 | The Star of Seville |  |
ACT V.
SCENE I.
—A CHAMBER IN ANTONIO'S HOUSE.Enter Florilla and Isabel.
ISABEL.
Ha! ha! ha! ha! I pr'ythee give me leave, there
shall no play,—ha! ha! no acted play,—show better,
—ha! ha! ha!
FLORILLA.
Nay now, but, coz—come, coz—come, Isabel; stint
laughing, and let's to work.
ISABEL.
Pray Heaven I die not on't!—ha! ha! ha!
FLORILLA.
Beshrew thee, then! what, wench, hast lost thy wits?—
marry coz, coz. Hang thee, vexatious minx! thou
puttest me past my patience.
ISABEL.
I have not put thee far; ha! ha! is't not a jest? is
not a jest a thing to laugh at?
FLORILLA.
Yea, but not this jest—lo you now, Isabel, we lose
the time, he will be here, and nothing ready. My father
will be coming, or Vasco, or—and we shall lose
the very prime of our sport, for thy laughing.
ISABEL.
Nay, that were a bad joke at best. Where be these
diamonds?
Here, in this casket: I pr'ythee put them in my hair
for me—quick.
ISABEL.
Meantime, do thou tell me, what for thou hast indicted
this same amorous clothes'-peg?
FLORILLA.
Marry, first in the street, as thou saw'st his outward
man did hit my fancy's humour, as showing him very fit—
ISABEL.
For a very mad jest—where shall I place this band?
FLORILLA.
So, o'er the brow; 'twas so my mother wore it, they
were her wedding diamonds, rest her soul!
ISABEL.
Amen!—and second, how? good preacher, finish thy
points, though they were fifty.
FLORILLA.
Why, I have since learned, that this same many-coloured
fly, is the veriest braggadocio that ever flinched
from a chaste woman's frown; fetch me yon mirror.
ISABEL.
Angels defend us! and where heard'st thou this?
FLORILLA.
Pedrillo late last night was with them at the Anchor,
where, as thou know'st, they drank the sun to his bed,
and well nigh out of it again; among the guests was
this same resistless wooer, who, as he saith, did utter
such incredible tales of his amorous exploits, and did,
in such wise, misprize and set at nought us luckless
women, holding the conquests that he made by handfuls
must have lov'd more ladies than would people all the
seraglios of the East.
ISABEL.
Is he rich? he sure must be; for he hath no charm
else to tempt the veriest wanton—he must be very rich.
FLORILLA.
Tut, dost thou believe all this; credit me, coz, if there
be knaves of such a sort as this fellow would pass himself
for, there be also fools that have enough iniquity in
them to wish for a villanous renown which they have
not the daring to achieve, and who think by boasting
and big words to make good their claim to an infamous
repute which they have not the boldness to merit in very
deed—and such an one, or I am much deceived, is this.
Among many others did he tell the tale of this same Segovian
lady, to whom he said he was by contract bound.
This is the fair forsaken thou must enact, and it shall go
hard if between us we do not show this same all-conquering
senor the mettle of our Seville ladies.
ISABEL.
Art thou not horribly afeard of being alone with one
so badly reputed?
FLORILLA.
Afraid! I'll tell thee, Isabel, it is our weakness makes
these boasters strong. Credit me, did we but know and
feel our footing firm, making a high and resolute mind
in us stand stead of outward and mere bodily vigour,
there's not the boldest braggart of them all but should
strike colours to the veriest maid that ever bore our sex's
blushing standard on her cheek. But for this mannikin
—did'st look in his face?
I looked for his face, but indeed he was so monstrously
bearded that he may have one or no for aught
mine eyes can vouch.
FLORILLA.
Faugh! a beard becomes a man as well as the want of
it becomes a woman; but to see such a villanous bush of
hair on the skin of what hath the mincing gait and lisping
syllables of a pampered wanton, begets a very disgustful
indignation in me. But come, Isabel, unbind
thy hair, I pr'ythee, so, upon thy shoulders—now put me
on a look like the forsaken Dido—could'st thou not weep
me a tear or two?
ISABEL.
I'll use all endeavour.
FLORILLA.
Now spread thine arms abroad thus: weep, rant, rave,
be disconsolate; remember he hath deserted thee, and
thou hast followed hither to claim him.
ISABEL.
O fear me not, I shall be perfect woe begone! give
me the mirror. “Faithless and perjured have I found
thee!” Florilla, methinks this disordered head-tire is
something too becoming; for, say he take me at my
word, and marry me—what then?
FLORILLA.
Marry, we will stop short ere the jest come to that;
and having well indulged our merriment at the expense
of his confusion, turn him loose again. I hear voices.
Now into that chamber, be still, and on thy hopes of a
husband see thou laugh not; the signal shall be these
rush thou in.
ISABEL.
I will not fail. “Traitor forsworn—base, base deceiver!”
FLORILLA.
Peace, wilt thou raise the city?
ISABEL.
I am rehearsing.
FLORILLA.
Now get thee gone—some one is coming.
ISABEL.
“Are these thy vows, seducer?”—May I not scratch
thy face?
FLORILLA.
No, madcap.
ISABEL.
Nor pluck thee by the hair?
FLORILLA.
No, no! what, art thou moonstruck?
ISABEL.
It will not seem natural, an I leave no token on thee
—beseech thee, let me beat thee.
FLORILLA.
Beshrew thee, no. Hark! here be footsteps.
ISABEL.
One little pinch or pull—I will not tear both thine
eyes out. Is my hair rightly disposed?
FLORILLA.
'Tis desperately well—and I, look I the fair majestic
countess to the life?
Fair enough for a duchess, coz; but for majesty—
good lack! thou lack'st three inches of it by this light.
[Exit into chamber.
Enter Pedrillo.
PEDRILLO.
Your guest is come.
FLORILLA.
Is Perez ready?
PEDRILLO.
So please you, he waits in the private passage.
FLORILLA.
Good: remember your parts—few words, save oaths,
and much show of anger; and see you lack not these
same cudgels I spoke of. Get thee into thy hiding-place,
and let Nicolo and Vincentio usher in the stranger.
(Exit Pedrillo.)
Now then to take my state.
Isabel
(thrusting her head out of the door.)
Doth not thy heart beat?
FLORILLA.
Not with fear—peace!
(Isabel withdraws. Enter Hyacinth, ushered in by two serving men.
HYACINTH.
Most fair and unutterable lady! may it please your
loveliness for awhile to banish from your exquisite presence
these menials; for, indeed, my love is of a quality
that brooks little ceremony, and flies but lamely in
a full company.
You may withdraw.
[Exeunt Servants.]
So, being
gone, sir, you may let loose the torrent of your eloquence;
but, of one thing I forwarn you, you must
not be too passionate with me; for, indeed, I am but
young, and unapt at replying to very importunate
wooing—besides, so much of fear rises in a maiden's
breast, even at your renowned name, that—
HYACINTH.
I'faith, sweet, I will be merciful: I will but press thee
coldly at this first trial of thy strength, lest indeed, (for
rumour will have it I am irresistible,) by too swift conquering,
thy defeat lose something of its dearness.
FLORILLA.
O, I am much bound to you. Pray you sit by me,
and tell me.
HYACINTH.
Nay, not so; we do know our place, fair lady—slaves
sit not in the presence of their masters, vassals take not
ease before their lords, nor subjects before their sovereigns;
sit thou rather, and hearken while I swear to
thee, that I will dote upon thee as long as the sun doth
sit in the sky.
FLORILLA.
By the clock twelve hours.
HYACINTH.
Nay, then, as long as all created things shall hold
their existence will I love thee. I would not have thee
doubt me now, sweet lady; nor would I, that thou
mayest believe, have thee inquire how often I have
sworn such vows: but, be content, I have forgotten
loved, as my love was above their merit; but, I pray
thee, fix me some time when I may break this generous
armistice. I grant thy maiden scruples, and by the
ardour of my suit, frame an excuse for thy capitulation.
FLORILLA.
First, sir, let me entreat you, answer me this, What
usage might your wife look for from you?
HYACINTH.
I will love thee, by this light, three calendar months,
cherish thee the other nine of the first twelve, and
maintain thee all my life. Thou see'st I'm sincere, and
therein kind.
FLORILLA.
Indeed, most kind! And how would you require that
your wife govern herself to pleasure you?
HYACINTH.
O she, doubtless, would be submissive; for, doating
on me, as 'tis like she would, obedience would seem easy
duty to her. Moreover, she would be chaste; for,
having me to husband, the world could afford her no
temptation such as she was already possessed of; thus of
her submission and chastity I hold myself assured.
FLORILLA.
Truly I think you have good cause.
HYACINTH.
Though there is one thing of which I must forewarn
thee. Art thou jealous now? or of an even and a trusting
endurance?
FLORILLA.
Verily, having never yet been much moved to love, I
trust or doubting.
HYACINTH.
O thou wilt be horribly jealous of me; I do spy it in
the curl of thy lip, and in the eagerness of eye with
which thou dost survey me.
FLORILLA.
Who, I!
(aside.)
This is the most intolerable coxcomb
that one shall wish to be pestered withal!
(aloud.)
I think, senor, as you say; loving, as it is doubtless I shall
love you, some alloy of jealousy may indeed mix with
the virgin ore of my affection.
HYACINTH.
Nay, there is not much in that, sweet; and so thou
bearest thy malady meekly, and lookest me quietly
broken-hearted, goest clad in a yellow robe, and pale
cheeks, so thou limit thy jealousy within a “Nay, now,
my sweet lord,” sighed forth when I do lie at some
lady's foot, or three tears big enough to be seen rolling,
and heard falling, when I kiss her before dancing,—good
—it is well, and indeed I allow thy heart this vent.
But come not nigh me in the stormy jealous, the sullen
jealous, or the whining jealous moods,—for I am a perfect
tiger being roused; and moreover it is incredible to
what a point silence in suffering beseemeth a wise woman,
and a wife.
FLORILLA.
I do think indeed an I am ever jealous of you, you
will not hear me say so much—but, senor, you still stand,
let me beseech you—
Sweet, take no heed; I—I—, truly it is a more manly
exercise to stand than to sit; sitting being essentially
the posture of hens—were it not, indeed, that—I would
kneel, and swear to thee.
FLORILLA.
O sweet, sweet sir, kneel, kneel! I never did have a
man kneel before me in my life! I do entreat you,
worship.
HYACINTH.
That I worship thee with my soul of souls, sweet lady
and most ineffable, is true, and not to be doubted; but
that I can bend my outward man in token of the same,
I doubt, in respect that—my hose—
FLORILLA.
I will be satisfied with the very shadow of a genuflexion;
do but so much as approach the earth within an
inch with your knee, and, as I am a maid, come what
come will; my whole estate I will bestow on thee, and—
[Hyacinth falls on his knees.
Enter Isabel from the inner room.
ISABEL.
Where have I been! whence come I! where am I!
whither go I! what voice was that! what sound is in
mine ears!
HYACINTH.
Is she mad? is she mad? is she mad?
FLORILLA.
Stand up, pray you pull not my farthingale so unkindly;
legs, I say!
HYACINTH.
I can't, I can't—my hose are crack'd—O my hose—
my beautiful—my beloved hose!
ISABEL.
Hark!—he calls me his beautiful—his beloved—'twas
thus he ever spoke to me.
HYACINTH.
I am afeard of her! I cannot abide anything mad!
I did once run away from a mad dog. Pray you let her
not come near me.
ISABEL.
Ha! I hear! I know! I see 'tis thou! base, base deluder!
HYACINTH.
Beseech you let her not scratch my eyes out.
FLORILLA.
What means this violence? Who and what are you,
madam?
ISABEL.
A forlorn, forsaken, deluded, deserted, deceived, and
desolate maid.
FLORILLA.
Who has thus wrong'd you?
ISABEL.
He, he who now brings his stale oaths to you. Hyacinth!
my love! my lord!
FLORILLA.
Thy love! thy lord!
Believe her not, sweet, believe her not;—'tis an illusion
—'tis madness—she has been wronged by some fair
youth like me, and raves distractedly. Begone, beautiful
maniac, I know thee not!
ISABEL.
Not know me!—me, Amadalinda, the pride of Spain,
the flower of Segovia, till thou, with thy false vows,
didst wither me—dost thou not know me?
FLORILLA.
Dost thou know her?
HYACINTH.
No, as I am a gentleman!
ISABEL.
Hast thou forgotten all thy vows of love?
FLORILLA.
What, didst thou utter vows of love?
HYACINTH.
No, as I am a man.
ISABEL.
Dar'st thou deny the contract sealed to me to be my
husband?
FLORILLA.
Dar'st thou woo me, having a contract sealed to be her
husband?
HYACINTH.
No! no! no! as I am a Christian! I know her not, I
made no vow—I sealed no contract.—
(aside.)
O Lord,
O Lord! 'tis the devil, who hearing my lies, hath embodied
one of them.
Nay then, traitor! there be those at hand shall right
me: and since the voice of love hath no power to entreat,
the swords of my kinsmen shall force you to do me justice
—what ho! my noble champions there! come forth!
Enter two serving men in disguise.
ISABEL.
Lay on the villain there!
HYACINTH.
St. Nicholas! St. Jerome! St. Vincent! and all the
saints!
FLORILLA.
Within there! Pietro! Vincentio!
This to me! Let go my robe, villain! cling not about
my feet!
ISABEL.
Now I charge you, fall too and spare not!
HYACINTH.
Gentlemen, gentlemen, sticks! sticks! they cure and
kill not: no weapons—I'll take a cudgelling in all kindness,
—pray do not murder me.
FLORILLA.
Coward! do as I bid you.
HYACINTH.
Help! murder! ave-maria! murder! murder! pater-noster!
rape, arson, robbery, murder, murder!
murder!
HYACINTH.
Yet another,—I'm dead!
VASCO.
What uproar's here? who be these men? Florilla!
Isabel! what thing is this?
FLORILLA.
A lover of mine, who hath just tendered me this
bribe.
VASCO.
Yea, thou silken trumpery, didst thou dare—
HYACINTH.
Stop—stop—make not a hole in my doublet—let not
cold iron go through that!
Enter Antonio.
ANTONIO.
What mummery is this? Vasco, hold—daughter, and
mistress Isabel, I pray you let these confusions cease.
Fie, fie, for shame, for shame—get you to your buttery
and offices, knaves.
[Exeunt servants.]
Have ye not
heard the news?
HYACINTH
—(creeping out.)
Bless thee, old newsmonger.
ANTONIO.
Don Carlos is condemned for the slaughter of Count
Pedro, and this very day at sunset is the doom: the town
is still and silent as a vault, and of the few that wander
through the streets not one but wears some token of
mourning, but most in his countenance. All this doth
pass, while your mad fancies here keep such a glare of
without has not come nigh you. Go to your chamber,
daughter, and let me entreat you both to put yourselves
into such sable attire as you have at hand. Vasco, come
with me.
[Exeunt Vasco and Antonio.
FLORILLA.
My heart stands still, Isabel—speak—speak!
ISABEL.
O my sweet lady!
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
—A STREET IN SEVILLE.Valentine and Curio meeting.
CURIO.
Whither away so fast?
VALENTINE.
To the execution.
CURIO.
The execution! soft, pray take me with you.
VALENTINE.
Well, come along.
CURIO.
No, no, in thy meaning, I mean; murder, and trial, and
execution, all in a day—'tis something quick.
VALENTINE.
The King, it seems, had ordered that the sentence
should he pronounced, but not the hour of doom,
hoping, no doubt, out of this loophole to work some
escape for Don Carlos.
CURIO.
Well?
But the council did not disperse when the court
broke up, but still remained advising, and Lord Gomez,
the old childless lord, you know, together with Don
Arias, it seems, spake so strongly for the execution, that
it was universally decreed at sunset.
CURIO.
What said the King to this?
VALENTINE.
Unable to undo the strong resolve of the council, he
fell into a passion of sorrow and indignation; chid the
old lord from his presence like a storm, and banished his
bastard cousin to his castle in the Nevada. The court
leaves Seville to-morrow.
CURIO.
They're come for all the world like a thunder-cloud
over us. Would they had never come! I know not why,
but I think they are the cause of all this.
VALENTINE.
How so?
CURIO.
Heaven knows—I fancy it. How bore Don Carlos the
warning of his death?
VALENTINE.
Exceeding well. At first the natural fear of dissolution
which all flesh inherits made the colour run from his
cheeks and lips, but presently he seemed to embrace his
fate with a constant spirit, and commending himself to
the King's gracious remembrance, sent for his confessor.
CURIO.
O Valentine, he should have died in battle: the Moors,
that gallant heart.
VALENTINE.
Come, I must go. Will you go with me?
CURIO.
Ay, to the saddest sight I think I ere shall look on.
[Exeunt.
SCENE III.
—A PRISON.Carlos and Father Rodriquez discovered.
RODRIQUEZ.
O let not, my dear son, thy thoughts return,
With this declining sunbeam, towards the earth,
But with a spirit strong and confident
Fix them alone in heav'n.
CARLOS.
Good holy father,
I strive in vain: my thoughts awhile upborne
Upon the heavenward wings of thy devotion,
Anchor beyond the dark abysm of death;
But soon a thousand fleshly monitors
Beckon them back with weak and earthly promptings.
Thou say'st 'tis blest to die in penitence,
And yet I feel 'tis sad to die in youth.
Ere life has had its share death claims the whole—
Ere toil of war and manly enterprise
Have worn these sinews weary they must rest,
Rest in the dust. I bring not to the grave
Age and disease, a living carrion,
The loathsome worm before his time must banquet,
The blood within my veins is not bak'd up
With sullen spleen or frozen o'er with eld,
It flows a strong, warm, rapid, living tide,
And I must pour it out upon a scaffold.
A scaffold! there's the sting: father, my fathers
Were born of kings, lived all like noblemen,
And died like warriors. I'm a felon, father!
A midnight murderer! a drunken stabber!
And I must answer this upon the block:
O bitter fortune—bitter fate!
RODRIQUEZ.
My son,
'Tis bitter, but 'tis given thee to drink.
O turn thine eyes unto a brighter scene.
CARLOS.
Whither? to that sad home, where she—my love—
My wife, sits weeping o'er her brother's corse!
Father, what had she done, how had she sinn'd,
That Heaven thus visits her? For me, I know
My life's bought with a price, a bargain struck
Fairly 'twixt guilt and death; but she was holy
As saints that sin not! O why is she doom'd
To misery, by whose side death seems to smile?
RODRIQUEZ.
Question not thou th' invisible doom of fate,
Nor let thy thought presumptuous seek to pierce
The mystery of Heaven's high dispensations.
She will be cared for by a care beyond
Earth's closest love—she will be strengthened
Howe'er bereaved, she is not forsaken,
And o'er her desolate and forlorn state
The Father of the fatherless and widow
Will stretch his wing,—trust me, she will be car'd for.
CARLOS.
This is our wedding-day. See, the sun sinks.
At this same hour yestreen I told my soul,
“To-morrow, as the sun goes down, thy bride
Will cross thy father's threshold;” lying hope,
That sat'st in the sinking sunbeam yesterday,
Where art thou? O where art thou?
RODRIQUEZ.
Gracious Heaven!
Look with thy mercy on this sinful man,
That clings to the earth whence thou hast summon'd him,
And with his arms still hugging to the last,
The life thou claim'st, falls headlong in his grave.
Thy love will die and be a saint in heaven,
When Heaven hath done its will with her on earth.
Fie, fie, this grief's unmanly—'tis not holy.
CARLOS
Art thou a man, that thus upbraid'st my woe?
Have I not grief enough, but thou must cast
Thy heavy censure on me? sinking me
Yet deeper in this drowning sea of sorrow?
Do I not bleed enough? lack I yet more—
Thy cutting, keen reproach, to wound and pierce me?
RODRIQUEZ.
So help me Heaven, as such unchristian purpose
Was farthest from my soul! Behold, my son,
Look how my own come swelling o'er their bounds,
To bear me witness 'gainst such accusation.
CARLOS.
Forgive me! O forgive me, holy man!
My grief like frantic fever loathes its cure—
But O, thou dost not know!—
RODRIQUEZ.
I do! I do!
And my old wither'd heart weeps blood for thee;
These be strange dealings of great Providence,
And my bewilder'd spirit halts amazed,
And wonderingly asks why these things are!
But O, such thoughts are evil—let us hope,
And pray, my son—pray fervently, that death
May be to thee not curst, but blest indeed!
A moment's pang for an eternal bliss!
A moment's darkness for immortal light!
A moment's poverty for boundless wealth!
Earth, earth for heaven! a dungeon for a throne!
(Noise without.)
CARLOS.
Hark! they are come.
RODRIQUEZ.
Be of good courage, Carlos.
Enter Jailor.
JAILOR.
Sir, it is sunset, and the guard's at hand.
CARLOS.
Farewell, my prison walls, last things of earth
And feel, farewell! Existences that still
Discourse unto my senses, fare ye well!
'Tis past. Give me thy hand, father; be near me
Until the last.
RODRIQUEZ.
I will, my dear, dear son.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
—A CHAMBER IN ESTRELLA'S HOUSE.Enter Estrella.
ESTRELLA.
So, so—alone!—they have not followed me.
The day grows dim, but yet I know 'tis morning.
We've not been married yet—an hour ere noon
Will be the wedding. Look I not brave, think ye?—
Shall I not be a handsome bride? You're there,
Brother;—why do you wear that bloody cloak?
You're pale, you're pale—ah! I'd forgot—he's dead;
But he will give the bride away. Again—
They're come again. I'll hide myself—down—down—
Here i' the ground!
Enter Nurse and Gentlewoman.
NURSE.
Sweet virgin! on the earth.
Let's take her back to her chamber.
ESTRELLA.
Take her! is't me ye'll take against my will?
I am not mad, minion: d'ye hear, I'm not:
I want no keepers, good ye mistress Lynx!
They watch me! they watch me! but I'll cozen them.
Faith, 'tis hot—I'm weary—I would sleep,—
Faint, faint,—good night, sweet jailors, I will sleep.
NURSE.
For the first time this day she's still. Mercy on us,
here be events! here be befallings! The young tree is
cut down, blossom and all, and the old bark's left to
rot standing. Hark! 'tis the bell tolling for the execution.
O what a tide of folks is pouring towards the
place! I'd fain step and hear what's saying. Juana, sit
thou by her while she sleeps—I'll be back anon.
GENTLEWOMAN.
Poor lady, 'tis a troubled sleep, in sooth, and will not
better her much. Who's there?
Softly, my lady sleeps.
LIVIO.
O Juana, if ever thou didst see brave sight, come
to the balcony in the east front: the streets be full
of gazers, and the procession will be passing even anon.
GENTLEWOMAN.
A brave sight!—a sad sight, and a solemn, I think.
Why, Livio, I wonder at thee,—thou that hast seen
gates to him in thine office. I think she sleeps soundly.
LIVIO.
Come, an' thou lov'st me, for a minute.
GENTLEWOMAN.
Well, I will come; I would fain see him once again,
poor gentleman; he was a lovely young nobleman,—
heaven save us all,—to come to such an end!
[Exeunt Livio and Gentlewoman.
ESTRELLA.
They're gone away—there's none left to watch me.
Marry, I was not wont to be so guarded.
What bell is that? I shall be late at the church!
Fie, the bride come too late! Sweet marriage bells,—
They've a strange twang withal—they should be faster.
Bind up my hair, give me my rosary.
Ha! ha! thou look'st but ill i' thy bloody cloak,
Pedro! Now, then, I'm ready, give thy hand—
Cold, cold, clay cold, with lying i' the earth!
So—so—now then to church to make me a wife.
[Exit.
SCENE THE LAST.
—A STREET IN SEVILLE.
Enter ESTRELLA.
ESTRELLA.
That's an ugly tune, and savours like a dirge.
O me, I've the heart-ache, yet I know not why—
I am cold and weary—here I'll lay me down—
Hard pillow for a bride;—good night, good nurse,
(She lies down on the stones.)
[A solemn march is heard without; Soldiers pass over the stage; Citizens crowd in on all sides to see the procession.
FIRST CITIZEN.
What's here on the ground?
SECOND CITIZEN.
A dead woman.
THIRD CITIZEN.
Dead! fainting, mayhap—no, sleeping, faith.
ANTONIO.
Stand back! All saints defend us, 'tis the Lady
Estrella.
VASCO.
Alone, untended, in this disordered attire, thus i' the
streets.
GERONIO.
Raise her gently—so—so.
ESTRELLA
—(waking.)
Go to thy marriage-bed.
Maiden, good night.
Enter, guarded, with Friar and Executioner, Carlos.
CARLOS.
Hold! hold! i' the name of heaven, hold! Estrella!
VASCO.
Father, give her to him.
How he looks at her,
As though his eyes should never turn again!
ESTRELLA.
You're a strange man: why do you gaze at me?
I cannot bear your eyes, turn them away!
You make me blush. Pray let me go.
CARLOS.
Estrella!
ESTRELLA.
Ha!
CARLOS.
Dear Estrella!
ESTRELLA.
Say't again! again!
Sweet, though I weep, I love it—say't again!
CARLOS.
My love! my wife! my wife!
ESTRELLA.
Nay, now you mock me.
I can laugh as well as cry. Ha! ha! Well, hear ye—
I'll tell you the story of the gallant lover,
Who stabb'd his lady's brother in the dark:
Faith, that's a sad story—but he's damned, be sure,
With the fiends in fire, for breaking his love's heart
And murdering her brother.
CARLOS.
Horrible!
Another wreck upon this fated shore!
Another curse fall'n on this evil day!
Her reason's gone, the precious crystal's flaw'd,
And can reflect no true and entire image.
Sir, the day wanes.
CARLOS.
I come. O for a pow'r
Once more to bring the wandering spirit home!
Could she but know me once—once look on me
With knowledge and perception, though to blast me
With the lightning of her hate! Estrella!
GUARD.
Sir!
CARLOS.
Peace! now she knows me; look, the memory
Breaks, ray by ray, like morning in her eyes.
ESTRELLA.
Pray do not leave me—pray you take me with you,
For now my brother's dead—you know he's dead—
They watch and prison me, and keep me close;
They will not let me walk abroad i' the day,
Nor see the sun, nor breathe the sweet fresh air;—
They say I'm mad!
CARLOS.
O torture!
GUARD.
Sir, 'tis time.
ESTRELLA.
Ha! ha! ha! how you grasp me.
GUARD.
Nay, move on.
CARLOS.
Stay, stay, a moment more! one moment more!
Estrella! O Estrella!
(He is forced out, she remains in the hands of Antonio.)
ESTRELLA.
That was Carlos!
I know the voice! I know the blessed sound!
Let go your hold! Loosen your grasp, I say!
I heard him—ah! I see him. Carlos! Carlos!
(She rushes out, followed by crowd and Citizens.)
Manent Isabel and Florilla.
ISABEL.
Florilla, I am faint! I cannot stand!
But get thee after them, and see the end.
FLORILLA.
I can see here. (She mounts some steps.)
O heavens! through the throng
I see her white robe and her lifted arms—
The crowd divides—she climbs the scaffold stairs—
She stands beside him! Ha! that flash of light!
The axe! the axe!
(A shriek is heard—Florilla descends the steps. Re-enter Antonio, Geronio, Vasco, Friar Rodriquez, Citizens, and Soldiers, bearing on a couch the body of Carlos and that of Estrella.)
RODRIQUEZ.
The chord is snapp'd, life's music is departed—
The fire is out—our Star of Seville's set.
Part not those bodies that in death are join'd,
For though he should not lie in hallowed ground,
And use what prayers may most avail with him,
That these who should this morn have been united
In holy wedlock, may this night be laid
Together in their narrow marriage-bed.
| The Star of Seville | |