 | The Rose of Arragon |  |
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SCENE III.
—The Dungeon of Torture. Around, the various implements. In the front, on one side, the rack; on the other, the block.Enter Alasco,—stops and looks after him.
Alas.
Why do you hesitate? Come in, Almagro!
Come in.
Enter Almagro, Pedro, Omer, and Guards.
Alma.
A strange place this for conference!
Alas.
It is a silent and retired place:
What fitter then? Here are no eaves-droppers!
No thin partitions which invite the ear
While they repel the eye!—Free speech may here
Make free! Your sword, good jailer, leave with me,
And lay it noiselessly on yonder bench;
Then, with your friends retire; and as you go,
Make fast the door. An hour hence, come again!—
By then we shall have done. There for your pains.
[Aside to Jailer.
[Gives a purse to the Jailer, who retires with Guards, locking the door after them, having previously laid his sword as directed. Omer remains concealed.
Alma.
Why does he lock the dungeon door?
Alas.
To keep
Intrusion out. Such friends as you and I,
Sharing their hearts loving with one another,
Endure not bystanders when they confer!
Is it not so?
Alma.
Why are we here?
Alas.
Almagro!
Why are we anywhere but by the will
Of Heaven?—Its will be done!—Will you say so?
Alma.
Why should I not?
Alas.
Why, Heaven has given command
To men, they shall not murder; and 'tis written,
Who sheddeth blood shall bleed!—Sit down, Almagro,
On yonder engine.—I shall seat me here;
Such things awaken thoughts of seriousness,
And serious is the work we have in hand!—
Won't you sit down?—Decline you the fair seat?
You shrink from it! You are a man of ruth!
You know full well it is the couch of groans,—
Of sweat-drops, wrung by dint of agony,—
Of death-pangs, thick and sharp, though lingering,
In one of which more writhing, than he knows
Who, limb by limb, is broken on the wheel!—
And yet, when I bethink myself again,
I wonder you should loathe the instrument!
For look at me!—I breathe as free as ever;
My arms are folded o'er a heart at ease;
Its wonted hue, methinks, invests my cheek,
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Yet never lifted axe to lop a head!—
Come!—take your seat, Almagro!
Alma.
What do you mean?
Alas.
I'll tell you, answer me a word or two!
Did I not trust you?—did I not love you?—both
With the simplicity of a very boy?
You know I did.—If not, why, say so.—Well?
Alma.
I do not say so.
Alas.
No?—so far, so well.
Alma.
What do you purpose?—Wherefore bring me hither?
Alas.
I haven't done yet!—Was't not my pride, Almagro,
To build you up in men's esteem above
Myself?—Whene'er they gave Alasco credit
For this or that desert,—did he not mount
Your merits on his own? If he did not,
Deny it.
Alma.
Nay, I don't deny it.
Alas.
Well,
Again!
Alma.
Alasco, this is freezing work!
Alas.
Not so, Almagro,—all the frost's to come!
You were a man of doubtful rank, Almagro—
I mean in men's esteem—when first I knew you;
Among our comrades, some would rate you low,
Some high, though doubtingly; none very high!
I raised you to the top, and kept you there;
Yea, when the people's choice between us lay
In even balance; 'gainst myself, I gave
The casting vote, at once, that made you Regent!
Now, to the credit side—my debts to you!
They are few, but large, Almagro!—Foremost, then,
A sister's sacredness profaned!—That trespass,
Had I learn'd it, then, from all the rest had saved thee—
Tell me how a man a modest woman treats,
And I'll tell you what kind of man he is!
In the next place—my credit undermined—
You know who Cortez is?—and with the smile,
As of a friend, that play'd fast and loose,
My freedom joepardized—perhaps my life!—
And last of all—ay,—look upon the rack!—
You might as well have laid an infant on it,
You would as soon!—I believe it!—last of all,
My father, like a sound leaf withering,
Which if allow'd to hang its little time
Falls with a breath that hardly stirs the spray,
Thou wouldst not suffer dreamingly to die,
But brought'st, with heart to ruth impenetrable,
As flint to dew, to an untimely end,
Forestalling sleep with torture!
Alma.
You forget!
Your father hated me—What progeny,
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You thwarted me!—Who would not push aside
The let that stood 'twixt his soul's wish and him?
Your sister drove me mad with love, and spurn'd me!
Alas.
You never knew what love was!—Love!—What! love
A virtuous maiden, and, with no inclining
On her part towards thee, dare to violate
Even the gauze that veils her modest face?
He ne'er knew love—can never know—who knows not
Woman, unlapséd is, next to Heav'n, most sacred!
Say that the man, who would profane her, loves her!
And if he does, brutes love as much as he!
You ne'er went mad with anything so holy!
Alma.
Why have you brought me to this place?
Alas.
To die!
That thou shouldst bring me to the pass, Almagro,
That makes me tell thee this!—me!—thy Alasco!
Thine even more, in cherishing, than ever
He was his own; whose brain, heart, body, limbs,
At any time sooner than for himself,
He had laid down for thee!—When a gaunt bear
Rush'd from a thicket towards thee, once, who lay,
Ere thou couldst wink, struggling upon the ground
'Twixt thee and him?—calling to thee to fly,
So all forgetful was he of himself,
Although entangled in the deadly hug
Of the fell monster? With my forest-knife
I saved this arm its blood,—so saving thee—
This arm, now nerved to kill thee!— [Drawing.]
—How can this be?
How has it come to pass?—Whence this blank wreck
Of love, so stanchly built, I could have sworn
The storm blew never yet could break it up!
Tell me!—for I am wild with wondering!
Alma.
I wonder too, but am not wild withal,
That thou shouldst wish to take thyself the life
Thou knowest to be forfeited.
Alas.
Why, who
So fit to be thy executioner?—
To fill the office whose revolting nature
Flesh creeps at so, its functionary sickens,
With loathing, those who only look upon him?—
Who, for an office so unnatural,
So fit, as such a trespasser 'gainst nature
As I am?—to a stranger to my blood
Who gave that trust, which to the source of it
I owed, but would not give!—Except for me,
Thou ne'er hadst laid my father on the rack;
'Twas I who gave thee power o'er his grey hairs,
I was his murderer as well as thou.
Of felons men make executioners!
Alma.
My blood be on thy soul, so shedd'st thou it!
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Almagro, I will shed it!—thou must bleed,
And by this hand; but I will use this hand
As it becomes a soldier and a man!—
Here is another sword!—This brave revenge
Breathed I the wish to take, I were prevented!
The meanest hind in Arragon would flout
The thought of honourable chastisement
To one so fallen as thou art,—but I hold it
A debt due to a father by his son,
And mean to pay it in full!—No further parley!
What is infirm in thee—as well I know,
But must not now cast thought to—overlook!
Come, guard thy life!—strike manfully at mine!
'Tis the last time its bane may prove thy safeguard!
Alma.
Hold yet a moment!—thou wouldst give me, sure,
Fair play! Thy weapon is the longer one!—
Alas.
Measure it!—There!
[Gives his sword to Almagro, who throws it away.
Alma.
Lo! thou who, now, so freely,
Wouldst shed Almagro's blood, and, boastingly,
Wouldst make a merit on't; look to thine own!
Not by Alasco's honourable sword,
Nor by the scaffold, shall Almagro die!
Such means am I provided with as scoff
At aught the executioner, or thou
Canst perpetrate against me. Mark, Alasco!
Almagro dies, but thou shalt die before him;
For in thy weakness, which I ever loath'd,
I see the bane that to this close has brought
My dearest hopes and me! Yet, ere I use
The vantage which thy trustfulness—I thank it
For the last time—has given me, it is fit
Thou know the full extent of what thou owest me.
Thou thought'st thy debt on the score of old Ruphino
Was large enough; but what will be thy wonder
When I shall tell thee thou mayst add to that
Another larger yet? Know then, Alasco—
Soon as the tide of fortune 'gan to ebb,
Sudden as it set in, and 'gainst the chance
Of aught which thou, and those in league with thee,
Could practise 'gainst me, I secured myself;—
By my contrivance did thy sister's dagger
Drink her own blood!
Alas.
Now let thy sword drink mine!
I will not swerve to avoid thee!—lift my arm
To hinder thee!—move so much as a finger!
I am a man the earth must loathe to bear!
All who live on't must loathe! who loathes himself!
Alma.
Loathe, as thou mayst, thyself, I loathe thee more.
An end to words, save such as deeds can speak.
[As Almagro is on the point of rushing upon Alasco, Omer discovers himself, and confronts him.
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An end to deeds of thine! Alasco lives—
Ruphino lives!—Olivia lives!—None dies
Except the Moor, and he but dies in name;
Dies, that the Prince—Alasco's brother, and
Ruphino's son—may live the husband of
Olivia! See! Wake from thy dreams of guilt,
Rouse thee!—and die.
[Pedro enters, conducting Velasquez, followed by Ruphino, Olivia, the King, &c.—Almagro drops his swords.
Alas.
My father!—sister!—Is it reality?
Olivia.
It is, Alasco! Thanks to the gracious prince,
Whose love for me transform'd him, thus, and brought
To Saragossa, where he counted on
Concealment from a friend—my tongue refuses
To rate him less—who, though of calling harsh,
He knew to be of kindly heart and true.
Alas.
[To the Prince.]
What shall I say to thee?
Prince.
Call me thy brother!
King.
As hence, thy sister I shall call my child!
Alma.
[Aside.]
Destroy'd by those I deem'd my instruments!
Frustrated in revenge, in love, and hate!
What fair set-off 'gainst such discomfiture?
The gibbet cheated, or the block, or wheel!
Could we cheat Heaven!—No circumventing there!
What's this I see?—Instead of the huge World,
A film; and what before was shadowy,
The World to come, condensing into vast
Enormous substance, insupportable
To thought! The drug asserts its potency!
This is the death-sweat that bedews my palms,
My forehead and my lip, and like a cold
And slimy serpent, coiling round my frame,
With its loathed folds, my very marrow chills.
King.
What man is he, that yonder stands and lives,
Yet seems in mortal agony?
Alas.
Almagro.
King.
What!—he?—then has he look'd upon the sun
For the last time!—The rack shall deal with him.
No death-bed half so fit. Let's leave him to it.
[Going.
Alas.
Oh no, my liege!
King.
Thou wouldst not plead for him!
Up! up! thy knee rebels, young man, to bend
'Gainst nature!—justice!—Earth and Heaven, themselves,
To supplicate for him whom they condemn!
Against thy father's life thou makest suit,
Against thy sister's honour—not to name
The wrong he meditated 'gainst thyself!
Forbear, young man. Why hang you thus your head,
And still the posture keep that casts it down?
What would you ask for?
Alas.
Time for penitence.
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A day! Between the attempt, sir, and the act
There is a difference; so should there be
Between the pains with which we visit them.
The crimes he dies for were not perpetrated;
No victim calls for retribution.
Spare him!—spare him! We were boys together.
Howe'er it changes with us on life's road,
The sunny start all intervals breaks through,
And warms us with the olden mood again!
The hearty laugh of youth is in mine ear,
And there stands he, who shared it with me; now
A woful bankrupt; while the rich possessions
I counted lost, are all my own again.
I can't forbear. Say that I hold my tongue,
My eyes will speak; you see they do without;
And for the playmate's sake implore thee spare
The man, although a weak and guilty one!
King.
Against my judgment does my heart give way,
Corrupted by your tears. His life is yours:
Do with it what you list!
Alas.
It shall be spared.
An exile shall he live to die in penitence!
Almagro!
Pedro.
Hush! He dies by poison, sir!
I know the signs. He makes a sudden end!
His spirit's gone—it fleeted with that groan!
Alas.
The pardon you permitted, Heav'n denies him!
Its justice and its mercy are its own!
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