University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

—A WIDE ENCAMPMENT.
Alarums.
Enter Bourbon, Pescara, and Troops.
BOURBON.
Command them halt, and draw their lines along
The forest skirts.

PESCARA.
Perez, how goes the hour?

FIRST SOLDIER.
By our march, an't please you, I should guess it late
In the afternoon.

BOURBON.
Ay, see the sun, that gorgeous conqueror,
Upon the western gate of heav'n doth halt.

PESCARA.
A conqu'ror call you him, Bourbon?

BOURBON.
Ay, marry.
Hath he not ridden forth, as though to battle,
Armed with ten thousand darts of living flame?
Hath he not, in his journey 'thwart the sky
Encounter'd and o'ercome each gloomy cloud,
Each fog, or noisome vapour, that i'th' air
Hover'd, like foul rebellion, to put out
His glorious light; and having conquer'd them,
Hath he not forced them don his livery,—
The amber glow,—that all he looks on wears?
And now, behold, he stands on the last verge
Of his career, and looks back o'er his path,
Mark'd with a ruddy hue, how like a conqueror!
Now sinks he in that glowing mass of light,
Which he hath fired; and look, Pescara, yonder
Comes on the night, who draws her sable veil
Over the whole; and this bright pageantry,
This gorgeous sunset, and this glorious sun,
Shall be forgotten in to-morrow's dawning!
So comes in death, and so oblivion falls
Over the mighty of the earth! How far
Is it to the beleaguer'd Pavia?

PESCARA.
By
The open road, some twelve hours' weary march;
But here is one, a sturdy labourer,
Who, in his hard vocation toiling, hath
Discover'd paths, through these wide woodlands, which,
Before the dawn, would bring us into sight
Of Pavia, and King Francis' host.

BOURBON.
'Tis well:
That path we choose; and trust to bring, at once,
Daylight and death into his camp. Do thou,
Pescara, bid them form, and march again;
Speak to them cheeringly and cheerily;
Give them good hope, by showing them thine own,
And tell them we must march another night:
Yet but one more, and that, to-morrow, all
Shall rest in the glad arms of victory,
[Exeunt Pescara and soldiers.
Or sleep in those of death—a most rare slumber!
And one for which I long right wearily!
For I am sorely burthen'd, and the sleep
Of ev'ry night hath no more power on me
To quicken or refresh my numbed senses.
A very dream hath been my life to me!
Full of fair disappointments and mischances
Dress'd in fantastic trappings by my hopes.
The fairest parted first. Oh, Margaret!
Thou star! that all alone, in this thick darkness,
Still shin'st upon my troubled destinies
With an eternal constancy; to thee
How often veers my soul! But 'tis no more,
With the fond looks of hope, but with the gaze
Of one to whom despair is grown familiar;
And who, in death, still fixes his strain'd eye
On what he hop'd, and sicken'd, and then died for!
What quick and incoherent footsteps beat
The ground? Why, this should seem some distraught wretch
Reft of his reason!—what! it cannot be!
Count Lautrec!

Enter, precipitately, Lautrec, with a letter in his hand.
LAUTREC.
Hear me, oh thou injured man;
And, by thine injuries, be mov'd to aid me!

BOURBON.
Lautrec in Italy! in our encampment!
A suitor to the man who was o'erthrown,
To make a step to raise him into greatness!

LAUTREC.
Oh read, read here! He that did ruin thee—
That rais'd me but to cast me down again—
That lustful tyrant, Francis of Valois,
Hath brought dishonour on our ancient house!
I thank the gods she did not long outlive
Such deadly shame!

BOURBON
(reads the letter).
The fair Françoise, alas!

LAUTREC.
More, more than this—Laval, my childhood's brother—
He who in years, in arms, in love, and honour,
Did so resemble me, that nature seem'd
To have intended, from our birth, our friendship—
Is dead, by the slow hand of his despair,
Which, ever since my sister's fatal end,
Had seiz'd upon him; dead by lingering pain,
Slow but consuming fever, and that hopelessness
Of the sad heart which is the surest end
Life hath. But, here, he hath bequeath'd to me
Such an inheritance as mocks all price—
His vengeance! Oh, thou shalt be satisfied,
Departed friend! and when, from thine abode,
Thou seest my keen sword glit'ring o'er the head
Of him, thy murderer—when his life's blood,
Spilt on the earth, shall reek to heav'n, remember
I struck the blow—'tis I that did avenge thee!

BOURBON.
That I do sorrow for thee, Lautrec, credit me;
For I have lov'd—but that mine aid in this
Can aught avail thee, I discover not.

LAUTREC.
Desire doth sharpen my perception, Bourbon,
And shapes all circumstances to its purposes.
Grant me but forty—nay, but twenty men;
And let me join my arm unto thy host,
Whose ev'ry weapon shall, ere day dawn, point
At the foul tyrant—mine alone must strike.
What, cautious grown, and doubtful art, on sudden!
Thou who didst never, to the weightiest matter,
Lend e'en a moment's thinking space, dost now
Ponder on such a suit as this, forsooth!

BOURBON.
Fair sir, Care and her sister, Thought, have been
Companions of my dreary days and nights
Of late, and they have left their cautious traces.
I should be loth to tell, since last we parted,
How sorrow hath, in envy of my youth,
Sown age's silver tokens on my head,
And furrow'd o'er my brow. But I have thought,
E'en in this moment's space, enough to tell thee
I cannot grant thy suit. Men's hearts have cool'd,
Lautrec, since I was driven forth from France;
And now their busy tongues begin to scan,
With a misprising censure, my revenge.
My fame—my last, best-guarded treasure—is
Melting beneath the fiery touch of slander:
And, when men speak of Bourbon, it is now,
Bourbon the traitor—the revolted Bourbon—
But let that pass!—'tis undeserv'd; and, therefore,
Again I say it, let it pass! But yet
There is, among the scornful eyes, that look
Upon my venturous career, one eye,
That, like the guarding gaze of Providence,
Keeps me from all offence. Therefore, if I
Do make my army a retreat and welcome
For rebels,—for so injur'd men are deem'd,—
To one, moreover, who hath sworn to plunge
His sword, up to the hilt, in the king's heart,—
I shall do sorrow to the one I love,
And therein merit all the rest do say.

LAUTREC.
Thou art become too wise, De Bourbon; I
Am all too eager for revenge to think.
Farewell: and if thou wouldst not the king's life
Be perill'd, see that he and I meet not.

[Exit.
Enter Pescara.
PESCARA.
I've done my mission, and successfully.
I've given them new hearts and freshen'd courage;
Already stand they eager to depart,
Their lances glittering in this crimson light,
And all the banners spreading their huge wings,
As though they meant to fly upon the gale
That flutters laughing round them. Come, De Bourbon,
They only halt for you; do but appear,
And they shall be tenfold invigorate
With the dear sight of him they love so well!

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—KING FRANCIS TENT BEFORE THE WALLS OF PAVIA.
Night—a lamp burning: on one couch Henry of Navarre sleeping, on the other, Francis.
FRANCIS
(in his sleep).
Down! down! help ho! the traitor's stabb'd me!—help!
(Wakes)
What all alone! and night!—an idle dream!
(Rising)
Yet sure methought we did together fight,
Bourbon and I; and ever as I struck him,
Laval did come between us—but 'tis nought.
A very phantasy, born of my thoughts,
Which have been straining on to-morrow's issue.
(To Navarre)
—How well thou sleep'st, thou disinherited King!
Thou hast no dream of empire or dominion;
Thine being lost, no longer are a care.
And all th'event to-morrow brings to thee,
Is life, or death, a paltry stake at best!
Ta'en by itself, and without added value
Of crown, or kingdom, fame, or name to lose.
Sleep on,—youth's healthful current keeps its course
Within thy veins; and thy unwrinkled brow
Shows like the glassy wave, when sunset smiles on it.
Oh, would that I were eas'd of power too!—
Then might I rest, perchance, as thou dost now.
(He walks to the end of the tent, and draws back the curtains at the entrance of it; which, being opened, discover the camp by moonlight, the Tesino, and distant walls of Pavia.)
How many are there, sleeping on yon field,
Who shall to-morrow lay them down for ever.
How many heads, whose dreams are all of conquest,
Lie pillow'd on their graves.—Where shall they be
After the dawn, awaken'd by our trumpets,
Has drawn away night's curtain? Then shall come
War's horrid din,—then shall these slumberers,
All drench'd in gore, all gash'd, and mangled, roll
Together in the thirsty dust; and some
Shall pray to heaven for mercy, and for years
Of future life,—and some shall yell for pain,
And curse the hour that they were born, and cry
For water to allay their dying drought.
There shall the proud lie writhing, in the herd
Of common soldiers; there the brave shall lie,
Bleeding beside the coward;—there, perchance,
I shall be stretch'd, stark, ere the evening fall—
A fearful thought!—Now through the silent air,
And the dark night, might Fancy dream she saw
Death stalking in the midst of yonder field,
Marking the prey that shall be his to-morrow.
Why, how is this?—my blood chills in my veins!
A shadow passes over me!—shall I?—
Oh conscience! lie thou still; it is thy hand
That strikes so cold upon my sense, and turns
The rapid current of my blood athwart,
With these slow shiv'ring fears.—I'll wake D'Albret;
For now already through the twilight breaks
The dappled hue of morn, chasing away
Night's shadows, and these gloomy phantasies.
There is a freshness in the early air,
That quickens ev'ry faculty, and makes
A keen enjoyment of existence only.
Now falls the grey veil from fair Nature's face,
And streaks of light shoot through the amber sky.
What ho! awake, D'Albret! the day hath dawn'd,
And the young morning, clad in saffron robes
Of glorious light, opens heav'n's eastern gate,
And bids the sun good morrow.— (Trumpet)
—Hark! the trumpet,
Clear, as the lark's shrill matin note, doth sound
Through the blue vault,—the hum of multitudes
Rises in the still air,—the clash of steel,—
The tramp of trained feet doth beat the ground,
In even measure,—steeds neigh long and loud,—
And voices of command, whoop and halloo,
Ring through the tented lines;—arouse thee! slumb'rer!
The day is broke,—the camp is all awake,—
Shake off this sleep, and fit thyself for—

Enter Triboulet at the back.
TRIBOULET.

Death, master! I've ended thy period with a rare grace
for thee!

FRANCIS.

Thou here? I deem'd thee safe in Paris.

TRIBOULET.

Thou deemedst wrong, then; for I am sound before
Pavia.

FRANCIS.

When cam'st thou hither?

TRIBOULET.

With the last reinforcement: men, there are no more
that can come, and fools, there being so many already,
I thought thou could'st not take exception at one more of
the order.

FRANCIS.

But what wilt thou do here?

TRIBOULET.

That which thou wilt: fight, I conceive.

FRANCIS.

Go to, with thy lath!

TRIBOULET.

No, with my faulchion, master.

(He draws his faulchion.)
FRANCIS.

Why, my poor fool, what shall they do at court if thou
art slain?

TRIBOULET.

Resolve me this, master,—what shall they do if thou
art slain?

FRANCIS.

Marry, e'en get them another King.

TRIBOULET.

What! kings in such abundance, and fools so rare,—
royalty in such plenty, and folly scarce in the market!
But I'll tell thee; if I am slain, dear master, do thou
console my mourners; they will be many, doubtless;—
I'll bequeath thee my cap and bells—and let poor Clement
write my epitaph.

FRANCIS.
Out weather-brain! but see, here come the heads
Of our grave council; get thee gone awhile
Into the further tent, and tarry there
Until I send for thee.
[Exit Triboulet.
I'll have him kept
Safely throughout the day,—for worlds I would not
That the poor knave should come to any harm.

(During this scene Henry D'Albret has arisen, buckled on his sword and spurs, &c.)
Enter Vendôme, Chabannes, De Varennes, and Pages.
FRANCIS.
Now, good my lords, your voices, and perchance
Some short hour hence we'll ask you for your swords;
Speak forth, speak freely. (To a Page)
—Bid a herald sound
Summons through all the camp, to all the chiefs
And leaders of our host, that straightway here
They do convene to counsel or consult
How best our conduct may be ordered,
In this emergency and strait of war.
Despatch, despatch! we suffer no delay;
All must be quickly said and done to-day:
Sit, gentle lords,—good cousin D'Albret, sit.

[They seat themselves. Exeunt Pages.
Enter Charles of Alençon.
ALENÇON.
Sir,
The morning blushes, that she lay asleep,
Pillow'd on the grey clouds, long after you
Had left your couch, in busy thought preparing
To meet the venture of this perilous day.

FRANCIS.
We'll make the noon blush redder yet, good cousin,
If thou and all these nobles here assembled
Are half as willing for the siege as I!—
But, Vendôme, thou art riper in thy years,
And of a judgment more mature than any,
Than all, that sit in council round us here.
Speak, therefore; say, shall we attempt th'assault,
And lay this rebel city in the dust?
Or back to France, there to recruit and raise
Our wearied troops, who, through their weariness,
Find strength to talk of marching home again?

VENDÔME.
My gracious liege, brief words do best befit
The brief allotment time hath portion'd us:
Therefore, unprefac'd be my say, and short.
Pavia hath not yet given sign of yielding,
Though now a lengthen'd siege hath tried her force;
Resistance in the city, and without
(At least, so rumour saith) a mighty band,
Marching to aid her worst extremity,
In numbers countless—

FRANCIS.
Ay, so rumour saith,
But rumour's best arithmetic we know;
Multiplication, Vendôme, is it not?

D'ALBERT.
I do entreat your Majesty's excuse
For that I break my lord of Vendôme's speech,
In seeming hotness of impatient youth.
But had he said, fresh, full of strength and life,
And courage, such as untried armies feel,
Before grim war hath prick'd a single vein,
Or drain'd one drop of blood, or drank one breath,
Methinks his argument had stronger prov'd.

CHABANNES.
We, good my liege, have pour'd forth crimson floods
Around the walls of Pavia, mingling with
The silver Tesino another stream,
All full of warmth, and but just robb'd of life.

FRANCIS.
Hark! for methinks, without, we hear the stir
Of hasty footsteps drawing near our tent:
Who comes?
Enter Bonnivet.
De Bonnivet! ah, is it thou?
Welcome, thou King of Tennis! thou art wanted,
Thou giver of hard blows and unwise counsels:
Here be these lords, advising us to raise
This weary siege, and back to France again.

BONNIVET.
Out on such counsel! How, sirs, raise the siege
And fly?

D'ALBRET.
Ay, even so, sir, raise the siege!
I marvel that your eyes serve not thus far,
To see that on a combat hangs the venture
Of life and death, freedom and slavery.
Do you not see 'tis all the foe doth seek?
What stake is this, where, failing, they lose nought;
And where, if they should win, we must lose all?
This battle will be double victory
To them, for 'tis their only confidence—
'Tis the last effort of their desp'rate hope—
The straining of the nerve before it cracks;
The issue that must crown, or crush, for ever.

ALENÇON.
Besides all this, another point remains—
Men are not fed with words, and well we know,
Would Bourbon give his heart's best blood for it,
He hath no other coin. Thus following
Through lands, laid waste by our victorious arms,
Without a hope of combat, and with fear
Of mutiny among their starving thousands;—
Think ye they will not rue this hasty march?
And curse the hour they quitted Germany,
To hold that rebel Bourbon's cause for food,
And page our heels through Italy for rest.
But, an we wait them here, and give them fight,
And let them weigh the fearful odds that all
Spur them to battle, even to the death,—
Why they may chance, my liege, to find a strength
From out their very weakness, and a hope,
Born in the moment of extreme despair;—
And should we be defeated—

FRANCIS.
Defeated! say'st thou? by my soul, Alençon,
Thou speak'st as thou hadst never worn a sword!
Defeated by a set of German clods!
What though the traitor Bourbon lead them on!
Methinks ye have forgotten, all of ye,
That in our camp his deeds of arms were learnt.
The masters of his infancy are here,
And though that youthful age hath budded forth
Into most powerful and vigorous manhood,
Here are the men who train'd the haughty spirit,
That having broken through all curb of duty,
Threats its instructors; here the very men,
Who first put weapons in those grasping hands,
That now, forsooth, ye deem invincible.
By heav'ns! ye are bewilder'd all by fear!
Or else your eyes have ta'en some other taint,
That makes ye shake so at this scarecrow, Bourbon.
What though he hath heart, head, and hand, the which
Are merits that I freely own and praise?
Yet hath he not ten thousand hearts and heads,
To move this mass of thick-brain'd, half-train'd savages,
Whereat, oh, valiant chevaliers! ye tremble.
Nay, cousin D'Albret, we are poor, indeed,
If in this very presence be not some,
Ay, many, that could match with yonder rebel;
Thyself art proof against thy argument.

BONNIVET.
Nor is this all: did not the king of France
Swear by his knighthood's sword, he would exalt
Leyva's head on conquer'd Pavia's walls?
The vow was spoke like thunder in our ears;
The sword flash'd brightly in the king's right hand;
And now shall Pavia triumph in our flight?
And bathe its ramparts in Tesino's flood,
All curdled with the red libations pour'd
By us, as tributes to th'unconquer'd town?
Shall Leyva, that haughty Spaniard, smile,
To think, that with his single bilboa
He held at bay the chivalry of France?
More, more than all, shall Europe, 'neath whose eyes
The fearful hazard of our game we play,
Point to the plains of Italy, and cry,
There was a gallant king and knight forsworn?
There France's lilies swept the dusty field,
Not blushing with the hue of deadly fight,
But pale with shame at this most foul retreat!
Oh shame upon ye, lords!

ALENÇON.
Now, by this light,
I did but urge the measure, that we might
Survive to fight and bleed in France's quarrel
Nor all be slaughter'd here by rebel hands.

FRANCIS.
Cousin D'Albret, thou hast forgot thine own
Immediate cause and quarrel in this fray.
Thy lost inheritance, Navarre, doth lie
Within the compass of to-day's engagement.
If we are conquerors, why then thy crown—

D'ALBRET.
Perish my crown,—and with it all my hopes,—
If that the dear desire of righting me,
Hath made your majesty so long to waver
'Twixt your host's safety, and my interest!
By heav'n! 'ere I behold this fair array,
And all its gallant leaders, perill'd thus,
My crown and kingdom shall remain unclaim'd,
And my good sword be my inheritance!

VENDÔME.
But see, who comes in haste; his tidings seem,—
If one may read them in his dusty trappings,—
Sudden.—

Enter a Messenger.
MESSENGER.
My liege, tidings have reach'd our post,
Within this hour, the city must surrender,
If we attack. The Spaniard Leyva's troops,
Too harshly disciplined by want and weariness,
Have broke all discipline, and will not raise
An arm to save their town.

BONNIVET.
Now, now, my liege!
To horse; and bid the trumpets sound th'assault.

Enter another Messenger.
MESSENGER.
Arm! arm! my liege! the Spaniard is upon us!
De Bourbon and his army are at hand!
Over the westward plains, the clouds of dust
Rise thickly from the vanguard of his host;
From whose dense canopy full oft flash forth
Helmet, and crest, and lance, and pennon bright,
Giving dread promise of the coming fight!

(They all start up.)
FRANCIS.
Up, and away! to horse, to horse, my lords!
'Twill be the battle then, and not th'assault!
Or if our cousin D'Albret be not wearied,
We'll have the battle first, and then the siege.

D'ALBRET.
I pray to heav'n your majesty may find
No rest he seeks not!

FRANCIS.
Nay now, gentle coz,
Thy hand, and ere we part, we'll have thy word,
To meet us in our tent, after the battle;
Where we will fill a health to our fair ladies;—
Amongst whose number, Victory is not
The most unkind. Now, all unto your posts!
It may so chance we may meet here again;
But if fate wills it other, farewell all,
Whom one short hour shall cause to stand or fall.
[Exeunt all but Bonnivet.
De Bonnivet, do thou draw out thy men
Close by the Tesino, but keep them back;
Nor let thy bloodhounds slip the leash, till I
Send signal for the onset.
[Exit Bonnivet. Francis draws his sword.
Now, all ye powers that rule the tide of war,
Whose voice is in the belching cannon's roar,—
Whose wing is in its flashing light,—who spread
Its smoky canopy along the plain,—
Making death doubly hideous by disguise:
Come! sit upon my brow! and be my eyes
The heralds of your sentences to Spain;
That at each glance the rebel host may read
The terrors waiting on incensed kings.
Now, Bourbon, traitor! we shall meet once more,
And proud shall be the prize of thy revolt;
For I'll encounter thee, and sword to sword,
I'll pay thy heavy debt of injuries,
With such a glorious death, that men shall say
Thou wert more honour'd, dying by this hand,
Than hadst thou lived, and conquer'd all the world!
(Trumpets.)
Hark! hark! they sound the onset! to the field!
Confusion light on him who first shall yield!

[Rushes out.

SCENE III.

—BATTLE-FIELD.
Alarums.—Enter Bourbon and Pescara.
PESCARA.
Oh, what a glorious conflict rages there!
Our breaking of their lines, and swift pursuit,
Have ta'en the breath from off my lips, but more
With joy than weariness.

BOURBON.
Oh, brave, my lions!
Hark! how they roar! see how their bristling line
Drives back King Francis and his chevaliers!
Come, come, Pescara, come, my blood's on fire!

PESCARA.
Art sure that Leyva will keep his word,
And sallying from the city, fall upon
Their rear guard?

BOURBON.
I've his oath; and art thou sure,
That thou didst to the troops enjoin to spare
King Francis' life?

PESCARA.
Certain: they'd sooner turn
Their swords on thee or me, than upon him.

BOURBON.
Then follow, follow back into the fight!
Follow! and shout Bourbon! for Spain and vengeance!

[Exeunt.
Alarums.—Enter, in great disorder, Alençon, Chabannes, and some troops.
ALENÇON.
No pow'r on earth can rally them again!
They fly, they fly! Oh, miserable day!
Where is the king?

CHABANNES.
Yonder, in the mèlèe.
Seest not his white plume, dabbl'd all with gore,
Floating upon the tide of battle? Hell
Rides on the sulph'rous clouds that shroud the field,
And death riots beneath!

ALENÇON.
Where's Bonnivet?

CHABANNES.
Cut down, with his whole troop. Th'accursed Spaniard,
Leyva, did, as he rush'd on to the charge,
Open his city gates, which belched forth
Th'enraged and hungry garrison that we
So long have pent within their city walls;
These fell upon De Bonnivet's small band,
And made such havoc as wild beasts alone,
Or starving savages, should make.

ALENÇON.
But, come—
Once more into the field; and, if all hope
Be lost of rallying our broken host,
Let us, around our gallant king, make stand,
And fight ourselves to death!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

—ANOTHER PART OF THE BATTLE-FIELD.
Alarums.—Enter Francis, supported by D'Albret and Triboulet; his sword broken, and his whole dress very much disordered.
FRANCIS.
Oh, coward traitors, to forsake me thus!
Thrice did I lead them on, and thrice again
That fiend incarnate, Bourbon, routed them.
D'Albret, leave me, and get thee to the brow
Of yonder hill, and look upon the field,
And come and tell me how the battle fares.

[Exit D'Albret. Francis seats himself on the ground.
FRANCIS.
So thou didst break thy prison, Triboulet?

TRIBOULET.

Ay, and I would have broken my neck to have got to
you; but, master mine, you bleed—you are sore wounded.

FRANCIS.
A score of scratches, nothing more, kind friend.
Take off my helmet—so—I thirst, good fool:
I pray thee fetch me, from yon spring, some water,
To lay this fever in my throat.
[Triboulet takes the King's helmet, and goes for water.
Oh, mother!
Ill shall it fare with thee if the day's lost,
As I do fear it will be.
Re-enter Triboulet.
Thank thee, friend.
Pah! there is blood! blood! in the curdled stream!
I cannot, for my life, dip e'en my lip
Into it.

LAUTREC
(without).
Where, where is the tyrant?
(Enters.)
Ha!
Take this, thou ravisher! Laval doth send it thee!

[He rushes on the King; Triboulet throws himself before him, but is felled by Lautrec—Francis starts up, and, with his broken sword, defends himself. Enter Pescara and Spanish troops—Henri D'Albret is brought in prisoner—Pescara strikes down Lautrec's sword.
PESCARA.
Down with thy sword for very shame, Lautrec!
Wouldst strike an unarm'd and a wounded man?

FRANCIS.
Pescara! thou hast sav'd a worthless life;
Worthless to all but him unto whose vengeance
It was most rightly due. Alas, poor fool!
Wounded, I fear, to death!

TRIBOULET.
For thee, master—dear master, 'tis for thee!

FRANCIS.
My crown!—I had forgot—but my heart's thanks,
And all my fallen fortunes may have spar'd me,
To him that shall restore thee!

TRIBOULET.

Oh master mine! thou canst not buy me a new heart;
mine is unseam'd, and life hath play'd the truant—forgive
poor Clèment, master, for my sake;—and hark thee
—hark thee in thine ear,—thou hast been called a wise
King hitherto, and I now ratify the sentence;—henceforth
thou shalt be wise—

FRANCIS.

Why so?

TRIBOULET.

Because thy folly is departing, master!—alack, poor
cap and bells!

[Dies.
FRANCIS.
Curse on these smarting wounds, whose pain doth bring
Unmanly tears!—Pescara, I beseech thee,
Let this kind fellow sleep in honor'd grave!
His head was light; for it did lack the weight
Of evil thought,—but for his faithful heart,
Oh! how it sham'd all sense and intellect,
That was so passing excellent without them!

PESCARA.
It shall be look'd to, sir, right heedfully.—
But, sir, you bleed; there is a convent near
If you can mount—

FRANCIS.
Faith—I feel somewhat faint,—
Lead on, sir, so our haven be not far.—
D'Albret, thine arm; thou'rt something of a prophet—
Fortune has cheated us of all save patience.

[Exeunt—Soldiers follow them, bearing the body of Triboulet.
SCENE THE LAST.
—THE INSIDE OF A CHURCH.
Monks in the background, singing the service for the dead. Enter Pescara and D'Albret, supporting Francis. Soldiers follow them.
Monks
chaunt.

‘De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine.—Domine,
exaudi vocem meam.’

FRANCIS.

Why, this is fit! Peace, do not break their chaunt!

Monks
chaunt.

‘Fiant aures tuæ intendentes in vocem deprecationis
meæ.’

D'ALBRET.

Oh it chimes truly with our dismal fortunes.

Monks
chaunt.

‘Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine: Domine, quis
sustinebit.

FRANCIS
(speaking the response).

‘Quia apud te propitiatio est et propter legem tuam
sustinui te, Domine.’

(Shouts without.
Enter Leyva and Spanish troops.
LEYVA.
What drowsy dirge is this? Be we not conquerors?
Shout a Te Deum for our victory,
And leave these doleful dumps to Frenchmen!

PESCARA.
Leyva, this boist'rous triumph shows not well
Before the fallen—

FRANCIS.
Oh, sir, take no heed,
For I take none of this;—to be o'ercome
May be the lot of base and brave alike,—
But, to be moderate in conquest makes
A great man greater than his victory.

SOLDIERS.
Come, baldpates, come, a merry psalm!

LEYVA.
Pescara, it is fitting thou should'st talk,
Who hast but march'd some leagues thy lusty troops
Through fruitful lands, levying all plenteousness,
To satisfy their need or their desire:
These wretches have been pent within their walls
With nought to stay their stomachs for three weeks,
Save scraps thy dogs would loathe:—I cannot curb them—
They're mad with hunger and excess.—

Enter, shouting, a body of drunken Soldiers; they seize the ornaments on the Priests, and begin stripping the altar.
FRANCIS.
Do ye stand by, and see this sacrilege?
Oh Spanish nobles!—Christian gentlemen!

Francis snatches a sword from one of the Soldiers.—Shouts without.
Enter Bourbon, followed by Spanish Officers and Soldiery.
BOURBON.
(Striking down a soldier at the foot of the altar.)
Down, dog! How now, whence this unholy outrage?
Pescara, Leyva—( seeing Francis)
—The king!

FRANCIS.
Bourbon!

BOURBON.
Wounded—alone—a prisoner!—Oh, sir!
Had you but hearken'd timely to true counsel,
This ne'er had come to pass—you had not fallen
To this estate—nor Italy been drench'd
With the best blood of your best chivalry.

FRANCIS.
This is a strange encounter for us two,
My lord—full of deep thoughts that need no comment.
That thou wert wrong'd, the world will bear thee witness;
That wrong endur'd hath made thee commit wrong;
The world and all its aftertimes will judge thee:
For my own part, though fate has play'd me false,
I will not wrangle with the lot she throws me,
Nor hold this day the darkest of my life,
Though thou hast won, and I lost all save honour.
(To Pescara)
—Sir, take my sword, I am your prisoner.

BOURBON
(to an Officer).
Go, bid our trumpets sound to the recall.
All slaughter, and despoiling of the dead, forbear.
And for our royal prisoners, their fate
Hangs at the mastery of Charles of Spain.—
From us all courtesy their rank doth claim,
And admiration for their noble valour.
Now sheathe your bloody swords, and all prepare
To march to Spain this very hour, that there,
By well-improved victory, we may
Crown the strange tale of this eventful day.