University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A sumptuous Pavilion in the Gardens, through arches in the back ground—A view of the Gardens lit up, with groups of Company—A strain of cheerful Music—Manuel, Victoria, and Guests, splendidly dressed, discovered—Manuel conversing.
Man.
No, no, not many evenings, gen'rous friends;
Not many such as this—Life grants them not—
There is a thick oppression on my heart—
A fulness here—I know not how to name it.—
Joy comes to us a splendid, hurrying, stranger;
And, ere we feel him welcome, Joy, is gone—
But Grief appears a dull and daily guest,
Who near us long his wonted seat has taken,
Till that his heaviness no burden seems.

Vict.
Greet not our noble happy guests, my father,
With such unjoyous sounds.

Man.
Thou dost remind me—
Aye—Speak we of Tolosa—Is't not thus
The field is nam'd where my Alonzo fought?

Vict.
It is, my lord.

Man.
Why, then, we'll talk of it.

(Enter De Zelos, Torrismond, and Ximena.)
Man.
Kinsman, I greet you well. (Carelessly.)


(Victoria goes to them, and appears to make amends for their cold reception by others.)
Man.
Nay, is there not
A heavy, sultry, faintness in the night?

1st Guest.
A lovelier sun-set never lit your towers.

Man.
I mark'd it too—Did you not mark it, friends?
I saw the setting sun go glorious down
'Mid clouds of form and hue inimitable—
Like some high chieftain in his victor-tent
O'ercanopied with glory—with his train
Of floating banners crimson-hued, and plumes
Tinted with gorgeous colouring—blazonry
Of hand divine!—
But round his sinking orb a dark cloud hung—
A sable speck malignant—through whose shade
All the fair pageantry of lights and hues
An ominous and gloomy lustre shed.

Guests.
We mark'd it not.

Man.
Was it not wond'rous strange?

Vict.
Good Perez, rouse thy master with some tale
Of my brave brother's deeds.—
His spirit will kindle at the stirring theme,
As starts the slumb'ring warrior from his dream
At the far trumpet's sound.

Tor.
Nay, let us hear some of his own high deeds.
I love to hear an ancient warrior's tale,
When stirred by recent glory.

Man.
Aye, many things come thronging to my brain
Feverish and troubled, but they make me feel
I was a warrior once.
Heard ye the tale of Osma? Sword of Heaven,
Thou'st put on strength as in the ancient days—
Days of the deeds of old!—
Night hung on van and rear: we moved in darkness,
And heavily did count our echoed steps:
As men who marched to death!—Osma, thy field
(When the pale morn broke on the battle's verge)
Seemed as an ocean, where the Moorish turbans
Toss'd like the white sea-foam! Amid that ocean
We were to plunge and—perish!—
For ev'ry lance we couch'd the Moslem host
Drew twenty scimitars—and, when the cry
“God and St. Jago!” burst from our pale lips,
Seem'd as if every Spanish soldier peal'd
His requiem, not his battle-shout!—Oh Sirs!
We stood not then on terms of war,—devices
To give the coward the cold praise of art:—
We fought with life and soul upon the issue,—
With sword (once drawn) whose battle knew no end,—
With hand, that, wedded to the faithful hilt,
Knew no divorce but death, and held it then
With grasp which death unlocks not!—
We charg'd beneath their javelins' iron show'r,
Clashed cymbal, sabre-gleam, and banner's float,
That hid the light between!—We charged in blood,
And left our trampling steeds to tread out lives
That foil'd our blunted swords!—We charged in death;
Flung life away, as an incumb'ring garment;
And, like the Greek, grappled with glory naked!
'Twas noon,—when, like a mountain earthquake-shook,
I saw their battle reel.
Then waned the troubled Crescent, while aloft,
Banner'd in chivalrous display, the Cross,
Like meteor, flew and blaz'd!—Miramolin,
Like the proud leader of the evil host,
The first in stature, glory, and despair,
Still trod the edge of battle—still his sword
Swept with resistless range where thickest fell
The bloody harvest round!—“Miramolin—
“Turn, turn,” I cried!—“'tis Manuel calls.”—
[Falls back exhausted.
Oh! I had voice to hush the battle then,
But have not voice to tell it now!—

Vic.
Nay, cease—
It shakes his feeble frame—forbear, my father!—

Man.
(Starting up vehemently, and describing by gestures.)
I smote him with the lance—with this hand smote him—
This trembling hand—whose wither'd joints but serve
To bless Alonzo now—

[Victoria offers Manuel a cup of wine. As he is tasting, a horn is heard.
Man.
I need no cordial—'tis Alonzo's horn.

Alonzo's Page enters, bearing his Banner.
Man.
Where is my son?

Page.
Is he not here already?—
Through the dark wood he took his way for speed,
Dismiss'd his weary train, and, all unguarded,
Pursued his path alone.

Vic.
The wood?—Oh, Heaven!—

Mend.
It is a fearful, lonely place; and there
Have murders oft been done.

Man.
Away, ye slaves! bear torches, skirt the forest—
Pursue the track like blood-hounds—make its darkness
As bright as summer noon.

Mend.
Accept my services.

[Exeunt Guests.
(Armed Vassals with torches seen crossing the Garden.)
Man.
To go alone—Oh, madness, madness!—

Vic.
Fear not—
For you shall quickly feel him in your arms.

Man.
Shall I?
[A long pause.
By Heaven, I hear his courser's tread—
The matchless steed I gave him!—I could swear
To every foot-tramp.—

Vic.
Hark!—

Xim.
Hark!—

[Manuel attempts to move, but is unable.
Tor.
(returning slowly.)
It is his war-steed, but—he comes alone!

Vic.
(to Manuel.)
Nay, look not thus; thou know'st it is his wont
On foot to scale the green and pleasant slope
That to the portal leads.—

Man.
(starting)
And so it is—

Tor.
(faintly)
There is a stain of blood upon the saddle—

Vic.
It is the foeman's blood—think'st thou not so?—

Tor.
A broken lance is trailing from the stirrup—

Man.
(rushing out)
That lance he never quitted but with life—
Away, away!—

Vic.
Oh, hold!—The night is dread,
And fierce and foul the storm comes sweeping on.

Man.
(with a frantic laugh)
The storm—ha, ha, ha!—'Tis here, and here—

[striking his head—Exit.
Vic.
Fly, Torrismond, and guard him.

[Exit Torrismond.
Victoria and Ximena sink into each other's arm.
Vic.
Oh Heaven!—oh, what a night! oh, speak, Ximena,
One word of comfort or of hope!

Xim.
I cannot.

[Manuel is brought back senseless in the arms of De Zelos and the servants; Torrismond following.
Tor.
His broken helm bloody, and soil'd with clay—
(Drawing his sword vehemently.)
Oh, if on earth the murderer can be found!—

[At these words Manuel starts from their arms, and stands pointing with a terrible look at De Zelos.
Man.
There!—

[The curtain drops.