University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—Court before the Emperor's Palace.
Montferrat and Philip meeting.
Montf.
Good-morrow, Philip, welcome to this city.

Phil.
My Lord! thy city.

Montf.
Why, Murtzoufle's off,
Past through the eastern gate ere dawn.

Phil.
He has left
His blood-cakes spread unto the moon to break,
Before they baked. Pardon, my Lord—thy wound?

Montf.
Thanks to thy care, 'tis waxing well perhaps.

Phil.
It was not mortal only by an inch.

Montf.
Well, things in season, we may pile our arms.
What! man look brisk—go shuffling through the streets.
Thy face is not in season.

Phil.
I shall smile;
For thousands say Montferrat shall be king.
Murtzoufle set because he rose too soon.
Start! from the horizon to the mid-day heavens,
When men look'd for no star, there was he moving,
Showing prime planet: but his stuff was crude:
And now he's dull and flat, as leaden sea
That creeps o'er the sunless shore. He took no pains
To set his power on many points of base.
Besides, though daring, he has wat'ry flaws
'Midst hardest stuff. A vulgar pride of heart
Bullies men's eyes and casts no spots of care.
Reckless he seems, but on the whole is coward.
His prince he slew, and this which rais'd his power,
Would soon have sunk him: for the dread suspicion
Which murder breeds, prey'd on his nerve of power;
And soon had made his reign a private care
The bulwark of one life:—So much for tyrants
That slack a moment on their dreadful stream.
Add death to death, ye men that climb on daggers,
Yet are ye fools.

Montf.
And thou art dangerous;
So keen;—so keen:—when did you know Murtzoufle?

Phil.
Hints, hints, my Lord—a countryman of mine,
Too quick for tyrant's use, has oft been near him.
Yet had there been no merit to predict,
The man unknown, the downfall of the power.
Old worm-bit reign, like old annuitant,
Oft longwhile hangs on crutches of decay;
Like tottering wall, by shaking rubbish down,
It heaps a sort of strength around its base.
Not so the mushroom power of red usurper;
Not back'd by desp'rate aids, and lucky hits,
Quickly it falls a solitary strength.
Well, such the guilt,—the folly—what you will,—
The getting up. But O the glorious end!
Above control:—the come and go to men:
And vengeance too, we'll have revenge, my Lord;
The wrath of princes lasts, old Homer sings.
The power of secret things is at command;
The marts of hidden knowledge: This his portrait;—
(O I can draw the model of a king,)
Accessible or not, no mid degrees;
Proud as a burnish'd war-horse in the sun,
Beauteous as wild beast of the wilderness;
And somewhat cruel—and a scornful lip—
And powerful gaze—and ever shy in peace;
The soldier's ready spirit.—Go be a king.
I call'd this city thine, and is it not?
'Tis fairly won. I saw the pomp to-day.
Ha! ha! the cow'ring city cried for mercy,
With young girls—and old girls—and boys and men;
And show'd its wealth, more than humility.
They look'd to thee.—
I caught the truer sense of hoary men,
They turn and say, Montferrat shall be king.

Montf.
Well, thou shalt be physician-general
When I am king, astrologer or chief
Of my state jugglers.

Phil.
Pardon, my Lord—thy wound
Is full of pains?

Montf.
Ay, thou wilt be physician?
Well, thou hast skill: in faith 'tis very sore.

Phil.
I knew it by thy words of twitching force.
My Lord, I never jest—and mark at present,—
There looks an Emp'ror:—and thy claim is best
Of all our princes.

Montf.
We shall meet to-day.

Phil.
Ere then make int'rest.

Montf.
Make the devil, good fellow.
D'ye think I shall be king?

Phil.
You may, my Lord.

Montf.
Why, there's the Doge of Venice;
Baldwin besides, and Montmorency too,
My gallant friend, with his sweet eastern bride,
A princess of the blood, and near the throne.
Faith, were she mine, I should not doubt a moment.
Well boy, I care not, I shall o'er the plain
To Palestine, the land of the bright swords.—

(is going.)
Phil.
My Lord—a moment—

Montf.
I'll see you in an hour,
And have my wound dress'd.

Phil.
You did'nt mean to mock me?

Montf.
No—thou art fool, if thou wilt not be juggler.

Phil.
And who is he that mocks the awful power,
That reads the stars, the heraldry of Heaven;
Whose aspects are th' escutcheons of all things,
Plague and the earthquake, and the thunder-fires?
I'd die that death, if I could know the power
That burns from out the cloud:—o'er mortal life,
It glances, and we die. The earthly fires
Are awful as they go; and when they roost,
With long-neck'd flames by night, in upper-chambers
Of the old forest, when the wind blows dry,
They do their work: but we can mark their path.
Not so the out-bolts of black heaven that scathe,
When the eye winks, a multitude of things—
And then the hidden sea—I take thy promise.
Now swear, my Lord, to give me means to search
These secret things, when thou hast mighty wealth.

Montf.
Well, I have sworn, when thou hast made me king,
To grant thee all.

Phil.
I'll cure thy wound, my Lord,
This day—this hour.

Montf.
But stay—without the leave
Of Montmorency you can't follow me.

Phil.
Aha! my Lord; but death
Binds the wan tenants of his sepulchres.
Murtzoufle sent him to the marble house.

Montf.
This morn he liv'd.

Phil.
Who saw him?

Montf.
Myself.

Phil.
But I am not his slave; and thou hast sworn.
I'll cling to thee for ever.

Montf.
We'll look to that.

[Exit Montferrat.
Phil.
I shall make interest for thee,
If I can make some votes believe that thou,
And not mine enemy, art this maiden's lover;—
Eudocia serves me too—she serves the three.
[Exit Philip.

SCENE II.

—Hall in the Emperor's Palace.
Dandolo and Six Venetian Lords.
Doge.
Are we all met?

1st Lord.
All met, the Six Electors.

Doge.
Then, mark me, signors, speak your minds at once,
For I'm of Venice, and more proud to lead
Her navies forth, than reign o'er all this East.
This life is hers, and she has paid me well,
For I have seen the wilderness of seas
Flower'd with her ships: and she has been to men
A visitation of delights: a bond
To all the nations. Who durst think that he,
Her son from youth—now in her battles old,
Would yield the pride, and cast her highest honours?
Not in the height of life, for highest throne,
Would I this thing: God lay my hoary head
In Venice—there I'll sleep. Brave countrymen
My soul is knit to all: but not for me,
Speak for our Venice—well I know your minds.
You wish me Emp'ror of this mighty realm;
(Thanks to your wishes,) on my own account:
Not so for Venice.—Let your choice be hers.

1st Lord.
Most noble Doge, 'tis so; thou good old prince,
Reverence shall be thy staff—but let us speak
And do thee honour, when we broadly say,
Thou shalt not here be king. Who would not weep
To see our city but an appanage,
Or swallow'd up in monarchy? and this
Might quickly be, were a Venetian prince
Upon this throne. Long live our sea republic!

All.
Long live our Venice!

2d Lord.
And her noble Doge.—
I bow before thee, prince, to say, besides,
As no contingency, without our aid,
Or help of France, his empire could not stand.
But here, for all, I swear, our country's strength
Shall ne'er be wasted on such enterprise.
Th' election rests between the Earl of Flanders
And Marquis of Montferrat,—that's our point.

3d Lord.
And that they both are powerful, and the choice
A tender matter; let the Asian lands
Beyond the Bosphorus—lands once the Greek's,
Be his that fails of the throne.

Doge.
'Tis wisely thought;
As all have thought, whose counsel is before us:
Thus Venice thrives, because her sons are wise
As well as brave. I honour high Montferrat,
Frank, and the better soldier; but Earl Baldwin
Is wealthier far in men and wide domains.
Earl both of Flanders and Hainault, he needs
None of our aid: and mark, my lords, again,
This brave Montferrat, with a power great too,
So much our neighbour, might, in case of war,
Prove dreadful enemy. The same objection
Holds against Montmorency, our brave friend.
Back'd by this power of Greece, we then might dread
For Venice such a foe. Now, signors, judge,
We meet the French electors in an hour.—
Montferrat should have the Isle of Candia too,

All.
Long live the Emperor Baldwin!

(Exeunt.)

SCENE III.

—Euphrosyne's Palace.
Euphrosyne and Baldwin.
Euph.
So soon? 'tis but a day, my lord, one day.

Bald.
I go to-morrow—but for one event
Of doubtful issue:—I may say 'tis certain.—
And then to-morrow.

Euph.
But you cannot mean
To-morrow—some hours hence to leave our city?
O! ho! my lord, you put our fears to task?
'Tis but for a short while?

Bald.
I dare not think—
But that three nights ago you understood me.
I have no wish to see this city more.

Euph.
Then stay three days—a week—a little while—
Until a prince be chosen:—stay and guard
Our lives and fortunes; you were cruel else.

Bald.
This night shall do it all. My purpose still.

Euph.
Well, it must be so; but, my Lord of Flanders,
You might have told us sooner.

Bald.
Madam, I could not.

Euph.
Ha! 'tis a different course. But look at me.
Why art thou here? Does it not say, false Earl
I have a right—

Bald.
One word on this for ever—

Euph.
Name it again; perhaps I heard not rightly.
You said to-morrow? then shall I not speak?
Coward, to let a woman fright thee hence.
We swear, bold Flanders, we have no design
Against thy life.

Bald.
Well there is nothing more—
And higher purposes than woman's love—

Euph.
There is—you know there is—who's at thy side?

Bald.
No one, save fabl'd by deceitful sense,
As it had serv'd thee when it whisper'd love.

Euph.
I see a figure moving thee to perjury.

Bald.
Why will you talk?

Euph.
I talk of thee?—'tis false.

Bald.
Then have you heard aright?

Euph.
A jest indeed!
Be not perplex'd, my lord, there's no design
Against thy person. Did'st thou think presumptuous—
Softly, I'll call my servants—make them whip thee
To give them due assurance, that we mean not
To marry thee per force. Hence Earl of Flanders
And of Hainault! False heart, O—

Bald.
Well Montmorency warn'd
Too late I find. But we shall jest no more.

(Exit Bald.)
Euph.
Stay, we are not yet done.—
My soul, thou art a prophet 'bove them all.
Thanks, Montmorency, thou shalt have the maid
That calls me mother? Now for an Empress still,—
And that's Euphrosyne. O for some mouth
Invisible, to whisper in my ear
How I may clutch them both, one in each hand!
Enter Eudocia.
So! who intrudes?

Eud.
It is thy daughter, madam.

Euph.
Did you not say to-morrow?—why then come?

Eud.
To ask thy blessing 'cause the time is short,
And I may see my mother seldom hence.

Euph.
Thou shalt not mock me, for you hold th' event
A riddance good: it is a riddance good.
By Heaven thou shalt not mock me! Don't I say
'Tis a good riddance? Out, fool! steal away,
It were thy best, if ye will love that knight,
For I shall plague thee. Come to take advice
Thy course determin'd?

Eud.
Heaven touch thy heart, and bless thee.

Euph.
Brave my words?
Aha! I see it, wench, you said to-morrow?

Eud.
Ay, with your leave.

Euph.
You mean my leave, good girl?
To-morrow, you said?

Eud.
So Montmorency wills.

Euph.
I did not think that you durst name him here.
To-morrow—rebel?

Eud.
Then, madam, hear me speak—

Euph.
To-morrow—O! first answer me that.

Eud.
Were he not knight—

Euph.
(kneeling.)
Kneel—kneel, he is not hind
On the grey fallows at the break of dawn,
A peasant lad: let us give thanks for this.
(Starting up.)
Maid, here I stand if you dare name it more.

Eud.
Then, lady, I must speak, and let me say
Thy heart is troubled with distemper'd thoughts,
Ambitious and more vain, of power to come;
Because once we had power: and in this dream
Thy days are passed, and bring thee only pain.
And I must be a queen too, else thy nights
Must bear these pains more heavily than the day,
And thy couch be a sheaf of unturn'd thorns.
And, pardon me, how could I give my youth
To idle dreams, or deep intrigues,—forget
My sex to catch an Emperor, haply old,
Bloody, or mad? That man is high, indeed,
Who for escutcheon has the world's loud praise.

Euph.
Trouble thyself no farther
For I'm a dotard.—Last night's dream is vain
As all my thoughts.—Why with me stay so long?
Haste from thy mother.

Eud.
Were my life most full,
And crown'd like Autumn on its golden pipes;
More fears were mine, lest thou be in distress.

Euph.
Ha! ha! a patron? but, thou fool, come back,
Nor run so far. Thy pardon, kindest maid,
I did not mean to move thee; but my dream
Saw angry faces of thy ancestors
That peopled all my couch.
This day's too gaudy, though it lours to earth;
The tempest comes,—but yet there's too much light:—
I'll seek thy chamber when the flakes of light
Die on the windows, 'neath o'ershadowing eve,
And desert streams grow dark, and tell my dream.
Perchance we'll see their faces.

Eud.
Madam, why will they? was not Montmorency
Nam'd 'mong the candidates for their own throne?
And though Earl Baldwin gains it—

Euph.
What Earl Baldwin?

Eud.
My lady knows him.

Euph.
Dread power, catch thy news,
And make them plagues for ye all—'tis false—'tis false.—
But Oh! this head of mine! ye will not help—

(She falls on a sofa.)
Eud.
Help here! O help!
Enter Montmorency and then Zillah.
Look there, my mother!

Montm.
Let me raise her up.

Euph.
(rising.)
Hold off, nor blister me! Methinks thy touch
Could raise me dead, to horror—thank thee once.

Montm.
She raves, my love! I'll help her to her chamber.

Eud.
Stay—stay!

Euph.
Thy lesson there—she knows too well,
And she is wise, and she shall tell thee all.
Ha! I have kept my purpose overhead
When I was drowning: but she knows not that:—
Both yet may know.
[Exit. Euph.

Montm.
I fear her reason's touch'd.

Eud.
O no, my lord, she hates our love—'tis awful!
Spare her and ask no more. O God! look down
And bless my mother. Soldier—go—pass on;
'Twere best—for fate—

Montm.
Love, do not say the rest.

Eud.
O pardon me.
How shall I leave her? I must farther grieve
For thee, my country; all thy strength is cut:
Strange wars have breath'd within thy palaces
And dimm'd their lustrous boards. Henceforth thy light
Is but the pale reflection of a strange sword
Although for thee victorious.

Montm.
Theirs the shame,
That for base gain forget a noble purpose.

Eud.
Ah! truant knight, thou hast forgotten too.

Montm.
Nay; love.—I've won a warrior to our cause;
For thou must march with me to Palestine.—
To-morrow dubs thee soldier.

(Euphrosyne enters, pale, and in a night-dress.)
Euph.
Ha! to-morrow.—
Who said the word?—the night is not yet pass'd.

Montm.
How shall I speak to thee, unhappy lady?

Euph.
Speak not to me, but look to yonder star.

Montm.
Thine eye's distemper'd.

Euph.
Is it dark to thee?
So shall thy star be, that presides o'er love.
There's thy pale shadow too, that sees no star.
Sorrow shall lodge within her house of tears.

(Eudocia embraces her mother.)
Eud.
O let me ask thee, is thy bosom sick?
And hear: for I have said, no step of mine
Shall tread on sacred fountains of my life.
I do but say, farewell, to this brave knight.—
Then bid me pour my life into thy wounds.

Euph.
My silence leaves to trial.—
[Exit Euphrosyne.

Montm.
Thou, fair rebel,
Did I not hear thee? Turn, thou holy maid;
And for that name, and more that thou hast dar'd
To trust a stranger youth with the proud secret
Of princely maiden's love; if I have been
Thy knight in war, and borne it on my sword,
Shall I not farther honour the proud pledge,
And own it worthy to be sav'd at once
From each base plot?—Shall every foul usurper
Touch, handle, tamper with its clear bright springs?—
And, for thy mother—thou must pardon me;—
She hates thee as myself;—thou wert her rival,
In dark Murtzoufle's love,—or rather, power.
Thou art in danger. But high be thy heart,
Heaven's blessing is around thee, and thou stand'st
In midst of it, like angel in the sun.
If I might speak once for myself—high lady,
See me still kneel, and humbly ask thy love.
I hold thee dearer that thy mother frowns;
By my soul's honour, more than other oath—
What shall I say? I love thee as my fame:
Thou must be soldier with me for a while;
But I shall bring thee to the pleasant France,
Where orchards rustle in the summer wind:
And I shall love thee all my days of life.

Eud.
When I am tried,
I'll call to mind what Montmorency said
He'd do for his Eudocia,—and this moment,
Do not I feel the thought bitter and sweet?
If I am bold, 'tis that thou'rt Montmorency.
That I have nam'd the name 'tis argument
For sternest duty; else thou'rt changed indeed,
And I the cause,—and thy high thoughts estrang'd.
Show me thy sword—cloudy, my lord, or dull?
O never, never—and you dare not bid me
Hence, and not watch a parent's holy life.
In grief, and who shall pluck her thorns away?—
In anger, who should yield?—Heaven put us right!
Were it not base to think my mother cruel,
Still it were mine to say, I dare not fear.

Montm.
Were it not base to cloud thy holy purpose
With thoughts of my own fortune, I would say
Thy purpose cannot stand.—I must be proud.
Shall each that knows my purpose of to-morrow,
Hear it has fail'd, and plague me with conjectures?—
The Patriarch at the altar waits in vain,—
My fellows wait in vain,—and I must be
Pitied forsooth, unless I bow to explain:
No; for my own sake,—no, indeed, for thine.
What, were the cause explain'd? Surely, my love,
Not that thy lady mother fears for thee—
Thy peace,—but that no more thou art her tool
Of base intrigue. Happy were I, my princess,
Thy own true knight in war,—proudly would go
Behind the banner'd cross farthest in fight,
Might my return presume to claim thy love.
Thine were the dignity to draw my sword,
And bind me where to put its farthest blow.
But in the present place, where is the pledge
Of thy due dignity to be my judge,
Courted, assailed, by every rude usurper,
'Cause of a woman sick of the worst ambition?
And where my meed, O Heaven and earth! thyself?
I will be bold to boast, and that thou art
My bride 'fore God; shall I not doubly swear,
Thou shalt not be a word of course for each
That dares to call thee means—a ladder-step,—
A make-weight 'twixt his yea and nay. No more—
Adieu, my soul's last joy! and let the world
Judge if for thee I shall not be a soldier.
Farewell, to-night.

Eud.
Is it, my lord, to say,
My purpos'd sacrifice is cold parade?
Perhaps I've been too willing in thy words
To find its overthrow: but still it stands
Against to-morrow.

Montm.
By my soul, I fear
This very much, though it seem but of peace:
And this small cloud may be the whirlwind's cradle.
One day—and we are on the Asian lands,
And thou art here, left in the veriest surf
Of danger,—and what danger? More than death.
O God, constrain this lady,—that again
I may not speak my pride—else must I swear,
Bound as I am by more than oath, to-morrow
Shall not be mock'd. Were I to stay an age,
And that day come not, such must be my oath.

Eud.
Leave me, my lord, to pause.—I'll not be proud.
I know thy words, and for their earnestness
This night shall boldly search a mother's heart;
And know how I dwell there. I owe thee this,
And keenly shall I look,—if but one risk
Of a dishonour, that shall make me fear
To meet thy face,—I'll say, without a blush,
When the sun shines to-morrow, take me hence.—
Yet thy soul judge me, shall I not be just?—
And, if her sickness be a parent's sorrow,
And I the cause, will you not leave me just?

Montm.
O much, yet not enough.—But that I know
The issue of thy judgment, I would stand
Till dawn, and be perplex'd,—else make thee yield
By dreadful violence.

Eud.
My soul disdains
To fear that all thy hope may come from thought
Of maiden's weakness. Farewell, till to-morrow.

Montm.
Thou know'st my answer, and 'tis short adieu!
Exit Montmorency.

Eud.
My soul, there's no alternative of good.
Is it the best that I must learn she hates
Her daughter's life,—and that our love, at first
Not much against her wish, hath grown at last
To be thus hated, as in evil minds
Slight opposition grows? Zillah, to-day
Saw you our mother?—Did she seem unwell?

Zill.
Not when I saw her in her chamber walking,—
Somewhat too pale, perhaps. I saw no more.

Eud.
Heaven dictate to my soul.

Exeunt Eudocia and Zillah.

SCENE IV.

—Near the French Camp.
Montferrat and Montmorency meeting.
Montf.
I wish you joy.

Montm.
Of what?

Montf.
Of what! thy love.
Aha! you lovers, when all things go smoothly,
Are shy as roes: were you not with your love?

Montm.
Thy love, you mean?

Montf.
Spare me, thou lucky soldier.
Faith I'm too old now:—yet there's luck in't too.—
I always miss.

Montm.
'Tis rather wond'rous, since you take such means
T'insure success.

Montf.
Ay, there you quiz me rightly.
I us'd no means.—I am a fool.—No means
At all, my Lord, else (veil your face, young soldier,)
I had been Emperor.
It plagues a man, when, unexpectedly,
Success goes by so nearly, he must think
For one more effort, “O it had been mine.”
Well, Baldwin, thou hast beat me,
And I can nought but hence to Palestine
To be a soldier still. Plague on these fools,
Perhaps they thought because I am a fighter
I cannot be a prince;—well, well, 'tis past.

Montm.
My lord, it grieves me, since I owe thee much—

Montf.
Come, come, no more on't: that too is to weigh,
Methinks, too merchant-like.

Montm.
A word, my lord,
You've done me service, and I thank thee now—

Montf.
And pay thee off? for, by yon cloud, what else?
Aha! Sir knight, but I must laugh at weddings.—

Montm.
Your pardon; 'twas a blunder—for the man
That serves me most, shall answer me the first
For slightest wrong: but I could hardly name
Thy meanness, lord of France—I pity thee.

Montf.
Aha, yon sun! I'll bid God help thee, sun,
When thou hast slid behind a summer cloud!
Good youth, bestow thine alms, and let me go.—
I'll shred thee, Sir, unless you speak in haste—
Meanness?

Montm.
'Tis more that you don't jump, Montferrat,
To catch my meaning, when I look you thus.

Montf.
Look Sir, I'm patient: I have done thee wrong:
Walk'd in my sleep, and done a madman's tricks—
Smash'd thy love's windows—pour'd into thy ear
A cup of water, to sea-beat thy sleep—
Put ginger in thy heart, to make thee mad;—
For mad thou art, and ripe for a sword-quarrel.
Young soldier, by each thing that we have talk'd of,
Since first I knew thee, not one moment more
Shall this lurk in thy thought:—write on that dust:—
Thou shalt not name it.

Montm.
Call it what you will,
I envy him not that does not loathe the trick.—
To say the maid was thine,—meanest of lies
To serve a purpose. You can't be my friend.

Montf.
Mean lie, indeed! Go, learn the whole from Philip.

Montm.
I'll learn of thee:—the lie was in thy cause:—
'Twas pass'd among the electors in thy cause.
And thou art bound in honour to pull down
Such mean attempts. I'll learn of thee, my lord.
Men may not credit when inform'd 'twas done
Without collusion, then the shame most mine,
When it is thought that I have lent her name
For lies to prostitute. Explain, my Lord.

Montf.
I'm not in the vein just now.

Montm.
I shall not hence till—

Montf.
Knight, you have presum'd
To deem me pliable to such a trick,—
I will not therefore.

Montm.
Art thou my Lord Montferrat?

Montf.
Ay, one that swerves not. Philip shall speak for me—
Philip's thy man.

Montm.
My Lord, you know it all?

Montf.
I do.

Montm.
Then is the lie thine own.

Montf.
Well said, my Lord! it cuts the matter short.
I sought thy friendship, but the fault is thine
Not to have known me sooner; for this fault
You owe a sight o' your sword. By Heaven I'll punish.
Take care o' thy youthful life.—

(They fight.)
Enter a Soldier.
Sol.
Swords out, by St Louis, and our chiefs at work!
I must not lose my general. Ho! a quarrel.

Montm.
My Lord Montferrat, what do we mean by this?

Montf.
Nothing. I'll tell thee when we meet again.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

—A Square in Constantinople.
Philip
alone.
'Tis very strange that all men face me out,
That all my knowledge fails to enforce awe.
Speak for me, earthquakes, gape eternally!
And let no sun from this day rise to bathe
With light your ghastly lips!—Here end my hopes.
Montferrat has reproach'd me;—fail'd besides.
Baldwin abus'd me when I sought a place
Beneath his royalty, 'cause of my whispering.
How brutish not to know that my poor plan
To aid Montferrat was as gross as night!
But thus I overleap all Philip's schemes,
Chasing these vain propensities:—Events
Pass o'er me as a shadow, nor behind
Leave lesson or remembrance. I must thank
My own bright star if this vindictive Flanders
Send not a whipping after his reproach.
And then my enemy;—and he too must
Assert his pride! O fool! for I have been
Deceiv'd with bubbles growing on my tree,
A crop of empty beauty.—Whilst I climb'd,
That man has come, and shaken in my eyes
The beauteous vapour, and pass'd laughing on.
But I'll overtake him! Here I stand this night,
My face toward where I think wild Thracia lies:
I'll be a wanderer in her mountains soon,
Where leagues are swallow'd up; travelling with ravens
That hang their hoarse wings on the icy winds,
O'er the snow-glist'ring hills at eve, until
I find his grave beneath the oak-tree roots.
But, by the dark grave and Antonio there;—
And by my pale face, and my barefoot hopes,—
How shall I strike him! and this very night
Shake his full cups.—Up in these darksome skies
Rattle loud winds.—In half an hour the tempest
Will yell through the shudd'ring heavens.—These elements!
Could I a moment wield, or catch three sparks
Of Heaven's strong lightning, I would give a job
To the epitaph-writer ere this night pass'd by.—
I'll go this minute—down his throat, perforce,
Cram poisons thick:—and let Death wipe his beard.
It shall go barely, if this Baldwin too
Share not my night cakes. O could I stir them up,
And make their faces ominous to each other!
Sit closely, Night, beneath thy dark witch-hood,
That I may meditate, and do my work.—
I know not where to begin;—It must be desp'rate.

Enter Pedro.
Ped.
It grows most awfully dark, I know not well
How I may find our Philip out to night.
I'm told he trudges with this Flanders now.

Phil.
(Coming forward.)
'Tis false as Pedro who forgot his promise,
To feed me with revenge.

Ped.
That tongue has sav'd me
Uncertain searching. What if I reward
The past and present?

Phil.
'Tis scarcely within
The outer-doors of possibility.

Ped.
Murtzoufle shall, ere long, be Emp'ror here,
And I his second: in unearthly things,
My countryman the first.

Phil.
Is that revenge?

Ped.
They come together.

Phil.
Is there sure revenge?

Ped.
As thou'rt Antonio's brother.

Phil.
Say'st thou so?

Ped.
I said revenge; for I will grant thee now,
The power I spoke of is but seen afar.
But thy revenge is in thy power to-night:
To spur thee on;—'tis means to gain the other.

Phil.
Dost strike at Montmorency?

Ped.
At his roots.

Phil.
Shall he fall quickly?

Ped.
Ay, I think most quickly.
But we must hence—follow and hear it all.

Phil.
Think!—only think?—and must I only hear?—

Ped.
Unglove thy hands then, if you wish a job:—
Pause not one moment:—hence, we need thy aid.

Phil.
Whither, thou fiend?

Ped.
This place is dangerous.

Phil.
Shall I follow?

Ped.
On—come my bird!—I have thee now—revenge!

Phil.
Is it good scheme, sweet Pedro?

Ped.
Stay a moment,
And I shall send Antonio's ghost to whip thee!

Phil.
Strew firebrands behind thee, I shall track
Thy steps. I'll put o'er thee a lucky star,
Good youth, until you die, if 'tis well plann'd.

Ped.
Come on, 'tis passing well,—
I think 'twill do:—'tis well, then, boy—most well.

Phil.
I'm after thee—my heart beats thick and full,
Like the first pulse of immortality.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VI.

—A Room in Euphrosyne's Palace.
Euphrosyne in a night-dress.
Euph.
Shall my purpose be
Like flower, whose fragrance is its epitaph?—
The thing is natural too as mother's wish;—
To bring him to his royalty again,
And make her queen.—More strange that thou, Murtzoufle,
Would'st have this silly maid!—I reap revenge,
Not from the red stalks of the comet's beard.
No wizard's charm, nor aught 'yond Nature's power
Have I invok'd. Sit still, thou Lord of France,
A woman only works, and the weak brain
Of a sick woman:—and thou, princely Baldwin,
Highly hast writ thy power—a blister mock.
The comment's here, a thousand burning words
(laying her hand on her head.)
Eclipsing hell.—Be dear, even loath'd Murtzoufle,
My sacred fiend, and hurl him from his throne!

Enter an Old Domestic.
Dom.
Madam, he waits thee now.

Euph.
Has no one seen him?

Dom.
I did not know him—till he whisper'd me.

Euph.
Admit him quickly.
[Exit Domestic.
Enter Pedro disguised.
Have you thought, good Pedro?

Ped.
O madam, this dull brain—

Euph.
Hence then some hours;
We need thee not until the second watch.

Ped.
I have it then—another power's at work
You dream not of, madam; it now goes on.

Euph.
Nay, I had thought of it.

Ped.
Thy pardon, lady,
'Tis from the devil's anvil, that is chance.

Euph.
This head is feverish, and my thoughts to-night
Wild but intense: Yet I may judge a little.
Hush! there's a foot-fall. No:—but follow me
Into a chamber that hears all dread things,
There foot ne'er comes; and nought is heard save sound
Of mouse that scratches on the boards by night.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VII.

—Montmorency's Tent.
Montmorency and Philip meeting.
Montm.
Ha! Philip? must I thank thee for this visit?

Phil.
No—no—to-day you know I did thee wrong.

Montm.
What is thy wish?

Phil.
To rid thee of a foe.
My Lord, I hate thee: ask me not the cause
Lest now I strike thee, and provoke my death.

Montm.
Were all my foes so candid and so weak,
I'd fear them little.

Phil.
Is not our Emp'ror candid?—
There's one that knows him, though he has put on
The soldier's air.

Montm.
If thou hast aught to ask;—
At once:—I stand not here to praise thy boldness,
By Heaven, Montferrat has not used me well,
To take thy services: and now I hear
The Emp'ror is thy patron:—can I serve thee?

Phil.
Am I a slave, my Lord of France, a slave?
One bound with bonds?—O surely not, my Lord.
And shall I follow Baldwin?—No, I hate him
Even as he hates thee.
To-morrow sails the Doge, and I would with him.

Montm.
And thou shalt be physician to his highness,
If such thy wish.

Phil.
I came to speak of this.

Montm.
Stay, what shall serve?

Phil.
Give me thy ring, 'tis done;—
If not too late: I must not wait thy letter.
You got it from the Doge, and he shall know it.

Montm.
There, and make haste.

Phil.
I'll send it back, my Lord.

Montm.
No—no—'tis thine.

Phil.
I see thee hence no more:—There take it back,—
I cannot use it.

Montm.
Ere you go, one word—
Should we two meet again, parade not thus
Thy hatred on thy life.

Phil.
Thanks for thy ring—
Thy counsel's a dead letter.

Montm.
Failing success, and if thy mind incline,
Forget the past, and march with me to-morrow.

Phil.
Ay, to death.

Montm.
What mean you, Sir?—Is there aught more?

Phil.
No more—O! nothing more.
I have it all within this little ring.
[Exit Philip.

Montm.
Why then, farewell.—

Phil.
(Returning.)
—My Lord, I thank thee.

[Exit.

SCENE VIII.

—A Room in Euphrosyne's Palace.
Eudocia and Zillah.
Zill.
I stood by her chamber door, but all was still.
The night's far spent: Since morn I have not seen her;
Is this a calm outspread before the storm?

Eud.
O God, look kindly down, for she's in trouble.
She gave strict orders that I enter not:
She spurns my presence:—breathes not where I breathe,
And bids me hence if I would save her life.
Strange inconsistency of pain or hatred!
There take thy harp, and while an hour away
With a soft air, for I shall watch to-night.

Zill.
O how fatigued I am in these sad nights!

Eud.
I'll sit myself: thy thoughts are not intense
As mine are; thou must sleep.

Zill.
Wake me if aught
Alarm thee in the night. O for the land
Where nought I fear'd,—my own wild native land!
Christians plot more than Arabs.

Enter Marsas.
Mar.
Lady, come;
Thy Montmorency calls: his messenger
Is fretting at the door.

Zill.
O, send him in,
Is it his page, good Marsas? bring him in.

[Exit Marsas.
Enter Philip and Attendants.
Phil.
I wish thee joy for France, most honour'd lady!
Let me conduct thee to thy lord in haste.

Eud.
What Lord? What mean thy words?
Where's Montmorency?

Phil.
He meets thee half way, in the Patriarch's barge.

Eud.
Wherefore, good Philip? and why not come himself?

Phil.
I see you know not.—
Baldwin and he have quarrell'd—And this hour
Comes Murtzoufle, amain, with savage host.
Who shall not fear him? Ever seen in fight,
And shunn'd—a black tower that afar doth fling
Its shadow on the battle. Multitudes,—
Men in the market-place—O multitudes!—
And he shall drive his chariot o'er their necks,
And make big heads not with their wat'ry eyes.
Baldwin hath fear'd that Montmorency means
To aid this foe,—and will not let him pass
His gates, with retinue of troops to take
Thee his proud bride. Rather than skulking come,
Hath Montmorency sent this ring, my voucher,
That he will meet thee 'neath the city walls,
Upon the north, with all his mighty friends.
He gave me words to speak into thy ear,
A thousand times repeated; and they were—
“Dishonour past the grave. O dreadful thought!
“Thy mother and Murtzoufle—and their friends
“Not few within the city:”—From this hour
They look upon thee with their evil eyes,
Scanning their victim;—thou must fix his empire.
And Baldwin shall be ousted from his seat.
O, I have stood too long! haste lady, come.

1st Attend.
Fear us not, madam—

Phil.
Peace! villain. All of you away!—the boat!—
[Exit Attendant.
Have all things ready. Fly, thou silver bird!
A thousand barges on the Golden Horn,
Burning the waters with the nuptial torches,
Fill'd with good men—the bravest beards in war,
Await thy coming. Night's foul rains have pass'd,
And lights are up in Heaven's eternal halls
To shine upon thy love.—Will she not come?

Eud.
O God!—but I'll be bold—come, thou dark Arab;
We must be soldiers.

Phil.
I was order'd too
To bring thy eunuch: is not his name Marsas?

Eud.
Why stand'st thou, Zillah?
Is he not like Antonio, our sweet poet?

Phil.
Quickly, or not at all—O not at all.

Eud.
We but retire a moment, to put up
Our little fortune—stay for us at the gate,
And speak not on thy life, for dangerous ears
Are in this palace—follow me softly, Zillah.

(Exeunt Eudocia and Zillah.
Phil.
I shall be damn'd for this—she lov'd Antonio.—
And these base lies—I that have lov'd all truth.
(Exit Philip.