University of Virginia Library

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.)