University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

—A Hall in the Palace of Blaquernæ.
Henry Dandolo, Doge of Venice; Baldwin, Earl of Flanders; Prince Henry his brother; Montferrat; Bishops of Bethlehem, Troyes and Soissons; Flemish, French, and Venetian Lords.
Doge.
Dictate, young prince; what of thy kingly honour?
Is it a hollow thing—a passing bubble,
Such as boys make in green and yellow summer?
Now, let us be decisive: Reverend Fathers,
And ye, my worthy peers, we crave resolves
That may do honour to our high appointment.
Why are we here, when our great enterprise
Looks to the Holy Land, from its bless'd shrines
To drive the infidel? This had been done
By our brave fathers, had not policy
Or hate inspir'd the emperors of this East
To thwart their measures: and, such power they have,
For this their city locks the eastern world.
Alexis sued our help—we help the weak.
Yet farther were we mov'd to put him up
Into his native seat, when the conditions,—
(I shall not now say of his gratitude,
For they have been the dictates of a heart
That, in its weak and pining eagerness,
Promises all things rashly, and foresees,
Even in this largeness, an excuse hereafter;)—
Yet, were they such that nations hail'd the hour,
And thought it the near ordinance of Heaven,
That we should gain a footing in this city,
Toward our great design—this prince's favour,
And more, his powerful and immediate aid.
The rest is now before us; we have found him
Quick in those changes that, in such a case,
Denote as clearly as stiff opposition.
When in our favour, they are mov'd by fear,
Which, like the glassy sun that, in mid hours,
Shines out betwixt the colds of morn and eve,
And sweats the clammy brow of pucker'd frost
But for a little;—softens his last nay,
Withdraws again, and only proves at last
That nought can give a hint to gratitude.
The change, my lords, it seems, is now against us
Since yesternight: but then his flag of peace
Hung down to us from the wall; now on that wall
Go armed figures nodding in new presumption.
The gates are shut—the bustle of war is heard.
My counsel is but how to choose the ground
Of quickest action, and the disposition
This moment of our strength—to use our arms.

(Applause.)
Bald.
Wer't found, my lord, that we ourselves have made
The prince an enemy—our own misconduct;—
It might affect what you, not knowing all,
Have wisely counsell'd—I should else be silent;
But I am bound to see our purpose on—
This might retard it; therefore do I speak.
This thing—this outrage. Who, my Lords, could think
That one of us would, in the peace of night,
Shake friendly cities with the alarms of war;
And leave us here to wonder at the effects,
Nay, more, to move whole armies at the issue
Of one man's folly.

Doge.
Are we all here? 'Tis strange.
Proceed, my Lord of Flanders.

Bald.
I may be rash, and this no cause of war—

Mont.
As if his deeds should shun the light, Lord Earl:
Wind up thy cold insinuating coil.—
Had he been here, for whom I'm proud to speak,
Young Montmorency, he had started forth
And nam'd himself at mention of this thing.
A private message from the emperor
Came to his tent last night—“Bring thee a guard,
And take thy bride; she waits thee in our palace:
All things are ready 'gainst the nuptial hour.”
He went: the gates were shut, a force within,
Taunts for a reason—and a shower of darts.
Now stand forth he that blames my noble friend;
By Heaven, he had not been that friend this moment
Had he come tamely off. His sharp reply
Was all too little.
So much for this grievous outrage, and too much.
Here's Montmorency.

Montmorency enters.
Doge.
(rising.)
How may we honour one so high in war!
Brave Sir, we have resolved to arm this day,
To win where patience fails. Look to it, Greek!
Herald of thine shall show no peace-flag here,
Till he hath borne another embassy.
Our war shall ring within thy palaces,
And climb thy towers, and pull thy flag-staves down.

Mont.
My troops are under arms.—
Who now shall give me leave to tell my news?
Or will you swear to avenge him ere I speak?—
Who starts not now? O I have been too slow.
That messenger should have a thousand tongues
To clamour on before him, as he goes
Rousing the earth to vengeance, who must speak
Of such foul deeds. The prince is foully murder'd.

Doge.
Rise up, ye princes, hear this thing in sorrow.
Brave knight, you talk'd of murder? will you go on.
Alexis murder'd! Did you say by Murtzoufle?

Mont.
Would one of these brave lords could meet that monster:—
Usurper too, now from the throne of Greece
He casts his gloomy shadow. Noble Doge,
It is my private interest to cry war,
Else, would I speak: save me too from presumption,
And speak for me a thousand burning words,
To drive up vengeance: or, but name the deed,
And men shall pluck him down.—Hear me, my lords!
Are not your tyrants politic, though cruel?
But his a soul so gross he sees no need
To keep the deed within its bloody bandage,
But forth it bursts at once, and groans to the world
From the dark hangings of the murder-chamber.
Now, shall that man be king?

Doge.
No: parricide
He shall be held, and foul as beastly rites
Done on the dark undiall'd hour of midnight.
My lords, we're not yet done: Mark our first duty.—
He was a prince that, but for evil counsel,
And one vile traitor-man, had earn'd his praise
For good judicious acts. And it is ours
To do all justice to the dead, the more,
We have been led to put him to much blame.
Let's now reverse our sentence, and believe
That bastard counsel oft usurp'd the right
Of his own justice—a much elder brother.
Alas! who does not mourn for him, so young,
So full of life? The green wheat of his years
Is stricken down in summer—who does not grieve?
God rest thee—thou art ashes, Prince of Greece.
Were I now young;—but I shall say no more—
Ye are my sons, and braver far than I.—
Up, swear to avenge this deed! Ye Holy Fathers,
We are permitted so to do?—High Lord
Bishop of Bethlehem, thy advice shall weigh.

Bishop of Beth.
Although in every pettiest state there be
Appropriations, not to be interfered with
By other states; yet, if such government
Cannot control itself in desperate times,
But it become a sore upon the world;
Not better right has this, my own right hand,
To cut infectious finger from my left,
Than other nations have then to correct it.
Places there are which men have sanctified,
The great high places of the social world.
And, when the leprosy of unclean feet
Hath come thereon, all men cry, “Purge it clean.”
When princes die by treason, it affects
Less a particular kingdom, though embroil'd,
Than all the social bonds of earth, made strong
Or weak in the awe and reverence of men.
Arise, my lords, or now ye say to the world,
(So much are ye engaged in these affairs,
So nearly,) that ye hold such matters light.
The prince was not allied to us by blood.
We do the thing from reason then, not passion;
And “vengeance yet is his.”

Doge.
This solemn wisdom
Keeps us in bonds, good signors.

Montm.
Come on, Montferrat.

Bald.
Henry—my Lords of Flanders—

Doge.
And we of Venice—shall we be last in this?
But stay, brave signors, and give ear a moment:—
Still have I found a rash unbottom'd haste
Settling, ere long, like cold indifference.
Then let us hold it wisdom to enforce
Our present ardour by proportion'd reasons.
Our claims are not extinct, and shall be answer'd
For our own sakes—for the late prince's sake,
Who had been faithful, but for evil men.
And, hark! there is an empire in this East,
Not far from our command. How dread were they
That could to Palestine bear mighty name;
Conqu'rors of Greece, and have its power at will.
The dusky infidel would bow at once,
And the dread shrine be free.
If we are not these men, what must we be?
Why, nothing more than desp'rate of success,
This tyrant in our sides a dreadful thorn.
Why need I mention first crusades? They failed,
As we must fail, this power unless controll'd,
Destroy'd, or gain'd.
Most reverend Bishops, speak, and, if you may,
Speak from the conscience, give us your approval;
It much concerns the church to gain this city.

Bish. of Troyes.
Brothers of Bethlehem and of Soissons,
Most noble Doge, and all ye other peers,
In former days a holy bishop thus,
(Bishop of Langres) counselled Lewis the young:—
“If ye would thrive in this great enterprise,
(He spoke of the crusade,) ere you pass farther,
Seize on Constantinople.” Now these words
Of high authority were given, a prince,
A lawful emperor on this throne of Greece.
'Tis not so now—a hateful tyrant's there.

Doge.
No more.
Montferrat, Baldwin, lead the blind man forth
To arms this night. One on each side, brave knights,
Would I could see you both.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A public Place in Constantinople.
Two Citizens.
1st Cit.
A bloody business! Will he come this way?

2d Cit.
Hush! he must be here now, unless he go
Round by the Hippodrome: 'tis throng'd with people.
Men think he will harangue them: not so I;
I know him better. He must come this way
To make the tour of the walls; for he expects
A red hand from the west, from Suabia,
To pluck at him, besides these Latin powers.

Enter first an immense Mob, then Murtzoufle and Soldiers.
Murtz.
Halt for a moment.—Ye be men of Greece,
As I presume. If ye have aught to offer,
Prayer or petition, ye shall find to-morrow
All courts of justice open: this shall be
For ever, if this right hand thrive to keep you
From those, falsely called, emp'rors who abuse you,
And the dread sword, that from without o'erhangs you
Now, stand aside.

All.
All hail, our noble Emperor!

Murtz.
Aside—aside—that word's for times of peace.
I am no emperor till I free this city
From all this noise of arms, that nightly knocks
And shakes the sleeper's dreams. I have you up
From those that held you prostrate. Go to sleep.
Ho! Pedro. Arm these men, and bring them on
To the western wall—
(The crowd runs off.)

[Exit. Murtzoufle and soldiers.

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.

SCENE IV.

—A Room in Euphrosyne's Palace.
Eudocia and Zillah looking from a window.
Zill.
Lady, 'tis scarcely night:
The moon is rising o'er Chalcedon's towers,
Above the Asian hills: dim forms of eve,
Their earliest shadows see: faint gleam the dark
And woody shores of the swift Bosphorus.
The lover will not stumble in his path
In such a night:—and he shall come, my lady.
Meanwhile, our tale—

Eud.
It is too tedious: well—

Zill.
Wouldst thou not hear
Of eastern princess and her Knight of France?

Eud.
Lov'd she him well?

Zill.
Thus stood he, haughty warrior,
Motionless thus,—his arms on his high breast,
('Twas when they parted, he to the Thracian fight,
And she to stay with Hope, War's youngest sister:)
Motionless thus,—and smiling on her care,
To fix on his crest her favour, as he told
Young maidens do in France. With hurried hand
She tried each point, and look'd not up: A flash
Burst from her eyes, at length; it spoke of honour.
And then she smil'd—in tears, and she did stumble,
Leaving the garden, in the clear path: She looks
As if the days were very wearisome;—
Trust me, she loves him deeply, and he her.
Yet came her knight from war, then, O glad meeting!
Such as the anxious heart dares picture forth,
In all her hopes, not frequently; such bright
Contingencies of joy, safety, and honour;
As if she could deceive high Heaven, and say—
'Tis yea, or nay—in secret fear to think,
What men most doat on's quickly ta'en away;
From battle he came; then why not come to-night?

Eud.
So sweetly eloquent, thou Arab thing!
So full thine eyes of love's quick pantomine;
Maid, thou wert born his young interpreter
To duller hearts: yet, somewhat sadly sweet.—
He is not in the garden,—all is still,
He will not come to-night, he cannot come,
Nor send a little messenger to-night.
How many maidens weep at this lone hour,
And all because of love some mourn for wars,
That leave dark days with lovers; some o'er death;
Some wander now upon the carpet sands,
Dropping full many a tear upon the edge
Of the fast-flowing wave, and mourning lovers,
Far away gone upon the world of seas.—
Hark! there again! that strange uncertain noise,
That sounds like echo of some falling throne.
To-day, I have not seen a living form,
Save thine, my little Arab—something dread.
Enter Marsas.
Here Marsas comes, that ever brings good news,
Whose smile's an ever-green:—What! wo-begone!

Mar.
Wo! wo! our prince is murder'd by Murtzoufle.
[Exit Marsas.

Eud.
And I must fall too.—O this dreadful night!
Hearest thou, Zillah? hast thou seen to-day
Lady Euphrosyne? O, she will come,
And lead me onward to his lurid love,
Where human feelings come not: if they come,
Like shrubby flames that live to nod and dance
O'er vaulted fires a moment—they are gone.

Enter Euphrosyne.
Euph.
I take this hour to speak to thee; and glad,
Most glad, am I to hope, thou art not chang'd
From the obedient maiden that ne'er griev'd
A mother's heart: and now, my love, must be
Obedient farther: Cans't thou read my thoughts?

Eud.
Madam, they bid heaven bless thy daughter's life.

Euph.
And—love?
And wilt thou thank me for my prayer?
It has been heard, this night shall see thee wed.

Eud.
I will not fear a mother's words, my lady.

Euph.
Eudocia, be not foolish: think not, wench,
I mean that foolish passion which you spake of.
I'll drag thy spirit to my present purpose.

Eud.
Those eyes are fearful; see they not thy daughter?

Euph.
They see a scornful maid, that tries to steal
Away from a mother's blessing, as 'twould sting.

Eud.
My honoured mother, what shall I do for thee?
Art thou not well? then let me bring my harp.
Troubled to-day?—I know it by thine eye.—
A lively air shall dispossess the pain
And fill thy breast with peace. You know how oft
For you it has been blest: not for myself,
But you I mourn, that we are brought thus low.

Euph.
Ay—ay thus low. And shall not she be blest
That strives to rise, to raise her fallen mother?

Eud.
Would that I could! Zillah, maid, bring our harp.

Euph.
No; stir not, maiden.

Eud.
Shall it not be to-night?

Euph.
Ay—ay to-night—now understand that hint.

Eud.
Oh! is it so? thy words then have a meaning
To gather up my spirit into knots
Of curdled ice. Alas! I feared thus much,
And tried, (false maid) to give thy thoughts the slip.
And yet I thought my fears might all be vain.
For, pardon me, I never thought my mother
Would strive to wreath me with those bloody bonds.
For Heaven's sake, urge me not.

Euph.
This is more strange
Than savag'ry, or any whim in woman.
What would'st thou have? What be if not a queen?

Eud.
Nothing: or death and grave before this bridal.
Heaven cannot bless it.

Euph.
No; it never shall;
For, wench, in vain thou wouldst have Montmorency.

Eud.
Let me live for thee.
And with thee all my life,

Euph.
This mockery now
O how I laugh at it, and think how vain!

Eud.
What shall I say then, madam? Mother, thou,
And yet no mother! for my heart refuses
To take thy loath'd proposals, stain'd with blood—
That blood an Emperor's—a relative's.—
What! must I wed a furrow'd curse, that clings
Till it grows old—stretch towards the bloody bosom
Of this usurper? O how men would loathe—
And matrons weep, and maidens hide the head—
And future times abhor me; and pure Heaven
Hold back the head far, far, not to see her,
The daughter of Euphrosyne, so foul.
No; rather drown me in a sea of blood.
I said, good madam, that I have no wish:
'Tis true, if any wish yields this condition,
That I must wed Murtzoufle. O no, no!
Let me no more disturb thee—let me live—
But name not this—unheeded as the spider
That works in cool and silent palaces;
And want thy face, and commune with no light,
Rather that this. Madam, I ask thee nothing.

Euph.
The credit thine, maid, for this moderation:
It shall be given thee, therefore, though thou ask not;
Nay, more, against thy will—a murderer—
That, wench, or what thou wilt; so he be prince
And thou his wife, if he will have no other.
The shame mine own that I have been unfit
To bring a princess forth: a peasant thou!
A peasant girl.—Now praise humility,
And I shall list a moment, and then speak,
And not in vain, else I have borne in vain
The pangs of travail in thy birth—go on.

Eud.
I cannot speak, unless Heaven dictate words
To move thy soul; but surely it enjoins
Humility on man, whose life is breath.
If I might care for royalty, it were
But for thy sake, for I would rather be
My Montmorency's bride, and in his France
Queen of a vintage feast, than Empress here.
In this I mock not Heaven, calling my wish
Humility, for I have been most proud
Of Montmorency's fame.

Euph.
No; but you think
All this is well.—Proceed—I'll hear thee out.

Eud.
If I have been as thou thyself hast said,
In all things dutiful since infancy,
Cannot I move thee in this one request?

Euph.
Now you have done.

Eud.
Stay but one moment, this is it then, all.—
(kneeling.)
Bless me and Montmorency. Do it, lady.
Thou art not frail as woman, and will do it
Because t'were strange, perhaps.

Euph.
I speak no words
Of burning wrath, but keep them in this bosom.
If for thy love, (which did I look it straight,
Would wrinkle up a brow of scorn beyond
The power of ninety years,) if for this love
You ask my blessing; thence, I'll lay on thee
A dreadful word.

Eud.
Heaven cry no! Speak, too, Arab,
If I have taught thee, love, a purer faith.

Euph.
Good Zillah—Madam, Murtzoufle comes this night and weds thee.
I set him on, but he's a hungry lion,
That, tasting blood, wont bear control. Mark, maid,
I could not help thee now did I so wish.
This very night, I can but say, Prepare—
Look to thyself—'tis seal'd—we are constrained—
This very night.

Eud.
O Montmorency, haste!
Be as a post of wind or glimpsing sun.

Euph.
Louder, thou fool.
He hears thee not; and ne'er shall hear thee more.

Eud.
Hark! O thou dost not know—there sounds the battle;
(sounds without.)
And there, perhaps, the stroke of Heaven to strike
The tyrant down or reach this heart a blow
O kinder than that smile.

Euph.
I did but laugh to think how far he's hence
Beneath the city walls, and haply slain,
No more to see thee, did he live an age,
Unless Murtzoufle show thee from the wall
To mock his rage. That rage is impotent,—
And all the Latin arms. What next, my love?

Eud.
Then, Zillah, bring the harp, no lively air
This lady wishes; we shall have a dirge,
And I shall die, for yet I love my love
And ne'er shall be another's: I'll but wait
To learn the worst.

Euph.
Unseal thy fount of tears,
Poor shadow of a Queen. I'll not be back
But send the messenger—the messenger.
(Exit. Euph.)

(Eud. stands looking after her mother's steps a long while.)
Eud.
Where art thou, Zillah?
(to Zillah.)
Why weep'st thou, silly girl? it aids us not.
Hath the owl been at my casement? or was that
Hail, the quick dancer? or Death's finger-bone
That struck my window?

Zill.
O speak not so, my lady.
I heard no sound.

Eud.
Where then is that tall woman
That stood beside me now, and touch'd my arm?
O, ay—my mother. But she shall not fly,
I'll follow her through all the city, and kneel.
(Goes out.)
(Returning.)
Come to our chamber, Zillah,
And be he fiend, I'll be Eudocia still
And Montmorency's.

[Exeunt.

SCENE V.

—Below the Walls of Constantinople.
Enter Montferrat with his sword drawn.
Montf.
Holla! De Choisy! the north—the north!

De Ch.
(Without.)
—Holla, holla,—here are the city gates.

Montf.
Keep to the northward, and aloof from the wall;
Stand! who goes there!

Enter De Choisy.
De Ch.
Did'nt you call me now?

Montf.
Have you not seen him?

De Ch.
By yon star, 'tis madness:
I think it be the pole—I told thee so.
O many a brave head have I turned up here,
And trod among their mutterings—till my limbs
Have lost economy. Where are the troops?
For I must rest an hour. Perchance to-night—

Montf.
'Tis no perchance, for by what star you will;
By the wind-managed crescent of yon moon,
That with sharp sickle reaps the clouds of heaven,
Our battle must be reap'd again this night.
God help the harvest; we move in an hour:
You'll find our troops a little to the westward:
See that the rams are ready; for this night
Their burly heads must butt against these walls.
The ladders are prepar'd: we'll climb to-night—
Ambition—you know, ambition.—Go, speak bravely,
And show high spirit in presence of the troops.
Noise it abroad—the standard of Saint Mark,
O'ershadowing, wav'd upon these battlements,
Unrais'd by mortal hand,—That we of France,
This night have ta'en the Holy Virgin's image,
Which Grecian Emp'rors were often wont
To van their battles with, in hopes of victory:
Adding, that she, to whom great Constantine
The Imperial City gave, hath given it up;
And with her banner and her image come
To guide our entrance:—This is more than wine
To soldiers' hearts. I'll be with you anon.
Holla!

[Exit De Choisy.
Without.
Holla!

Montf.
Hither, thou weary footstep.
Enter a Soldier.
Art thou last?

Sol.
Some stragglers yet are out; but search is vain.—
Two soldiers who were resting in the camp,
Not knowing at first our search, but, having heard,
Came straightway to inform us of his capture.
I heard them swear just now, they saw him lost
Beneath the gate, what time the salliers fled,
And our pursuit was hot. They saw him first
Close on the enemy's heels: the rush came on,
When he was fighting 'neath the gateway arch,
And sway'd him in.—The dreadful leaves were shut,
And he was seen no more.—I heard them swear it.

Montf.
Enough, good soldier—go and take some rest.—
[Exit Soldier.
I lost him in a moment, when he rush'd,
A bloody wedge, making a way for death
Towards these cowardly gates. He's captive now,
And all his love blown out. Were it myself,
'Twere but a soldier's fate.

Alberti passes.
Montf.
(Coming forward.)
You are of Venice?

Alb.
So please my Lord; Alberti.

Montf.
Who has not heard of thee, brave gentleman?
What think you of Murtzoufle now; shall his power last?
They say he is strangely cruel—have you not heard?

Alb.
Forgive me, God of battles—thou hast saved me,—
That I have not yet knelt, O for brave friends
Captive this night, and in that monster's power!
O help them well on narrow rueful bank,
'Twixt a late safety and a near destruction.
Sir, I do think, without the glimpsing arm
Of a Great Power quick between heaven and the earth
To save them, they must die.

Montf.
Is't so indeed?
But do you mean—think he dares slay his captives?
(Kneels.)
Then must I kneel too.—Our brave friends indeed!
(Rising.)
Now are our souls decisive. And time calls—
Hot work to-night,—what gain'd with you?

Alb.
A little.
But let me tell mine errand—I am sent
By our prince Dandolo, to learn the issue
In this your quarter.

Montf.
Montmorency's ta'en,
Which more than balances a thousand fights
Of our success. But let me ask of you,—
My forward eye was often drawn aside,
As starting from behind the angl'd wall
Toward the north, the fire-ships shot upon you
With sudden blaze. How did you 'scape destruction?

Alb.
The walls were crowded with a thousand faces;
And young and old were there to see us burnt.
Seventeen great chelandies before the gale,
That stiffen'd from the West, came blazing on,
Wrapt in their windy flames, upon our middle,
Where we to the leeward lay: But we were quick:—
Our skiffs and long-boats in a moment fill'd
With our brave fellows; spite of all their darts,
We push'd them on each other: then, with hooks
And mighty grapplers, from their place we drew them
Into the channel; there the winds and current
Claim'd them: the waves reveng'd the mockery
Of all their fires; snouted them on and on:
And the wind did its part on their bare sterns,
And drove their wispy flames, that hung before,
Far to the eastward into the Propontis,
Where they soon bubbl'd into nothing.—Then
The clapping and the shouting had an end.

Montf.
There has not been a braver deed than this
Since ship first touched the sea. Brave sailors, you.
Commend me to the Doge;—tell him, to-night
We mount the walls, or die.—Move you to-night?

Alb.
Thanks to that question, I had else forgotten.
The great ships with the drawbridge-ladders first,
The galleys next, shall on: and all are ready:
The Paradise and Pilgrim in the van,
Together bound, shall make to the strongest tower,
Upon the wall. Each tower shall have a pair
Of twin assailants.

Montf.
Blow your trumpets loudly
At the first onset; ours shall answer you.
'Twill animate our fighters.

Alb.
Let me pause—
There's nothing more. Heaven strike with you, brave sir.

[Exit Alberti.
Montf.
O God, Sir—think too of our Montmorency,
So tell the Doge—commend me thus and prosper.
[Exit Montferrat.

SCENE VI.

—Murtzoufle's Camp within the walls—Watchman walking on the walls—Troops drawn up.
Enter Murtzoufle armed with a great mace, Pedro behind with soldiers.
Murtz.
(Striking the ground.)
—Shame on us that we let this petty war
Thus swell above the high brim of our city—
Thus cling around us. Can't we then be brave?
I'd rather be a bellows-man to Vulcan,
Than strive to warm these men that move like life
Beneath the far cold ice-drops of the north.
Ho! Pedro! well?

Ped.
My Lord, all's right.

Murtz.
Ay, they can keep their feet,
The stations are all set: But have you cramm'd
The towers with engines?

Ped.
Knock, for Pedro's life,
If they compound with death—all fix'd, my liege.

Murtz.
The fire-pipes ready?

Ped.
Ready—ay, most ready:
Dry in the chops, and thirsting for a draught
Of liquid fire:—down go their serpent streams,
Down—down, the red guests of their inner-cabins.

Murtz.
These Frenchmen at our gates? Go, send them on.

Ped.
Would that they were.

Murtz.
So, so, these men more brave?

Ped.
Most brave, my Lord.

Murtz.
Thyself?

Ped.
My liege must answer there.

Murtz.
Most brave,
In words and reasons: give me reason then
Why we can't conquer, if we sally forth.
Hold—where's our prisoner?

Ped.
At the western gate,
There guarded, till we know your Highness's pleasure.

[Exit Pedro.
Murtz.
Ho! there upon the wall, how looks the west?

Watch.
Nought stirring there. The north is quiet too,
Save moving lights upon the Lycus' mouth.
The ships are indistinct, but I can see,
By the hung lights, men moving on the decks
Built up the masts to overtop our walls,—
Some mighty bustle.—

Enter Pedro and Montmorency guarded.
Murtz.
Let them stir to-night,
And Montmorency dies.

Montm.
How must I answer thee? There needs no hint
That I am in thy power:

Murtz.
This youth we know,
And judge him worthy of a hint, lest now,
He scorn that power. But say, my Lord of France,
How crows are frighted, and the paltry birds
That eat the corn.

Montm.
Speak, tyrant, speak at once;
And let thy blows be oaths unto thy words.
For thou hast torn the laws of God and man,
And dug up life: Strike,—for I hold thee brave:
To brave the vengeance that shall hunt thy steps.
Am I another victim?

Murtz.
Ah! my Lord!
You've won me now to spare thee from—suspense.
Hark! we're on terms of candour—then, by Jove,
My only God, thou art upon my list;
And that ye spake of vengeance and my scorn
Of what men can, I write it down a hint,
That you pray not too long.

Montm.
Thy soul is dusky as the land of Ham,
More foul than the sea deeps, so very deep,
That send a steam of blackness to the top,
And hide all hoary filth.
Ha! art thou not
Murtzoufle? Bubbles dancing to their death,
Must have their tricks; but dare you overcrow
The hearts of men? You dare not strike—down tyrant!

Murtz.
Perhaps 'twere best to keep
Thy scorn, to bring thee help some minutes hence.
(A trumpet sounds from the north, then one loudly from the west.)
Ho! there!—and there!—that I may rise to tell
That trumpet calls thee?

Montm.
'Tis Montferrat's blast.
On—on, my Lord, ere I be done to death.
Or give me vengeance—Hear, Murtzoufle too,
The clock strikes for us both.

Murtz.
(To the Watchman.)
—Speak, villain, speak,
Hast thou not seen yet?

Watch.
Then, my Lord, they move,
Both west and north.

Murtz.
Your pardon, knight of France,
Did you not say?—Alas, poor youth, 'tis true,
Thy friends regard thee not: Hither they come,
All hot in arms: Or did you speak of her,
Thy love, but now my bride?

Montm.
(striving to break his chains.)
Unbind me, Sir,
And know and fear the laws of men. Ah, tyrant,
What didst thou say?

Murtz.
I'll swear it.

Montm.
That's the word
That smites me sorely. Hurl me down the sea,
That booming waters may devour the sound—
O for it plagues my ear. Ay, ay, of her;—
If thou art human, say thou did'st but move
A jest to keep me from the thoughts of death.
Nay, thou art kind, if it was only feign'd
To add to death.

Murtz.
Quick—bear him off.

Montm.
I cannot die in chains—
(Struggling.)
If thou art soldier, free me, or this moment
Strike me down dead, that I may hear it not.

Murtz.
This night I wed the maid.

Montm.
But not this night.—
O haste, Montferrat, haste—run with the lightning.—
As Heaven is just, most horrid tyrant,—no.
That fiendish laugh's a prophet—it foretells
Thy purpose, shed like water.

(Pedro and Soldiers guard him out.)
Murtz.
Ho! Pedro!
(Pedro returns.)
No death, until we see
He cannot be the cause of drawing off,
And humble peace.

Ped.
Must he be haughty still?

Murtz.
Ha! thou'rt a devil.—
[Exit Pedro.
Now to the western gate—
And who has fears, let that man stay behind,
And give the brave more room.

[Exit Murtzoufle and Soldiers.

SCENE VII.

—Euphrosyne's Palace—Eudocia's Chamber.
Eudocia and Zillah seated on a Sofa.
Zill.
Thou art not sad?

Eud.
Nay—nay.

Zill.
O tell me why,
And not afraid? Would that I were so too.

Eud.
Did I say no? Why did you ask again?
O! 'tis because I have no hope on earth:
But, list—and nothing comes—'tis all a dream,—
The marshy fears of maidens, fed by mist
Of tears and sighs. Let's laugh together, maid.

Zill.
'Twould frighten me; but fear not over much.

Eud.
Perhaps he's wise though bloody, giving these hours
To old-eyed counsellors and nightly wisdom.

Zill.
Hark! shall we say this bitter night is past?
How go the hours?

Eud.
Hush, let them slip, lest our alarm should wake,
With breath infectious, the dread power without
That seems to slumber.

Zill.
I dare not be silent,
But I shall whisper. Why thus look, sweet mistress,
On yonder door? Go to your eastern lattice
And feel the breath of Heaven, for you are pale.
Be not afraid, it looks upon the sea.
No cruel shapes of men shall fright thine eyes.
Stay only till you count the little temples
That gleam upon the dark and woody shore:
And I'll remind you, as you told me once,
These votive temples are memorials old
Of sailors' hap by sea, when they were sav'd
In the last peril. We are in peril too;
But there's a God of power, and all the worlds
Lean on the shoulder of his attribute:
And God will save—more kind, and greater far
Than the old Grecian's fabl'd deities.

Eud.
I dare not lift mine eyes from off that door,
Lest he should enter. Is not this most fearful?
The hours shall never wade through this dread silence.

Zill.
I dare not sit. I scarcely know thy voice.

Eud.
I'll walk along the chamber once or twice.
Watch yonder door.

Zill.
Now—now—but go not far.

(Eud. after walking goes to the window, but starts back, screaming.)
Zill.
My lady, O!

Eud.
Was it you that shriek'd?

Zill.
Thyself,

Eud.
A stork came flapping to the window light;
I thought, at first, it was a fearful hand.
I'll look no more. Shut out the sickly light;
It makes my heart faint: to my aching sense
The moon is dull, and all things indistinct,
As the ribb'd shadows of old graves in churchyards.
Come, let us sit.

Zill.
You hear that noise, my lady?

Eud.
The beating of our hearts.—'Tis now the hour
When the lone matron, from her hamlet lodge,
Looks for her spouse into the moonlight ways,
But hears no foot abroad in all the night;
Then turns she in, and thinks of murder done
In former days, by the blue forest edge,
Which way her lord must pass: then tells again
The cloudy tale to her that with her mother
Watches, when younger sisters are asleep,
And kitten winks before the drowsy fire.
There comes her husband—Hark! it is the fight,
The warriors' din.
(Knocking heard at the door.)
Is that a knocker's hand?
(Knock again.)
Hold fast, now door, and all ye senseless things
Take arms for two poor maids.

(Knock again.)
Zill.
What shall we do?

Eud.
Who's there?
(Voice without.)
Thy servant, lady, until death.

Eud.
'Tis Marsas.

Zill.
You will not open?—

(Eud. opens the door, and retires slowly to her seat.
Eud.
I know his soul too well:
Good Marsas, I have ever bless'd thy words,—
Come near and speak good news,
(He retires to the further end of the chamber, and stands with his head down and his arms folded.)
Then are you envious as these evil days:
Each day brings deed that shakes the head at me.
And each event, that passes, seems to turn
Like cowardly assassin that would try
Again the undone deed. But spare no word.

Marsas.
Do you know, lady, that Murtzoufle—

Eud.
Peace!
And lock that door.

Mar.
Is Emperor of Greece?

Eud.
Ay—we are in his power. O Montmorency!

Mar.
You know all, then?
Beware Murtzoufle. Our brave knight shall live.

Eud.
Ah! you have seen him? dead? who bade thee warn?

Mar.
Not as you fear.

Eud.
Is he not captive, then?

Mar.
His friend Montferrat's on, the Italian Doge
With all their powers: the city shall be won;
At least conditions that shall save the captive.
And I was fool to frighten so my lady.

Eud.
O God! Where saw you him?

Mar.
Along the street.
But fear not lady—for he look'd so boldly:
No fear was in his heart, but rather rage
At such indignity: his eyes were bent
Like bows and shot, cramping their rings of fire;
And anger burn'd with smoke upon his brow.
Calm fell his look—for why? his life is safe,—
Till when he saw me, then his restless eye
Began to speak.

Eud.
O Heaven! and not to know
The captive's wish.

Mar.
Lady, you know that wish—
Well, on I follow'd, striving to get near,
But the guards kept me back. I followed still—
The guards retir'd—the keeper is my friend.
I saw our Montmorency in his chamber.
He has no fear but thee; and still he warn'd
Of dread Murtzoufle.

Eud.
Are not the streets beset
With armed men?

Mar.
The battle's in the west,
And there the throng.

Eud.
Then, Marsas, watch our gates
Short space until I call thee. Softly, Zillah
(Exit Mar.)
Follow my steps. Why sit you?

Zill.
Give me then,
Lady, that dagger; for last night I dreamt
With that same dagger did I dig a grave,
A little grave to put Philippa in.

Eud.
Peace, and forget our fears—come.

(Exeunt.

SCENE VIII.

—A Prison Cell.
Montmorency walking the length of his chains.
Montm.
(Pausing.)
The depths of slumber could not hide the thought,—
And I must face it. Hapless maid for ever,
Dost know thou'rt ruin'd? and perchance this moment—
That moment's fled—and thou may'st be—for ever.
'Twould fright thee girl to death, to know what dread
My soul has of this night.—
(Walks.)
(Pausing.)
Step down, Eudocia, to the deep green sea—
It is thy best—for look I help thee not,—
Unless, unless you get within these walls.
O! I would wrap thee with these chains, my love,
My death to unwind them. Devil, would I not do
Thy dreaded 'hests to rid me of these links?
By Heaven 'tis strange, beyond my mem'ry strange,
How this has happen'd; it seems a hurrying dream
That I was captiv'd; and am now in bonds.
Would, maiden, thou wert dead.—I cannot help thee.—
Hark! there the bolts, harsh harbingers of death!
My sword? 'tis gone—I fear to die unarm'd.—
To give one's body to the gashing knife
That's greedy to the hilt, and have no guard—
I'd rather bow before a thousand foes
With inch of sword—they come—I must stand thus.
Enter Jailer.
Com'st thou to do thine office? thou'rt but one,
Come back with three; for, look ye, I am young,
And shall not die without an awful struggle.

Jail.
I am not what you think.

Montm.
Not he that keeps
The keys of these low shambles, turning bolts
Through half the night? Art thou not he that holds
His dark lamp thus above his head to ken
His corner pensioners? that winks by day
To grim-fac'd men, that slily trace thy steps,
But shake their black beards at the fall of night,
And roll dread words, like pebbles, 'neath their tongues?
Dark man, is not thy hour-glass sand the dust
Got on these low floors of the dead men's bones?
Your pardon, if you have no wish to-night
To catch me unawares—to stab my sleep.

Jail.
I am thy keeper, but I loathe the office.
What shall I do to make thy chains less heavy?

Montm.
I have one wish, indeed,—but 'twere thy ruin.
Why take them off?—you cannot—then I urge,
Loose me these bonds an hour, and but one hour,
By my soul's honour I shall put them on
Within that space.

Jail.
And leave this place, my lord?

Montm.
Quick—quick unbind me.

(Knocking without.)
Jail.
It is now too late.
That noise—that knocking—cease a moment there.
Why can't you cease till I have seen my pris'ner.

Montm.
Give me that dagger, there.—

(Snatches it from his side.)
Jail.
Give me that dagger back.
No? look ye, thou'rt captive, and I may revenge.
But to thy breast with it, and hide it there
Till it can serve thee. I was born in France.

Montm.
Look then, 'tis done.
Thou hast a soul: but I can serve thee not.

Jail.
(aloud.)
All's right within—why, don't you know my office?
You noisy fellow, don't you know my hours?—
(Exit Jail.)

Montm.
Why if 'tis thus, then must I say farewell
To fame and all: my life has been a miss.
Hence never day to me of high renown.
And she—and she—O down thou bitter thought!
They come, now welcome, 'tis the proper moment.
These thoughts are turn'd to vengeance for her sake.
Come, dagger, shake thy sparks.
Enter Two Figures wrapt in cloaks—Door shuts behind.
Ye have no voice within these hollow rooms?

1st Fig.
Put up that dagger, and we speak, my lord.

Montm.
It frightens women,—if I know that voice.
Thou art Eudocia?

Eud.
(throwing off her cloak.)
Help, my lord, O help.

Montm.
These chains—these chains.

Eud.
Ah! thou must die.

Montm.
I cannot help thee, maid;
And that is death; what seek'st thou in this place?
I wish'd even this, but still my better thought
Declar'd it foolish. Yet art thou an angel.
Heed not these chains—embrace me—tears are here?
Smile thy short minute ere I tell thee, maid,
Our stars have look'd awry.

Eud.
I know—I know.

Montm.
Look at me, maid, for we can only say
The fire burns deep that has no fringe of flame;
So is our love the passion, not the hope.—
O, I would leap on edge
Of narrowest safety, could it bridge our fears:—
Tug unto death: or stand till dawning thus,
Might one half thought come with the morning-star
To help my love. My soul is put to rack
By that pale face; but I can't answer thee.—

Eud.
Brave youth, they dare not cut thee in thy strength.

Montm.
For black Murtzoufle finds thee out to-night,
Or in the palace, or within these walls,—
The city gates are his—and thou art.—No—
Sooner death's coronal be on thy brow,
His narrow ring upon the blue-vein'd finger
Of thy consumption. Were I shut in with death,
O'er his pale gate, I'd stretch and catch at thee
Ere thou, my girl,—

Eud.
My lord, we'll match thee with a secret there.—

(Taking out a dagger.)
Montm.
I see thee, love; but fly, the hour is come—
This night his agent promis'd me a visit.

Eud.
I'll guard this door, and thou shalt cheer me on.

Montm.
Mock'st thou this shorten'd chain that I can't reach thee?
Away, and seek the humblest hole to hide in,
For thou art mine, and ne'er shalt be another's.

Eud.
Ah, Zillah, we must go, softly to tread
This dark'ning world, and leave this youth behind.
May Heaven inspire some lonely dweller's heart
To meet us at the gate, and take us home,
If this is not our home. We leave thee then,
For we are troublesome. Ah, Montmorency!

Montm.
Still here?
And not away? Ho, jailer! ope the door.
Pause—come not near—I have a dang'rous thought—
Curse on thy charms; but, maid, thou shalt not hence
To be Murtzoufle's—time thou wert in Heaven.

Eud.
My lord—my lord—

Montm.
Then let me turn my eyes, that thou may'st fly
Ere I behold.

Eud.
These chains are heavily borne;
Then sit, my lord; and I shall stand the while
And hear of this.

Montm.
These chains have now their weight.
O thou hast bound me with a thousand fetters.
I'm not unkind, but I shall kill thee, girl—
This hand shall strike thee, for I dare not stay.
Dost thou not fly me?

Eud.
I do not fly, my lord,
Though I must die in youth:—but thy hand must not:
Give me the dagger.

Montm.
O, no, no, we dream.

Eud.
This hand shall do it, and not thine.

Montm.
There—there.
And grasp it thus. O 'tis not blown away!
Where are Heaven's winds.

Eud.
(retreating out of his reach.)
My lord the dagger's won.

Montm.
And thou art lost, false maid.

Eud.
'Tis not thy hour—
Thou art a soldier, and must win renown.
Less surely does the mantling ivy tell
Of mask'd decay; than hopeless love, the ruin
Of the hot soldier. Let me die, my love;
For I am ominous—farewell for ever:
But weep not for me if you wish my death.

(As she is about to stab herself, Zillah seizes her arm.)
Zill.
Forbear, forbear! some mercy in the dead!
And shut your urns. My mistress shall not come
At this so early hour.

Montm.
Whence came that form
That I should worship?— (noise)
—hark—O hark! come near,
Let's die together.

Marsas bursts in—Jailer follows.
Mar.
Joy—joy for all our years! the tyrant's off—
The city won—Montferrat seeks my lord.
Quick, he'll be angry that you stay thus long.

(Montmorency and Eudocia embrace without speaking.)
Montm.
Art thou still here, my love?

Eud.
It should be morning, and the sun should shine
O'er the clear world. O now I long to see
Thy friend, Montferrat; I have never seen him.

Montm.
Follow me, jailer thou must be my soldier.

Eud.
Thy hand, good fellow, I'll reward thy love.
And, Marsas, where art thou? Must I believe,
For thy good services, the stars are worlds,
Walk'd in by pure inhabitants as thou,
Would'st have me think?

Mar.
But this is not the place;
My lord shall hear me in these leisure days.

Eud.
(to Montmorency.)
It is his fancy.

Montm.
Love and this is mine—
That these star-figur'd mansions have no being
Purer than she that would have died to-night;
She whom I nearly slew.

Jail.
My lord, I am ready, let me knock these fetters.

Eud.
O now you're free.

Montm.
Ay, ay, I feel the change.

Eud.
There's Arab Zillah; lead her forth, my lord.

Montm.
I shudder to think how much I owe the maid.

(He takes Zillah's hand.)
Eud.
Come, captive and all, come, and dungeons deep,
Ne'er be you visited by man again.

[Exeunt.