University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Before Euphrosyne's Palace.
Enter French Lords and Attendants.
1st Lord.
This is a spacious mansion, but retir'd,
Heavy and dull, as if no liquid wind
Of the blue airy Summer ever danc'd
Loosely within its halls: it is a place,
Where straggling airs behind the tapestries crawl,
And figures stalk along the highway lobbies.

2d Lord.
Pause—rather say that in three minutes' space
We'll see a glorious vision issue forth
From this dull shrine.

3d Lord.
But pray what share have we?
For look—these windows—are they hung with flowers?
Or have we caught one glance of hurrying face,
Of thing—of beauty—of sixteen—of eye
That comes to peep again?

2d Lord.
For they have seen
Young Luneville once, and they must see again—
Here comes my lord.

3d Lord.
Now for an aching eye!

Enter Montmorency.
Montm.
Why stand ye here at pause? what see my lords?

3d Lord.
No carrion shape, nor sight of ugly death,
As my lord seems to see.

Montm.
Would I had seen her
Sliding from off the marble seat of life,
Hands eagerly clutching the slipp'ry polish,
Shuddering and shrinking o'er death's misty jaws,
Rather than this.

1st Lord.
What means my lord?—than what?

Montm.
Ye men of France, ye lose your time; go home.—
Why stand ye here? Away! we need you not.
Would ye a tale? Then have I seen grim death
Within these minutes seizing a proud woman.
I pass'd the dead-room on and on, through all,
And found her not.—Now let each write conjectures,—
“It may thus and thus;”—But no, 'tis thus;—
She now is whirling in some dreadful plot,
Gone over night: and I may sit me down
Upon the bank until the pool refund;
Then bless my stars for a wreck:—where is my bride?
Are ye not satisfied?

1st Lord.
Too much, my Lord.

3d Lord.
If we can't win her back.

Montm.
Why stand you then?
It is a pause, this pause—unnatural
As death itself. Some take the way o' the sea.
Leave me alone: Or if you will—then swear
Not to desist though you should grope through cold
And barren darkness of the polar hills.
Where art thou, girl?—

[Exit Montm. French Lords and Attendants follow.)

SCENE II.

—Interior of the Church of St Sophia.
Baldwin, Doge, Flemish and Venetian Lords.
Bald.
He seems resolved to put thy love to test.

Doge.
He shall be here anon; then must I blame
These glimmering eyes that show me not the bride
Of one I love.

Enter Montferrat.
Montf.
Is Montmorency come?

Bald.
We are not far from thinking he presumes
Too much upon our care.

Montf.
Has no one seen him?
All is not well then; all's not right, I fear:
For as I came I saw some of our Lords
Hurry along: I heard some cry a boat:—
And they look'd anxiously—they never mark'd me.
Let us wait but a moment, we shall hear—
Here comes himself.

Enter Montmorency, his head bare.
Bald.
Where is thy bride?

Montm.
No more of that—'tis dead.—

(waving his hand.)
Bald.
My lord, you know we wait.

Montm.
But wait no longer;
For she hath gone upon some summer jaunt.
Ha! thou old prince? I've lost my virgin bride.
Pardon, my Lords of Venice and of Flanders,
Are ye not all met for me? Forget the cause.
Where is Mont—

Montf.
Say Montferrat; he is here,
Glad could he have thine ear.

Montm.
All plagues have come on me at once:—adieu
High Doge, and all.—What shall I say to thee,
My friend Montferrat?
(Exit Montm.

Doge.
Our first war is over:
Things have gone well—but bitter still with sweet.
All friends must part—

Montf.
But he and I shall never.
(Exit Montf.

Doge.
And each man take his way: even when success
Points honour on the soldier's worn-out cloak,
He treads more heavily than when he went
To face great dangers. Let me now retire,—
I'm griev'd for Montmorency. Farewell all.

Bald.
Adieu, brave prince, and all.

Ven. Lords.
Farewell!

Flem. Lords.
Farewell!

[Exeunt Doge and Venetian Lords.
Bald.
And now my countrymen, our own affairs—
Enter Prince Henry.
Too soon for much success.

P. Henry.
What if I say
Murtzoufle and his power are at thy feet?

Bald.
Where is his person?

P. Henry.
Hold, you have not doubted
Whether 'tis really so, nor wonder'd much
At my success: but it is so indeed.
And he is captive in the dungeon vault
Where lay his victims late. Some troop he rais'd
In the open country; then to old Alexis,
Who during the siege had claim'd imperial power,
Went with his services: and he was hail'd.
The rest is short, as truce of wicked men,
Whose oaths are prologues to their deeper plots.
Whether Alexis hated him as one
More wicked than himself, or put no faith,
From sympathy, in all his promises;—
Or whether, though himself without one hope
Of royalty again, he deem'd it treason,
And would not have another styl'd as he;—
To-day he seiz'd Murtzoufle, gave him up.
And now he's in thy power,

Bald.
And shall to death this night for awful crimes,—
This very night when good men go to sleep.
There's one called Pedro,—

P. Henry.
Noted as one that knew
All men's affairs? His power, no man knew how,
Could sway events of utmost magnitude,
Himself though mean. He is securely lodged.
Philip is with them.

Bald.
He that we dismiss'd?
He must have gone to bid them welcome home,
To gain their patronage. Were there no more?

P. Henry.
Two females likewise, deeply veil'd from sight,
Besides a little eunuch. They implor'd
Not to be brought into Constantinople.
Yielding to their intreaties, I caus'd put them
Ashore on the north side of the Golden Horn.

Bald.
Follow, my lords; our palace-hall shall hear
Our own affairs.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Street in Constantinople.
Montferrat and Montmorency's Page meeting.
Montf.
Nothing yet heard?

Page.
Nothing but vague reports,
Numerous, but shadowy as bats in twilight.
Nothing distinct.

Montmorency is seen passing in haste.
Montf.
(advancing.)
Is't possible, my lord,
That thus you pass me as a thing obscure,
Or cheap, or loath'd?

Montm.
Hark ye, my lord not now.—
I have a patient at the point of death.

Montf.
But thou must pause a moment.

Montm.
Wilt thou be
My patient too, and at the point of death?
If, Montferrat,—
If ye have work of vengeance, set me on:
I'll do it thoroughly, for I am fierce.
Back then, my lord,—I would not strike thee now,
For I have done thee wrong.—To-night—to-night—
This hour's my own—I'll meet thee at thy tent;
If thou wilt do thyself so much injustice
As meet a desperate man; although thy arm
Is stronger far than mine. I am too late
If I can't speak to her before she die:
Then you have staid me, and it is our quarrel,
(Our foolish heat of yesterday forgotten).—
I'll shake her bones into a glow of life,
But she shall speak.
(Exit Montm.

Montf.
And have not I forgotten,
As well as thou, poor youth? Ah Montmorency!
For I shall lose thee. God forbid until
We meet and speak! thy vengeance is my own.
Did he not talk of death?

Page.
He did, my lord.

Montf.
That he must see her ere she died?

Page.
He said so.
Ah! then I fear, my lord is—

Montf.
What? boy.—

[Exit Montf. and Page.

SCENE IV.

—A Chamber in Euphrosyne's Palace.
Euphrosyne lying sick on a couch, a light before her bed.
Montmorency standing.
Euph.
Fiend, wilt you plague me still, and rudely shake
My latest sands?—O that, that comes by night,
Is nought to thee: See how that taper streams
Away from thee. O leave me—leave me—leave me.

Mont.
Woman, I cling, though thou shouldst drag me down
Half way the brimstone road; for well you know—
Madam, you know,—Madam, I'll swear you know.

Euph.
Well then I know, and you shall know apace.
The secret shall outburst, and it shall be
A dreadful warning to rebellious children,—
O'er grown with woes,—strange in a lover's eyes.—

Montm.
Dread prophetess, I must go back a little—
Pause in thy speech; I'll overtake thee soon.
Coolly—now coolly—lady, you say you know?
I mark it down, it is thy own confession:
And I shall find an argument to win—
To draw,—to drag the secret from that bosom;
Ere the mole of life, that seems to toil beneath,
Leave his dark chambers.—
You know,—I bless thee there,—'tis one point gained.—
Softly a moment,—I shall ask thee what.
Speak now, O speak.

Euph.
She never shall be thine.

Montm.
That wounds me, as it passes,
With a fierce stab: But not for me, dread woman,—
Not me—this one before thy dying couch:
But for her sake,—thy daughter's—woman!—thine;
If thou art human, not a fiend that mocks
In that pale form, my thought that the last life
Durst not conceal such secret, nor depart
'Neath such a burden;—speak and tell me where—
Where is thy daughter? where's the innocent maid?
O! where's my love?

Euph.
No, no.

Montm.
I'll blot the last,
And swear she is not mine, and ne'er shall be;
If thou wilt tell me, and permit this hand
To pluck her out from pit of awful shame,—
From death, or something worse,—I know not what:—
I'll walk three times across the room, and then
(For I oppress thee,) thou hast gather'd strength
To tell me all. May God inspire thy heart!
(He walks several times along the chamber.)
(Pausing.)
Now, now.—

Euph.
I have enough of strength, my Lord,
To wish and let thee hear it. O! did none
Know the dread secret but this breast of mine.
A moment's view to make thy heart-strings crack;—
'Tis gone! and thou art slung down in the dark.—
Ha! writ in dust, even like thy fame, proud lord,
On the bald top of a high windy rock!
Here—take, my lord, and knot that ribbon'd flame;
Then hast thou loos'd the knot of this dread secret.

Montm.
Woman, I'll kneel me down,
And swear thou hast afflicted me 'yond measure,
And wrung this heart, till it is dry despair,—
If it would make thy soul laugh; but thy tongue
Must give me words.—

Euph.
If I provide for her a royal spouse,—
If I have sent her to an emperor,
What is't to thee or any lord in France?
My lord, you have my house. O! very good!
My couch;—I cannot rest.—This is my taper:
Day-light is shut from me, 'cause I'm sick.—
'Tis pity thou shouldst share this humble light—
Go hail the sun, and say, thou art his brother.
Haply thou'rt my physician:—I can't guess,
Else why thou are here. Physician, feel my pulse!—

Montm.
I tell thee thou art sick of more than death,
Even of a secret that entails damnation
On the poor soul.

Euph.
O! Heaven. I ask one moment,
A giant's strength to—O! O! put him down.—

Montm.
Do not I see the death-star in thine eye,
Which the last fever burnisheth so well?
Woman, ere thy soul
Go down th' eternal buckets, what did you mean,—
What meant you by that hint? If thou wouldst be
A dweller in that place, where sound of leaves
Shall never come in lapse of fiery years,
Nor murmuration of a little stream;
Make oath to these dark words—

Euph.
Thank thee, my lord;—
How dear thou art!—for thou hast given me heat.—
Thank thee—O thank thee—but a little more,—
And thou—shalt save—thy shame—to triumph here,
O'er a sick chamber.—I shall rise anon
And dance with thee.—Ho Death! where are my servants
For I would rest!—There's something in my chamber,
And ye wont put it out—I hear a breathing—

Montm.
O God, look here in pity—I must leave her.
What a dread struggle in that dying face!
The features bearing each its ghastly load,
Seem come unto one mount!—

Euph.
Forbear, O mortal,
For thou shalt come to this, and worse, ere long.—
Thou shalt not triumph o'er me thus—out, out—
(She puts out the light.)
I am not ghastly now,—find thy way out.—
Hark ye, my lord,—one word,—
Go stab Earl Baldwin, then come back again;
I swear by thy true love's virginity,
To tell thee all, and thou shalt have aveng'd
Partly thy loss. Some know that Baldwin well—

Montm.
My vengeance shall be sacred, and from thee
Shall take no stain of hell. I leave thee woman
Unto thyself.
[Exit Montm.

(She is heard laughing wildly.)

SCENE V.

Montmorency's Tent.
(Montmorency walking slowly up and down; his page standing in the tent door and looking out.)
Page.
The green hair'd light that lin'd the fresh broad leaves,
And fill'd the wild bird's eye, is long since gone.—

Montm.
'Tis night then; what, boy, see'st thou in the night?

Page.
I hear no foot, my lord, but it shall come—
With happy tidings.

Montm.
Ay 'twill come.

Page.
I see a night too blessed for ill tidings.

Montm.
Thou art too young, else I could tell thee boy.—
List at the tent door,—I shall walk a little.

Page.
O 'tis a glorious night: a clew of winds
Has been unfurl'd from off the far Olympus.
Hither they come huddling the cloudy skies,
Ruffling them down on Asia's level lands:
The woods are shaken—a blue mingled mass
Of light and shade, and tall and pillar'd trees.
'Tis dark, now light again—

Montm.
Canst thou not liken these uncertain skies
To soldier's fortunes?

Page.
No, my Lord, I cannot.

Montm.
It might be done perhaps—keep to thy watch.

Page.
For no;—the soldier's life,
Though brief, is bold and clear as the blue river,
That hastes away. When shall we o'er these lands,
My lord, to Palestine?

Montm.
Art thou too in the chase? ay, thou woulds't have—
Would'st thou, boy?—immortality?—well! on;
Fame for the noble!—to the worldly soul,
Vain as dim chase when hunter hears in dreams
Faint hallo o'er the hills.

Page.
Fame like thine own,
And I would die to-morrow,—hark! a foot!—

Enter Montferrat.
Montf.
O! I can hold no longer. I'm thy friend
And shall be spite of thee. I wrong'd thee much.
Philip hath reach'd us all; 'twas he that said it.
And much I fear his hand is now against thee.

Montm.
I know—I know it: Give me thy hand, Montferrat.
'Twas I that wrong'd a man of purest metal:—
I hold thee in my heart a noble man.
Myself I wrong'd too;—I have felt my loss
Even for a day to be estrang'd from thee.

Montf.
My lord, d'ye say it? I could strike myself,
Not having sought thee sooner. O! even now
What can I do? 'Twas mine to bring good news
To lay upon the altar of our peace.—
Indeed I cannot.

Montm.
Ha! speak out.

Montf.
Not so—all may be well,—I only know not.

Montm.
Montferrat, look,—it must be so, my friend,
Evil and worse!—I'm glad I have thy friendship;
And I would die for't. But—but, canst thou guess
What I would say?

Montf.
No—no; say nought, my friend.

Montm.
Well then, thy hand again, and here we'll stay
Till we hear something; for I dare not stir
Lest I go far, and be a moment late.
This day to me is lost:—pray what's astir?
O pardon me—the throne—must I console?

Montf.
Ay, or no.
I care not much: 'tis sure to Baldwin now,
Murtzoufle's ta'en, and shall be judg'd to-night.

Montm.
And sent to death if I know Baldwin rightly.
Not that he not deserves it, but that Flanders
Will make all sure. My Lord, I have a thought—
A fear—a hint.—Do you know Baldwin?

Montf.
Speak;
And take for granted that I know he hates thee.

Montm.
I'll visit him this moment;—when suspicion
Breathes, it shall be a tempest in my ear.

Montf.
Stay—stay my Lord;—I did not wish to speak
Of one successful where I fail'd, my rival,
Since I have much against him:—But in this
I will be bold to say he has no share:
He durst not go so far: In all his deeds
Virtue is never shock'd;—men count them fair,
All but who know him; such are never pleas'd;
They know not why, perhaps: Spirit is wanting,
Methinks, enthusiasm, that gives life
To virtuous deeds.

Montm.
Once I advised him on a delicate point,
And from that hour he lik'd me not I think;
Even though my counsel squar'd with his own mind.
His coldness chang'd to hatred when he knew
I woo'd the maid—that was Eudocia once—
O God! Sir, here I stand and have not heard—
Would she were dead!—What, should a face come in
This moment—stand before us and proclaim—
Montferrat, Montferrat, I have a dreadful fear.—
Where is thine ear? By Heaven, that face is thine.—
Thou knowst it all, and wilt not tell thy friend.
Why art thou pale?

Montf.
To see thy youth so mov'd.
I shall be back with news of weal or woe,
Or see thee never hence.
[Exit Montf.

Montm.
I must go meet them: Have they found her out?
Follow me, boy; and run at every footfall.

[Exit Montm. and Page.

SCENE VI.

—A Prison Cell.
Pedro walking the length of his chains—Philip following him closely—Murtzoufle's chains are heard in an adjoining cell.
Ped.
Keep thy own circle. Why thus dog me?

Phil.
Oh!
I'll clutch thy life: why hast thou brought me hither?

Ped.
Are not my chains as heavy as thine own?
I brought thee not.

Phil.
Dread powers! if I must die!—
Thou art my countryman, hast shar'd my heart,—
Something like love since—mindest thou the day,—
When I, with young Antonio in my hand,
'Scap'd from the earthquake's jaws, and found thee striving
To keep thy feet and make thy way through fields,
Thy back upon the fated town? Misfortune
Made us three brothers, though I lik'd not much
Thy cruel smile,—the levity,—the scorn
That grinn'd back on a city doom'd to ruin.
Who led us from our country? Pedro—Who
Brought us to Greece? thou, Pedro:—and the rest
Lies at thy door. Nay, frown not, I shall cling
When we are ghosts, and flit, shudd'ring, like leaves,—
When we are blown in shoals along the shore
Of everlastingness, I'll hunt thy shade.

Ped.
What care I for this jargon? Art thou not
He that long dogg'd the steps of Montmorency?
Went where he went? still gazing on his face
With eager look that seem'd to ask an alms,
He that durst never strike? I scorn this Philip,
Upon whose face the spirit of life is faint
As the last farewell on a maid's wan lips,
When the word dies a dewy bubble, soundless.

Phil.
Where is thy wit? thou canst not put me down
A thought or two?

Ped.
Nay, have it as thou wilt.
Ask Pedro nothing, he can tell thee nothing,
Nor cast up chances save 'twixt hour and hour
Which one shall have us.—We must shake our feet
At all the world to-night; or—

Phil.
(throwing himself on the floor.)
O! they dare not take my soul!
Mercy! O mercy men! nor cast me forth
To nothingness and dust; nor coffin up
This life in dark oblivion. (Rising).
Pedro! Pedro!
Thou canst not know! would that the hour were come—
Or never came! Let's wink and rush on death.—
What is the hour?

Ped.
No diary is here
Save thy pale face;—it goes to strike despair:—
No line of manliness is on that face.
Must I not die too? Here shall Pedro sit
Till then, and wish not, far less try to hope.
No man can make me wish, and I shall never
Deck with my hopes a sacrifice. Hallo!
We're ready all: there's for me sympathy,—
These echoing walls. Now turn the bolts,—I long
To laugh on their beards, and show them a neat trick.

Phil.
And what's thy life or death that canst not see
Beyond the pang or prospect of the moment?
But I can see th' alarms of utmost nature.—
Would the sun might exhale me, and I grow
A portion of his fire, so might I run
O'er all the earth!

Ped.
When shalt thou need my money?
Is thy wine out? thy means of riot spent?

Phil.
But think not these were pleasures that I lov'd:
I sought them to o'erwhelm my wearied sense
When my deep search seem'd vain, and study vain.
Perhaps all's vain—perhaps 'tis best to die.
Where is thy promise? give me wealth to search;
I'll set a wheel in motion that shall fling,
In its rapidity, all sensual things
Far to the winds—dread word! and must I die!

(A sound is heard of turning bolts.)
Ped.
My hour is come at last—thy hour is come,
Thou little imp of death! come do for Pedro,
(taking a vial from his bosom.)
More than the black-wing'd tempest could achieve
When Heaven's dark bottles burst, and our frail ship,
Driven on the whirlpool's wheel, was sent below
And ground upon the millstones of the sea.

(As he is drinking it, Philip springs forward, snatches it out of his hand, and drinks the remainder. Then leans against the wall.)
Ped.
Thou hast o'erreach'd me, greedy cormorant!
'Twill screw thy beak—perhaps I have enough.—

Enter Montferrat.
Ped.
I know thine errand—What if I mock thine errand,
And bid thee hence and learn?

Montf.
Where is Murtzoufle?

Ped.
Within, but fallen: no man should here insult him
Were I unchain'd.

Montf.
Thou to my purpose, then,—
O! I dare scarcely put the dreadful question.

Ped.
Be brief, good signor,
No trifling, with your leave: I wish this hour
To be the present: Heedless of the future,
I have no wish to turn upon the past.
To save thy epithets, I've done no good
In all my life. And I were damn'd, Montferrat,
To think that I deserve pity of man.—
I ask no favour after my confession.

Montf.
I praise—but no—
Shall such as thou o'ercrow the great and good?
Answer me, villain.

Ped.
Pass to thy second question.
If she's not in the tower of Bohemond,
A nunnery now.—O! I could name you men
Whose hearts are nunneries too—wilt not be done?
It serves me not:—I scorn such—time is short—
Quickly and ask me if her state be chang'd,
And let me tell thee—

Montf.
O damn'd fiend, forbear.

Ped.
Ha! thou art satisfied?

Montf.
Not till I strike thee,
And him that clanks his badges in that cell.—
Look, I put up my blade:—may all my foes
Have their swords tainted with such blood as thine.
I must then be confounded. Villain, proceed—

Ped.
Aha! my hour is past;—I'll say no more.

Montf.
I dare not wish to learn, lest I be first—
(Exit Montf.)

Ped.
Let him go, Philip.—Pray how art thou? nodding
Unto the weary land? hast thou not seen them
Sitting on milestones of the downward road,—
Nodding in antic rage as we come on,—
To chase us everlastingly? Ho! Philip,
Pause where the road divides till I o'ertake thee,
And we shall choose our path.—O soul of man,
What art thou now? I feel the fiery nettles
Touching my reins!

Phil.
O can my voice reach earth—

(falling.)
Ped.
What wouldst thou boy?

Phil.
O chase these cormorants:—
Nothing but help—they gnaw my very entrails
With beaks of fire!

Ped.
Philip, is't true at last?

Phil.
O ay, the lake of fire,—and there they sat
In a long file upon the fire-burnt coast,
Shiv'ring their drowsy feathers, shaking their beaks
In silence, looking on the dismal flood.
Not a sound till I came—then all at once,
Circling and screaming from the ashes dun,
Which their wings scatter'd, one by one, they rose—
And here they are,—down, down and make me cinders.—
I hear the grinding of the wheel of time,
Faster and faster as I downward go
To the eternal round; but that is nothing—
O were I shut for ages in black tower
With a moist roaring wind, to see from window
Only far silent road where foot ne'er travell'd,
Seen by reflection of an icy dawn
That never rose but hung betwixt the lids
Of the horizon; and to see nothing
Of life or motion save low mists that crept
Into the shudd'ring woods;—'twere paradise.—
O fool! can thought of moist and icy things
Put out thy fires? take spider's venom—toad's—
Anoint my bowels.—

Ped.
I feel it now—go on—let's hear the worst.

Phil.
My mouth is filled—
With fire—and dust—my tongue—Antonio, help—

(Dies.)
Ped.
(Taking the lamp from the wall and putting it out.)
Out, out, I must not see him,—give me darkness!
The glowworm is within,—'tis sore indeed!
Ha! ha! ha! ha! the feast is met, good friends,—
There take thy seat Antonio, and there Philip—
See, see that death's-head glowing on the table,
Lighting the dark room, and the brethren's faces!
Oh! mark Antonio's face. Ha! ha! 'tis mine—
Am I alone with fire?
Clear-glowing ceilings figur'd with sprawling imps
Reel in my eyes—
Poison, I'll conquer thee till all at once
Thy power—Ho, Pedro press thy lip—now—now—

(His fall is heard on the floor.)

SCENE VII.

Before Montmorency's tent.
(Montmorency and a French knight. Soldiers in the back ground.)
Fr. Knt.
To-morrow?

Montm.
Ay, farewell to night—
Good friends, to-morrow at the earliest dawn—
(The soldiers shout, and retire.)
Enough, pass on, and give the troops your care,
See them accoutred gallantly once more—
[Ex. Knight.
Once more—Eudocia, ay once more; for thou
Hast left me strangely, wench.—She must be dead.—
I've bow'd along this day to glean the scraps
Of doubt:—my harvest told at night is nought
But empty doubt;—a mighty host has stood,
Staid in its movement pointing at Montmorency.
Longer this shall not be;—and for thee, maiden,
Nothing is left if thou be yet alive,—
Save to look wearily from some high rock
After our hurrying host, that like a storm
Goes down on other lands:—I am resolved—
But I will pray that some strong circumstance
This night may wrench me from my onward purpose,
All for my Grecian girl:—and yet—and yet—
We march to-morrow. Ye dark ancestors
In your mail'd sockets mould'ring, I'll not blush
When I lie down amongst you;—but no word
No welcome give me,—I'm an angry ghost
For my Eudocia.—There too hide the stars
Rushing into their caves! Have ye too look'd
And seen aught 'gainst me, if your light shine for man,
On Fate's dark dial? On with the moon, your mistress,
Faster, more fast, through storm of wind and cloud!
Shall I not onward too?—Here comes Montferrat.—
Enter Montferrat.
Shall we go, see prepar'd
To-morrow's march? no—no—there heed him not,—
His wish is otherwise—and I were damn'd,
Did I not ask of her—and my last question
Prevent the word that bade us hence for ever.—
Montferrat, nothing yet?—

Montf.
Give me thy hand,—
To-morrow if you please; and let us off,—
Fall in the battle,—'tis a glorious end:
More proud the farther as it backward comes
Up the red sky of years, from downward age.—
Hurra! for Palestine and brief career!—

Montm.
Ay, ay, I know thy meaning, it shall be—
The soldier loves the battle for itself;
The patriot as the means of peace:—But I
Must woo it for forgetfulness and death.
I know thy meaning—that we may forget—
Stand by a little—here from lane-ends of death,—
If I guess rightly.—

(Enter Soldier with a letter, Montm. snatches it.)
Montf.
There's gold, good fellow, it shall save me pain.

Montm.
(reading,)

“It were worse than death to find
me; fly far from me, for I am fallen. I shall soon be ashes.
Again this prays thee to forbear and seek me no more. Forget
her that was once—Eudocia.”

Aha! we'll look to that—Hear'st thou, Montferrat?
The where? the where, good fellow? where's the Lady?

Sol.
My lord, I know not.

Montm.
O but pause a little—
She that wrote this? the lady with dark hair?—
Fellow, at once—you know.

Sol.
No, on my soul.
'Twas found in the camp, and came no one knows whence.

Montm.
So, so, and this is all? where are we now?
[Ex. Soldier.
Montferrat, read, my eye is dazzled somewhat.

Montf.
Stay till she leave yon cloud.

Montm.
Give me, I'll read myself—Is there no star,
Meanwhile,—no star of love? I'll tear thee then,
Thou crabbed paper, thou hast nothing more,—
Not even a scratch showing the tortured wish,
Inkless but deep:—vouchsafe then maid at least
To send thy ghost to explain if thou must die.
But look, Montferrat, we've th' appendix now!
There comes the mortal face, let's stand and mark,—
How fearfully he comes! O glorious thing,
This coming in from all the winds of heaven!
For by my soul I'm glad to be resolved,
Though hands meanwhile spread down the beds of death.
I knew it must to-night—it could not be
That thing lac'd up so quickly should go by
So lately, and not be o'erta'en and known.—
Whence comes our Marsas?
(Marsas, seeing himself discovered, bursts forward and throws himself on the ground before Montmorency.)
Rise, tell me of thy lady, and thy trust.

Mar.
Not till you pardon me.

Montm.
I have not heard thy story.

Mar.
I'll grovel here for ever.

Montm.
On my life—
I'm not thy lord—lead me to her, and she
Shall say you knew not.

Mar.
No—no—on my oath.
And there's thy ring—O pardon me, my Lord!
'Twas Philip—and a thousand times he bade me
Take care of it; and have I not? O pardon!
Indeed, I went with her,—but let me swear
You sent for me, if Philip has not lied.

Montm.
He lied, indeed!

Mar.
False Philip—and false Baldwin!

Montm.
Baldwin, at last?—

Mar.
Ay, on our homeward journey,
When I press'd Philip—
And kept his villany before his eyes;—
Tell Montmorency, said he, Baldwin did it.
Fearing your royal bride might give you claim,
To interfere with his own present power,
Baldwin thus tried to thwart you.

Montm.
Here's truth!—did he?
Then have I work to-night, and vengeance too!
Marsas, say nothing more, for I must see her.
Only where is she?

Mar.
At Prince Bohemond's Tower.

Montf.
My Lord,—my friend, you must not go.

Montm.
O God!
Wherefore?

Montf.
Ask nothing: let me lock thee up
Until to-morrow.

Montm.
Tower or palace? speak,
Which shall I visit first?
Could I divide myself, a half for each.
Ho, page!
Enter Montmorency's Page.
Here is my ring.—Get thee with twenty soldiers—
Be near the hall where criminals are tried,
And know my call.—I shall be there, anon—
What hour, my Lord? you said to-night, methinks?

Montf.
The second watch. But let me ask—

Montm.
Away boy, get thee ready.

[Exit Page.
Montf.
Pause one moment—
What art thou doing? let me command—intreat—

Montm.
When did Montferrat grow so wise and wary?
Recal my orders, I myself shall go.

Montf.
Well, I shall meet thee there too.

Montm.
I know 'tis rash,
Since you have yielded. Pardon, noble Marquis,
You must not say me nay,—this last request—
(is going off.)
(Coming back.)
—Farewell, my friend! If I have shown respect
To him that taught me war and victory;—
It has been as you wish'd, frankly to come—
Freely to speak: forgive the rest, Montferrat.
(Exit Montm.

Mar.
He goes, when shall he come? O dreadful night!
O night of woe to lovers! but more foul
That other night! the stars kept in their cressets.
What art thou, thus alone, that stand'st o'er Marsas?
Bury him here.—

Montf.
Rise—rise—thou gentle spirit!
And follow me if thou hast lost thy master.

Enter Montmorency's Page.
Page.
Went my Lord hence just now?

Montf.
Did you not meet him?

Page.
Is he in wrath or sorrow? Past the camp
A figure westward went: he pass'd me by
At a short distance; when beyond me, turned;
Retrac'd his steps; stood still and eastward look'd
Unto Constantinople—and its towers
Against the moon: his glittering eye stood still,
Some minutes' space: his stature rose dilated:
Then waving with short motion, as in scorn,
Or pride, his hand, or sorrow, he was gone
Away to the westward.

Montf.
It was Montmorency,
Mind his command. I'll follow him afar.

[Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

—A Chamber in the Nunnery at Prince Bohemond's Tower.
Eudocia and Zillah seated on a couch dressed in Mournings.
Zill.
'Tis night, I think.

Eud.
And when did day pass by?
The day to me is hid in its own light.
'Tis as the ghost of night.

Enter Abbess.
Abb.
I bless you in God's name!
And grieve not for the days of earthly passion!
Happy are ye above the world-worn sinners!
Only the will bears stain:—hence be ye pure,
Dove-hearted maidens, then even in this life
Ye win some glow of angel purity,
As youth may win that shuns the thoughts of sin.
Then grieve not, O, for earth! the life of man
Is here dim light seen through the ribs of death,—
A candle in the wind:—his greatest glory,
But as the changes of an April day—
Pieces of broken rainbows and dark clouds.—
Maid, is thy heart sick? but she hears me not.
Adieu to-night.—

(She is going out when Eudocia rises suddenly.)
Eud.
Pardon, good Lady,
What would'st thou with me? Then, good-night, good-mother!
If you will go so soon. Give me your blessing,
Before you go, for I am sick indeed!

Abb.
May all saints pray to heal thee in the night.
(Exit Abbess.

(Eudocia sits silently down beside Zillah.)
(Montmorency bursts in—The Abbess returns and stands at the door.)
Montm.
Here sits she—I have found thee now, Eudocia!

Eud.
(Shrieking.)
Rash man! we want thee not—not yet—not yet.
She is not found:—her heart is in the grave,—
'Twill rise to curse thee, if thou fly not hence.

Montm.
Art thou—O, art thou—

Eud.
Heaven's swift messenger,
Bear thee through air far hence, and tell thee all!
I am not thine.

Montm.
Well,—why not likewise add
That we are struck with the last curse on earth?
You are too niggard of your words. If—if—
May the stars start from out their sockets! run
Their eyes on the sharp lances of the north.—
Confusion come!—this now is to be curs'd!
What need men speak?

Eud.
But hear, my Lord—

Montm.
Thou dar'st not—wilt thou? can thy tongue find words,
Whilst I am trembling—wishing that this pile
May fall on me for ever—bear me down
That I may never have a moment's space
To think on such dishonour? See me kneel—
(kneeling.)
Come down thou pile, and bury us for ever,—
Loosen the garters of thy strong knit pillars!
Heaven smear my senses with thick sleepy poisons!—
(Starting up.)
—Thou girl, thou hast undone me! ah! why? why?
Thyself too:—thou art worthy of reproach?

Eud.
Stab me with thy words—
Then take thy sword. But pause—and show thy claim—
I am Murtzoufle's.

Montm.
Horror beyond itself!
How shall I name thee, or but think thy name,
When the past comes? What art thou now to me?
Must I claim but the fierce distemper'd dream
Where thou shalt ever live? Where is this husband?
Perhaps he claims me too—we will go meet him.

Eud.
Why look'st thou on me, I shall blast thine eyes.
Stay'st thou to hear me groan? Ay, bide one moment,
Till—Montmorency art thou mov'd in soul?—
Then is imagination on her springs,
And horrors flit around me whilst I'm here:—
Cast up,—conceive what evil minds can think
To aid them—death? What dread of death had I,
That sought, but found it not? O shame and guilt,
And dread of innocence unknown, and more
Than I can name!—Away! what right have I
To live before thine eyes?—Stab, and pass on.

Montm.
Men have been rash, I'll stand awhile and look
Till I have seen 'tis true.—Sweet cherub come,
And whisper me, this is my virgin bride!
Let me approach, maiden, and I'll forgive thee.

Eud.
(Shrieking.)
Ha! touch me not.
(As she approaches, she snatches a dagger from his side and stabs herself. Zillah sits motionless.)
I wish not thy forgiveness.—

(she falls back on the couch.)
Abb.
(Coming forward.)
Is not this murder, sir?
Has not thy coming pluck'd a life away,
From sweet paths of religion?

Montm.
Murder? ay,
It may be murder,—for her brow is pale.

Eud.
You may come near.—My spirit ebbs and looks
Back to our love.—Ah! Montmorency! never—

Montm.
Perhaps no—girl.

Eud.
Has not our love been sweet,
A pleasant picture, though it has been set
In dark accompaniments?

Montm.
What more, Eudocia?

Eud.
Forget my death—

Montm.
Forget! Is it that I
May live and laugh in jolly camps,—forget
Her that I lov'd so deeply, and at once?
I'll fly this moment, for I fear thee—thou
Wilt lay some dread forbearance on my sword.
Here swear I to revenge thy death:—and now
Wish me not perjur'd—bid me not forbear.
There, there she dies! Out sword, she sees thee not.—
O! I'll not stumble though an earthquake throw
A thousand thresholds to her chasms before me!
(He runs to the door, but returns.)
What would'st thou, love?

Eud.
O, ay, that word once more!
If my dim eyes can see—thou went'st a moment—
Out of my sight? help!—this is death—

(Dies.)
Montm.
The flutter of her eyelid's still.—I'll touch
Her blood.—O God!—once more.—I shape the cross
Upon my brow with it: that man who mocks
The cross, fighting its battles, yet a murd'rer,
Shall know his mockery.—Whose blood is this?
Baldwin, whose blood is this? Look to this cross.

(Montmorency runs out with his sword drawn. Zillah remains motionless. The Abbess approaches the body.)

SCENE IX.

—A Hall of Judgment.
Baldwin seated—Greek Lords standing around—Murtzoufle in chains.
Bald.
Guards, lead him out.

[They are leading out Murtzoufle.
Enter Montmorency, with a drawn sword.
Montm.
(seeing Murtzoufle.)
Earth, bear'st thou yet the monster?
I shall rid thee.
(Offers to strike Murtzoufle, who lifts high his chain'd arms, as if courting the blow.)
No—chain'd? unarm'd?—I wont—I wont, Eudocia.
We'll let him be a spectacle to mobs.—
Now ope thy bloody lips and cry for me,
Baldwin's a villain!—Quick there, find thy sword!
Ay, it is well,—build round thy nest with blades
But this shall reach thee.—
(As he thrusts at Baldwin, the Grecian guards interpose.)
Ha! all potent guards?—
What if I call mine too? Ho! page, a rescue!

Bald.
We are beforehand there too.—Go, bring chains—
This madman here—
Will have all bow before his lordly wrath.

Montm.
What! bind me? surely not?
Now by the eternal spheres but I am mock'd—
This sword shall answer thee.
(He makes another burst at Baldwin, but draws back desperately wounded by the guards.)
Thou devil, Montferrat, where's my score of men—
I owe thee this.—Villain, d'ye think I'm slain?
Not yet!
(He makes another attempt, and receives more wounds.)
(Leaning on his sword.)
Baldwin, I'll down and tell the ghosts of heroes
Ye skulk and dare not meet the swords of men—
O God! is this the battle where men die?

(falls.)
Enter Montferrat in haste.
Montf.
Has no one seen my friend?—
Fell'd to the ground! What thing is this, my Lords?
Methinks the murderer should be down too.
Ho! Knights of France,—revenge! there's murder here!
Now by the holy cross what should this mean?
Baldwin, you hated him,—if you have dar'd
To crop our triumphs thus and smite my friend,
I'll cut thy knees, by Heaven, be they of brass.
Now, ere his life, that darkens in Death's door,
Go into the silent house; answer me—
Give my soul calmness—I shall do a deed else.

Enter Marsas, who, seeing Montmorency, screams, and tearing his robe, tries to cover him.—Montmorency, not yet dead, puts it by.
Mar.
(Looking up to Montferrat.)
And who art thou that o'er this body standst
Seeming to mourn this death? Here's Montmorency—
Why was he slain? was he not gallant youth?

(Flings himself down beside Montmorency.)
Bald.
(To Montf.)
Dost thou presume that I must answer thee?

Montf.
Canst thou parade, cold-hearted—in an hour
Whose every moment drops with blood and sorrow?

Bald.
He sought a foe: You too are on his list.

Montf.
(Stooping.)
I'd die, my friend, could you believe me clear
Of aught to move you thus.

Montm.
I die—before—let me be—

(Dies.)
Montf.
Speak,—O speak.
So, so: and this is all of thee, the brave!
Somewhat too rash, perhaps; but great indeed,
Whose honour was a brother to the sun!—
Ye men of Greece, this must be heard aright.
And something more, Baldwin, I have to ask.
Be there who mov'd him thus by injury,
I'll have at him—nay, I shall mark my sword
By little inches,—that man's punishment
Shall not stay at one measure from my hilt.—
Take up that youth—
Let him be buried as the brave should be.

Bald.
Lead on, my lords, we'll answer to their wishes,
Not to their threats.

Montf.
Well then, I trust no cause
Shall keep me here for vengeance 'yond this day;
To-morrow I am bound for Palestine.
Let the brave dead be first—now take the way
To the temple of Saint John.

[Exeunt Attendants bearing the body, Baldwin, Montferrat, &c. behind—Marsas rises slowly and follows.