro.
He is gone!
And I am desolate in the world again!
O, the fine nature, there, that's run to waste!
Hark!—They are near the town.—Why, Procida,
Where is thy cause?—that which was wife, son, all
On earth most dear to thee? Who roused the spirit
That leads the march of death in progress, now?
Thou!—Where thy post then?—Here, or at its head,
Directing it? Forgive me, Sicily,
Forgive me, martyr-king!—and, Liberty,
Disown me not; I ever was thy son!
Away the private care! The public cause
Engross the heart, I once gave up to it,
And now give up again! Quail, Tyranny!
Up, Freedom!—Claim your rights—and have them, too!

[Goes off.

SCENE II.

—A Chamber in the Castle. Loud knocking outside, repeated two or three times.
Enter from the opposite side Ambrose hastily.
Amb.
Give o'er!—What makes you knock so loud? Come in!

[Opens.
Louis.
[Entering.]
The Governor!

Amb.
He sleeps.

Louis.
Awaken him!

Amb.
Must I?—Till now he has not tasted rest;
His mind distemper'd by unquiet thoughts,
Things of no substance—visions, which his fancy
Has conjured up to cheat his senses with.
Gazing on air, as 'twere endued with form,
Sinews and motion; and with silence holding
Discourse, as it could hear, and had a tongue;
Sleep hath but new composed him; I am loth
To abridge her friendly visit.

Louis.
Better thou
Than death! Messina swarms on every hand
With signs of ferment. Ere the custom'd hour,
The citizens forsake their couches, for
The scarcely lighted streets; and frequent pass
From house to house, or here and there in groups
Stand muttering to one another; while
On our patrols, for whom they scarce make way,
Instead of looks of deprecation, scowls
They cast, that talk of blood as openly
As threats of murder. Something is on foot
Which instant harsh example may suppress,
Whereto we wait the will of the Governor.

Amb.
I'll call him then,—Soft,—he is here! Observe,
Attired as yesterday, rejecting all
The appliances of sleep!

Gov.
[Entering.]
I am the dupe
Of mine own fancy, and I know it; yet
I am its dupe! My reason giveth way.
I come from my own chamber, where I stood
Just now in the hall of John of Procida!
I knew 'twas my own chamber, yet it seem'd
His hall; and at the further end there sat
His wife, or else a spectre in her shape.
She did not breathe, methought, and yet she sat
Her chair erect, and saw; and glared at me
Until her eyeballs froze me. I come out
Into my antechamber. I am here!—
I am sure I am!—Still seem I standing yet
In that abhorréd hall with that companion
Of aspect most unnatural, that makes
My flesh to creep and breathing grow so thick
I doubt 'tis air I draw!

Louis.
He dreams, although
He seems awake.

Amb.
No—no!—He does not dream!
It is not dreams men see with open eyes.
This mood hath grown upon him since he heard
Of John of Procida. My lord—my lord!

Gov.
O, Ambrose, is it you? I am glad you are here.

Amb.
I am, my lord; and here is Louis too,
Who dreads some ferment in Messina. Scarce
'Tis dawn, and yet the citizens have left
Their beds, and throng the streets with sullen looks,
Threatening disaster to their masters, which
To avert, behoves we force them to keep house,
And make, of the resisting, sharp example.

Gov.
Take measures as occasion calls for them,
Arouse the garrison. Let one and all
Be under arms. Shed no more blood than's needed.
[Louis goes out.
No news of John of Procida! The face
He saw not; 'twas the figure only struck him;
Recalling the impression of a man
He once had seen, but where he could not tell,
Nor who it was, till he at last bethought him
Of John of Procida, then told his thought
Not as a thing of doubt but certainty.
And then the disappearance all at once
Of him he so remark'd, was circumstance
Corroborative. Ever since, my heart
Hath felt a chill like that the body feels
When cold hath smit it to the bone! so deep,
No art medicinal can draw it out,
And the wretch shivers at the very fire!

Amb.
He is forgetful I am near him. Mark.

Gov.
Hangs then my fate on John of Procida?
My heart forebodes it does. Forebodes it right?
If so, when he's at hand, my doom is near.
Ha! as I live 'tis gone. Spectre and all!
O! now I see you, Ambrose. Who comes yonder?
Is't not Le Clerc?

Amb.
I'd say it was, my lord,
But for those marks of blood! He spent last night
Some two miles distant from Messina.

Enter Le Clerc, supported by Martel and a Soldier.
Martel.
Here's
Le Clerc come wounded home. He threw himself
From his horse into our arms, and without word,
Made for the staircase, which he stagger'd up,
As if by superhuman effort, and
Made straight for your highness' chamber.

Gov.
Well, Le Clerc?
What would you with me, friend? What has befallen you?
He strives to speak, but cannot. Voice is fled,
And life is following it. One word, Le Clerc.
He dies in the attempt.—Yes; he is dead!
Remove him. Good Martel, be on the alert.
Arouse our friends. Look to the citizens!
[Martel and the others go out, bearing the body between them.
Of some dread visitation this must be
The dark, but sure, forerunner. Death is abroad.
Be sure of it. Yes, Ambrose, death is abroad!
Death!—Death!

Louis.
[Entering hastily.]
My lord, the sentinels upon
The walls hear sounds as of a multitude
Advancing on Messina. Scouts are sent;
What it behoves us look for, we shall learn
A few brief minutes hence

Gov.
Brief, do you say?
Years are not brief, and minutes now are years!
What of the citizens?

Louis.
Their numbers swell.
They move in masses up and down the city,
Returning dogged silence to our orders
To clear the streets. We wait for augmentation
To drive them into their houses. List, my lord,
Our trumpets sound to arms.

Enter François, conducting Pierre, much exhausted.
Gov.
Ay, lustily
They tell their need. What other spectre this?
Who is't? He is ours, and yet I know him not.
Who is't, I say?

Fran.
One from Palermo, sir,
Whose speed has cost him his good courser's life
To bring unwelcome news.

Gov.
What tells it, friend?

Pierre.
The massacre of every living soul
Of Gallic birth or blood, that in Palermo
Drew breath the day on which I 'scaped from it,
Preserved by feigning death!

Martel.
[Rushing in.]
A whelming flood—
A whelming human flood—comes raging on
Right for Messina. Haste, sirs! Massacre
Is at our very gates. Flight is cut off.
Resistance is our only hope. Forth!—Forth!
Houses are certain tombs!

[All go out but the Governor, who seems transfixed.
Gov.
'Tis Procida!
'Tis Vengeance!—Vengeance without mercy!—fierce!—
Implacable! On every side the sword!
I cannot hope to live—yet cannot die!
Flight—flight—the coward's refuge! Nothing else
Is left me! This way leads into the street!
The garden? Yes, it opes without the walls;
Conscience, 'tis thou, not I!—Except for thee
I would not quail!—The spectre here again!
Again the hall of John of Procida!
Away!—Flight!—Nothing else!—Away!—Away!

[Rushes out.

SCENE THE LAST.

—The Garden of the Castle.
Enter Isoline, tottering and breathless—She leans against a tree—Sounds of tumult without, and the noise of martial instruments.
Iso.
Thus far in time—thus far in safety! Were't
Another stride, ere take it I had dropp'd.
The work is going on! O, spare my father—
Spare him, and deal with me! Hark! Massacre
Has left this quarter free; within the city
Holding her gory reign. She does not riot
Within the castle yet. He yet may live!
Limbs, hold me up. Don't fail me. Who comes here?
My father!—Father!

[Governor enters hastily and wildly.
Gov.
Whosoe'er thou art,
Stop not my way!

Iso.
Dost thou not know me?

Gov.
No!
In times like these men know not one another.
Holding together, they together fall,
As men in knots will drown. In scattering lies
The chance of safety. Do not hold me, friend!
Let go!—Look to thyself!—Let every one
Look to himself. He is lost that casts his eye
Upon another's jeopardy. His own
Asks all his care.—Let go!—Away!—Away!

[Rushes off.
Iso.
[Thrown upon her knees.]
He does not know me!—He's my father, and
He does not know me! He's distracted—mad!
Fain would I follow him, but cannot.—No,
My knees refuse to raise me.

Fern.
[Rushing in.]
Isoline!

Iso.
[Springing up by a convulsive effort, and throwing herself into his arms.]
Fernando!—my Fernando!—True to death!
My husband—Mine own love!—I die for joy!
And bless thee, my Fernando, for my death!

[Swoons in his arms
Fern.
Love!—Wife!—Choice pattern of thy devoted sex—
My Isoline! She is dead!—she is dead!—she is dead!

Guis.
[Entering from the castle, his sword drawn.]
Fernando!

Fern.
Here, Guiscardo!

Guis.
Who is she
Hangs swooning on thine arm? Thy bride?

Fern.
My bride!

Guis.
And dead?

Fern.
And dead!

Guis.
Set down the carrion, then,
And yield me payment for Martini's death!
I want not odds!—I'll fight thee like a man
For ancient friendship's sake!

Fern.
Fight me, Guiscardo?

Guis.
Cast down thy load to earth, and draw thy sword.

Fern.
Wouldst murder me?—and if thou wouldst, Guiscardo,
Do it at once!

Guis.
I'd treat thee like a man.
Wilt thou not throw thyself thy burden down,
And act like one, or must I wrest it from thee
To balk thee of excuse?

[Approaching.
Fern.
You touch her not!
'Fore her dead body do I throw my life
That would not save my own!

Guis.
Have at thee, then!

[They fight; Fernando is wounded.
And.
[Rushing in.]
Hold!—'Tis the son of John of Procida!

Guis.
The son of John of Procida!

Fern.
Too late!—
Take her! Preserve from insult—Pay all honours,—
For her sake, not for mine, and lay us side
By side. I pant for death, and not the life,
Would hold my spirit from rejoining hers!

[Dies.
Enter John of Procida.
Pro.
It is not there!—I came to see his corse,
But not to smite him. No!—I would not stain
This day of freedom with the narrow deed
Of personal vengeance.—To the swords of others
I would have left him, satisfied if they
The debt exacted that was due to mine.
But they, intent on their own quarry, mine
Have suffer'd to escape, and vengeance, now
Balk'd, by its own remissness, of its prey,
Gnashes the teeth in vain!

And.
Di Procida!

Pro.
Ho!—Andrea! What bear'st thou on thy arm?

And.
The body of Fernando's wife, although
If this be death, I much mistake its hue!

Pro.
Who lies upon the ground? The Governor?

And.
Thy son, O Procida!—She is not dead!
Help here!—Hold off!—You kill'd him!

Pro.
Kill'd my son!

Guis.
Strike, John of Procida! He sided with
The enemies of Sicily.

Pro.
He did;
And he was born her son! Live!—You did right.
His father says it.—Yet, he was my son!

Guis.
I knew not that.

Pro.
And had you known it, still
You had done right—I say it—I—his father!
And yet he was my son!

Iso.
[Recovering.]
My lord!—My husband!—
Fernando!—draw me closer to thy breast!
Hold off!—Who art thou?—Where's Fernando?—Who
Is that?

And.
Fernando's father!

Iso.
So it is!
And we are safe!—Art we not, sir?

[Tottering toward John.
Pro.
O, Fate!

Iso.
You will not let them murder us?—You will not!
You can't! else Nature have no truth in her,
And never more be trusted!—Never more!
If fathers will not stretch an arm to save
Their children's throats, let mothers' breasts run dry,
And infants at the very founts of life
Be turn'd to stones! Sir!—Father!—Where's your son?
Ah, you repulse me not! You let me come
Closer to you.—Where's my Fernando, father?
What! do you draw me to you?—Would you take me
Into your very bosom?—There, then!
[Throws her arms about his neck.
Now,
Fernando, what's to fear?—Now, mine own love,
We shall be happy!—happy!—blessed happy!
Why don't you answer me?—Where is he, father?
I left him here! Where I have been I know not.
I recollect a sickness as of death,
And now it comes again. My brow grows chill
And damp—I'll wipe it! Blood!—What brings it here?
Whose blood is this?

And.
Blood has been shed to-day.
No vestment in Messina, but you'll find
Some trace upon't.

Iso.
Where is my husband, sirs?
Is this Fernando's blood?—We were together,
And it was here!—and if death threaten'd us,
He would be close to me, of his own life
Making a shield for mine! Was he alive,
Were he not here?—Not here, he must be dead!
And this must be his blood!

Pro.
Remove her, friend;
Take and remove her hence. I lack the strength.
Her plight, to mine own added, weighs me down.
She must not see his body; 'tis her life
That I feel fluttering next my breast just now
As ready to take wing. 'Twere certain death
To look upon him.

Iso.
[To Andrea.]
No, I will not hence!
They will murder me. I am safe here,—am I not?
Am I not, father? Father!—Where's my father?
He did not know me!—Shook off his daughter!
Fled from her!—You are all my father now!
But there's Fernando, too!—You are not weeping?
You are!—Don't weep!—I'll dry your eyes for you!
The blood again!

Pro.
We must remove her hence.
Come with me, child.

Iso.
Child!—Do you call me child?
Child is a sweet name!

Pro.
Come, my daughter.

Iso.
Daughter!
That's sweeter yet than child. Nothing so sweet
After the name of wife; but wife's not sweeter
Than husband.—Husband? That's the sweetest name
Of all! My husband is your son! and “son”—
There is a sweet name too!—No sweeter name
Than son! Do you not think so?

Pro.
Come.

Iso.
I come!
We are going to Fernando,—are we not?
Sir, fare you well. What's that upon the ground?

And.
Where?

Iso.
There! You know as well as I! Stand off!
[Breaks away.
Fernando!—My Fernando! Dead?—Ay, dead
Indeed, when it is I that call, and thou
Return'st no answer!—My Fernando!—Dead!
Ah! it is well! Here's silence coming too
For me, love!—Yes, I feel the frost of death
Biting my limbs, and creeping towards my heart.
Colder and colder—all will soon be ice.
'Tis winter ere its time! but welcome, since
'Tis shared with you, Fernando. Mercy, Heaven,
'Tis kind—'tis pitiful to suffer me
On thy dead lips to breathe my life away.

[Dies.
And.
Let me conduct thee hence, O Procida!
Grief hath benumb'd his every faculty.

Steph.
[Entering with others.]
Where is John of Procida?

And.
Behold him.

Steph.
Health
To thee and to Messina! which, to-day,
Through thee, beholds her grievous yoke thrown off.
All Sicily is free! From north to south,
From east to west she garrisons herself,
And tyrants rule no more!

And.
Forgive him that
He heeds you not. The body is his son's,
You see him gazing on!

Steph.
We know his heart!

Thomaso.
[Entering with others.]
Health, John of Procida! The enemy
That sack'd thy castle, and who yesterday
Held rule in Sicily, the Governor,
Flying from death, encounter'd it from one
Who knew him, intercepted him, and slew him.

And.
All enmities, all loves, are swallow'd up
In the deep gulf of sorrow for his son.

Carlo.
[Entering with others.]
Where is our chief?

And.
You see what's left of him.

Carlo.
The admiral
And captains of the fleet have disembark'd
To swell the general joy; and, yonder, come
Our ancient magistrates, their offices
Suspended long, resumed, to pay their debts
To John of Procida!

Enter Magistrates, &c.
Chief Magistrate.
Di Procida
The Liberator—so we hail thee—such
Thy deeds declare thee better than our words!
For us and for our children from our hands—
Whose act our sovereign master will approve—
Most poor return take for most rich desert,
And be the Governor of Sicily!

[The whole assembly shout and applaud—John of Procida weeps.
Pro.
Forgive me—I'm a father—There's my son!