University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—The French Camp on the west side of Constantinople.
Montmorency's Tent.
Montferrat and Montmorency.
Montf.
The prince and I were walking round our tents
In that wild Thracian plain: far off was heard,
Among the hills, the harsh and mournful music
Of the barbarian trumpet, now less dreaded—
There stood that soldier.—“Ho! a messenger!”
Alexis cried, as he stood in our path;—
“I am no messenger, save to myself,
“To cry, prepare, and sweep thy house, to-night:
“Death is thy guest,”—the touch of waning light,
That lit his restless orbs, grew more intense.
“More than a messenger—beware!—beware!—
“Yon sun that walks among the western trees,
“And shines red through this bloodless hand of mine;
“Looks on thy falling state, and thy young reign;
“Worm-eaten and done, if dark Murtzoufle thrive
“Up to his wishes: his the crooked spirit
“That worms itself into the world's best things:
“Beware! beware!”—He said, and fell in death.
No man knew whence he was—Was it not strange?

Montm.
I thought him dull as earth.

Montf.
As outer-wheel
Whose slowest motion bids the loud turmoil
Wake of a thousand hurrying powers within.

Montm.
There's a deep plague-spot on my soul for ever,
'Cause of that youth, whom I exposed to death
So foolishly!—“Where is our poor Antonio?”
Speak, devil—Montmorency, who but thou
Bade him lie fast below cold-rooted woods?
Heaven! were it possible, that if I bore
For years—years—some bow'd torment, he might live,
I'd do all—suffer all: for him this hour's
Filmy and dull as eye of new-cag'd bird.—
Ah! who shall tell me of my new-cag'd bird?
Hast thou seen Philip?

Montf.
Ay.

Montm.
He shuns me still;
Therefore he knows.

Montf.
He heard it all most calmly.

Montm.
Would he had rather yell'd, and loudly curs'd,
And left that dark eye nothing more to say.—

Montf.
'Twere well that you were rid.—

Montm.
Not so, by Heaven!
I've done him grievous wrong; slain poor Antonio—
He is too proud, else would I trust him still
As my physician.

Montf.
'Twere most dangerous:
I may be rash, but his soul seems to me
Secret and foul, as bed of old black river.
His cold indifference I have thought a mask
That hides a coil of crooked thoughts: that face
Of icy breadth:—those glassy eyes that stand—

Montm.
His is no common soul:—luxurious tastes—
A strange avidity for knowledge—cold
To all save his Antonio, whom he lov'd
Like little child:—Still I have never thought him
One to be feared, but, if he wear the mask,
So long it hath been fixed, so closely, 'tis
For dreadful purpose: Then, indeed, his thoughts
Are foul and pois'nous, as the knotted worms,
That breed in cold beds, 'neath the unwholesome stone
That never hath been rais'd—I fear him nought.

Montf.
Yet, trust him not too much— (trumpet)
—hark! hark! hark! hark!
Look too—yon ruddy flag; there let all winds
Assemble there; wave't fiercely: Welcome still—
The warrior's voice, and hunt it through the fight!

Montm.
Ay, fortune strives
To keep our plumes of soldiership in trim.
My Lord, may we not come on them at once,
And burst our way into this walled town?
O! for this maid, Eudocia.—Hark! it chides us—
(trumpet.)

Montf.
Now, let us climb upon our mounting blood,
And show the tokens of that stern revenge
That shall o'ertake him if he rob thy love.

Enter Philip.
Montm.
Philip!

Phil.
Ay, Philip: what more might he add?

Montm.
Antonio's brother: Montmorency's foe.

Phil.
A curse! O curse! But it shall shape itself
Where it shall cling; and may it weigh down those
That slew my boy—Dids't bury him?

Montm.
Yes, yes;
Forbear for ever, hate me or forgive.

Phil.
Would we had equal power, that a stern feud
Might bid a sharp sword ever run between.—

Montm.
Meet me to-morrow.

[Exeunt Montferrat and Montmorency.
Philip
solus.
Hunt him to all extremes;
To come upon his sleep, to track his path,
Keen as night-wolf that strides o'er the hoarded chests
Of mountain snow.—Did thy young blood come out?—
To strike his haughty forehead to the ground—
Perhaps, even now, the raven comes for thee
To peck thy frozen cheek. God rest thee well,
My boy! but thou shalt rise, and the Great Hand
Shall come from out the cloud, and kindly wash
Thy face from the dishonours of the grave;
And hold thee up, and thou shalt dare to look
On the clear white brows of the holy saints.
Where then am I, and what?—Well, I must thank him
That he did cover thee. But thou art gone
From me, and this dead heart, with all thy love,
Sweeter to me than April showers to earth,
That dip their wings in sunshine. Why, poor youth
Dids't love this haughty Lord? I've followed him,
Because of thee: And I shall follow him;
Because of thee—O!—
[Exit Philip.