 | The Lost Son |  |
314
ACT V.
Scene—The Hall of De Warenne's Castle. De Warenne alone.De War.
This place, that has so echoed to my groans,
Why do I linger in it? Why delay
To fly from it for ever? Can one turn
Of fate, 'twixt sunset and sunrise, or wildest
Longings, bring her and me together ever,
Ever again? Or could I face her now?
Oh, she can see no deeper than the rest,
And knows not that, with such a love as mine,
Whate'er the past has been, or men may say,
She would be happy, spite of all. She knows not.
In her eyes I am but—
Enter Aylmer and Arden, friends of De Warenne .
Ayl.
You will excuse us
For breaking in thus on your worshipful presence—
De War.
By heavens! Your business with me?
Ayl.
Nay, de Warenne,
Your pardon for so rudely disregarding
Your sentence of exclusion, and assuming
Old friendship's privilege.
De War.
Pray pardon me;
I have been so tasked . . . so fretted . . . that I scarce
Know what I say. You are very welcome.
Ard.
Now,
Must I confess, then, we are hither spurred
By a keen curiosity—
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I know,
To curiosity there 's nothing sacred;
But you may ask more than I'll choose to answer.
Ayl.
Your tone 's a strange one. This nigh passes jest.
My lord, we 'll take our leave.
De War.
Again your pardon.
Pray stay—and ask your pleasure.
Ard.
Well—this rumour
From Lylford—is it true?
De War.
What may you mean?
What rumour?
Ayl.
You ask? Why that the lost son
Has suddenly come home—no murderer,
It seems, but innocent as you or I.
Come, is this true?
De War.
How should I know?
Ard.
But you
Are fresh from Lylford! You must have heard something—
You of all men.
De War.
'T is days since I was there,—
And I know nothing.
Ayl.
You choose not to tell us—
But something there has been. And it does touch us—
Since we would know if we may give our hands
To this returned young outcast.
Enter Doria.
De War.
'T is too much!
316
No longer mine? Who are you?
Dor.
You, it seems,
Are Earl de Warenne?
De War.
Ay, sir, and I bid you
Recross this threshold straightway, ere I summon
My servants to chastise you.
Dor.
Wait. I am
Doria of Genoa—and, in the name
Of Bernard Lyle, who for your crime has suffered
Banishment, shame, captivity, and griefs
Uncounted, and now sleeps in the fathomless sea,—
In his name I am come to challenge you,
As murderer, liar, and hypocrite, to draw
Your sword and fight.
[A pause.
Ayl. and Ard.
If you 're a man, De Warenne,
Tell him he lies!
Dor.
The odds that you delight in,
Shall still be yours. You murdered your friend's son,
Without a witness—your own comrades here,
And countrymen, shall be your witnesses
This day—that 's three to one. Ten years ago
You fought with an untried, unwary boy;
In me you meet a man whose strength is broken
By toil, starvation, torture, and despair,
Such as were his who lost his home through you.
So draw your sword, and fear not.
De War.
You are mad—
Chains and the lash best fit your malady.
Begone, I say.
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Sirs, I appeal to you.
Is not guilt written in that face before you?
Do honest men shrink from a madman's eyes?
But I 'm not mad, though much that I have borne
In rags, in fetters, 'neath a sun whose flames
Were as the flames of Hell, might well, I think,
Have turned my brain—but I had one true friend
Who shared all with me, stood by me, and when
At last his dear home welcomed him, forsook it,
The martyr of his faith to me, and died—
Whose life this villain blasted, and who now
Sleeps where no tear can fall upon his grave—
And that was Bernard Lyle. Do I not honour
This traitor here beyond his due deserts,
In bidding him draw sword and fight with me?
Ayl.
Speak in heaven's name, De Warenne!
De War.
I'll not fight,
No, not with you—for something, God knows how,
In that accursed face of yours, recalls
The woman I love best—and for her sake
I do not choose to kill you.
Dor.
Dare again
To speak of her!
[Strikes him in the face.
De War.
[starting up.]
My sword! where is my sword?
I have it not—you, Aylmer, give me yours!
Wretch, I 'll not balk you now!
Ard.
What, are you mad?
This shall not be!
318
[shaking him off.]
It shall!
[They fight, De Warenne falls.
Tell her . . . tell Hugh . . .
Ayl.
What . . . will be never known . . . for, heaven! he's dead!
Dor.
My task is done. I have avenged my friend.
| The Lost Son | |