University of Virginia Library

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.