University of Virginia Library

ACT II

Scene I

A wild and mountainous country. Ordonio and Isidore are discovered, supposed at a little distance from Isidore's house.
Ordonio.
Here we may stop: your house distinct in view,
Yet we secured from listeners.

Isidore.
Now indeed
My house! and it looks cheerful as the clusters
Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock,
That over-brows it! Patron! Friend! Preserver!
Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle
You gave it me: next rescued me from suicide
When for my follies I was made to wander,
With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them:
Now but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones
Had been my bed and pillow.

Ordonio.
Good Isidore!
Why this to me? It is enough, you know it.

Isidore.
A common trick of gratitude, my lord,
Seeking to ease her own full heart—

Ordonio.
Enough!
A debt repaid ceases to be a debt.
You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

Isidore.
And how, my lord? I pray you to name the thing.
I would climb up an ice-glazed precipice
To pluck a weed you fancied!

Ordonio.
Why—that—Lady—

Isidore.
'Tis now three years, my lord, since last I saw you:
Have you a son, my lord?

Ordonio.
O miserable—
[Aside.
Isidore! you are a man, and know mankind.
I told you what I wished—now for the truth—
She loved the man you kill'd.

Isidore.
You jest, my lord?

Ordonio.
And till his death is proved she will not wed me.

Isidore.
You sport with me, my lord?

Ordonio.
Come, come! this foolery
Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it!

Isidore.
I can bear this, and any thing more grievous
From you, my lord—but how can I serve you here?

Ordonio.
Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture
Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning,
Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics—

Isidore.
I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

Ordonio.
In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer.
She hath no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true:
Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense!
Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her.
She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye:
And such do love the marvellous too well
Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
With a strange music, that she knows not of—
With fumes of frankincense, and mummery,
Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck
I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

Isidore.
Will that be a sure sign?

Ordonio.
Beyond suspicion.
Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover,
(By some base spell he had bewitched her senses)
She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth,
As made this heart pour gall into my veins.
And as she coyly bound it round his neck
She made him promise silence; and now holds
The secret of the existence of this portrait
Known only to her lover and herself.
But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them,
And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.

Isidore.
But now I should have cursed the man who told me
You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse—
But this I can not do.

Ordonio.
Where lies your scruple?

Isidore.
Why—why, my lord!
You know you told me that the lady lov'd you,
Had loved you with incautious tenderness;
That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,
Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both
Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples
Than those which being native to the heart,
Than those, my lord, which merely being a man—

Ordonio.
This fellow is a Man—he killed for hire
One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples!
[Then turning to Isidore.
These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering—
Pish, fool! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt,
Spelling thy villainy.

Isidorc.
My lord—my lord,
I can bear much—yes, very much from you!
But there's a point where sufferance is meanness:
I am no villain—never kill'd for hire—
My gratitude—

Ordonio.
O aye—your gratitude!
'Twas a well-sounding word—what have you done with it?

Isidore.
Who proffers his past favours for my virtue—

Ordonio.
Virtue—

Isidore.
Tries to o'erreach me—is a very sharper,
And should not speak of gratitude, my lord.
I knew not 'twas your brother!

Ordonio.
And who told you?

Isidore.
He himself told me.

Ordonio.
Ha! you talk'd with him!
And those, the two Morescoes who were with you?

Isidore.
Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga.

Ordonio
(in a low voice).
My brother—

Isidore.
Yes, my lord, I could not tell you!
I thrust away the thought—it drove me wild.
But listen to me now—I pray you listen—

Ordonio.
Villain! no more. I'll hear no more of it.

Isidore.
My lord, it much imports your future safety
That you should hear it.

Ordonio
(turning off from Isidore).
Am not I a man!
'Tis as it should be! tut—the deed itself
Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler!

Isidore.
We met him in the very place you mentioned.
Hard by a grove of firs—

Ordonio.
Enough—enough—

Isidore.
He fought us valiantly, and wounded all;
In fine, compelled a parley.

Ordonio.
Alvar! brother!

Isidore.
He offered me his purse—

Ordonio.
Yes?

Isidore.
Yes—I spurned it.—
He promised us I know not what—in vain!
Then with a look and voice that overawed me,
He said, What mean you, friends? My life is dear:
I have a brother and a promised wife,
Who make life dear to me—and if I fall,
That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
There was a likeness in his face to yours;
I asked his brother's name: he said—Ordonio,
Son of Lord Valdez! I had well nigh fainted.
At length I said (if that indeed I said it,
And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ,)
That woman is dishonoured by that brother,
And he the man who sent us to destroy you.
He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him
He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd
As he had been made of the rock that propt his back—
Aye, just as you look now—only less ghastly!
At length recovering from his trance, he threw
His sword away, and bade us take his life,
It was not worth his keeping.

Ordonio.
And you kill'd him?
Oh blood hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
He was his Maker's Image undefac'd!
It seizes me—by Hell I will go on!
What—would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't save thee!
Oh cold—cold—cold! shot through with icy cold!

Isidore
(aside).
Were he alive he had returned ere now.
The consequence the same—dead through his plotting!

Ordonio.
O this unutterable dying away—here—
This sickness of the heart!
What if I went
And liv'd in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds?
Aye! that's the road to heaven! O fool! fool! fool!
What have I done but that which nature destined,
Or the blind elements stirred up within me?
If good were meant, why were we made these beings?
And if not meant—

Isidore.
You are disturbed, my lord!

Ordonio
(starts).
A gust of the soul! i'faith it overset me.
O 'twas all folly—all! idle as laughter!
Now, Isidore! I swear that thou shalt aid me.

Isidore
(in a low voice).
I'll perish first!

Ordonio.
What dost thou mutter of?

Isidore.
Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

Ordonio.
There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.

Isidore.
They'll know my gait: but stay! last night I watched
A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild flowers.
I had followed him at distance, seen him scale
Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
Stole after him unnoticed. There I marked,
That mid the chequer work of light and shade
With curious choice he plucked no other flowers,
But those on which the moonlight fell: and once
I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard—
Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.

Ordonio.
Doubtless you question'd him?

Isidore.
'Twas my intention,
Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies
Lurk every where, already (as it seemed)
Had given commission to his apt familiar
To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning,
Was by this trusty agent stopped midway.
I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
In that lone place, again concealed myself:
Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,
And in your name, as lord of this domain,
Proudly he answered, ‘Say to the Lord Ordonio,
He that can bring the dead to life again!’

Ordonio.
A strange reply!

Isidore.
Aye, all of him is strange.
He called himself a Christian, yet he wears
The Moorish robes, as if he courted death.

Ordonio.
Where does this wizard live?

Isidore
(pointing to the distance).
You see that brooklet?
Trace its course backward: through a narrow opening
It leads you to the place.

Ordonio.
How shall I know it?

Isidore.
You cannot err. It is a small green dell
Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
And round its banks tall wood that branches over,
And makes a kind of faery forest grow
Down in the water. At the further end
A puny cataract falls on the lake;
And there, a curious sight! you see its shadow
For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke,
Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it.

Ordonio
(in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and then turning round to Isidore).
Ha!—Who lurks there! Have we been overheard?
There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters—

Isidore.
'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the other,
Form a mock portal with their pointed arch?
Pardon my smiles! 'Tis a poor idiot boy,
Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears.
And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head,
And staring at his bough from morn to sun-set,
See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises.

Ordonio.
'Tis well, and now for this same wizard's lair.

Isidore.
Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash
Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
O'er the old thatch.

Ordonio.
I shall not fail to find it.

[Exeunt Ordonio and Isidore.

Scene II

The inside of a Cottage, around which flowers and plants of various kinds are seen. Discovers Alvar, Zulimez and Alhadra, as on the point of leaving.
Alhadra
(addressing Alvar).
Farewell then! and though many thoughts perplex me,
Aught evil or ignoble never can I
Suspect of thee! If what thou seem'st thou art,
The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need
Of such a leader.

Alvar.
Nobly-minded woman!
Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain:
Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls
The volume of concealment. In the future,
As in the optician's glassy cylinder,
The indistinguishable blots and colours
Of the dim past collect and shape themselves,
Upstarting in their own completed image
To scare or to reward.
I sought the guilty,
And what I sought I found: but ere the spear
Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form
Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose
To the Avenger I leave vengeance, and depart!
Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid,
Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee:
For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble.
Once more, farewell.
[Exit Alhadra.
Yes, to the Belgic states
We will return. These robes, this stained complexion,
Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit.
Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice
Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
Of our past services.

Zulimez.
And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours,
You let a murderer hold?

Alvar.
O faithful Zulimez!
That my return involved Ordonio's death,
I trust, would give me an unmingled pang,
Yet bearable:—but when I see my father
Strewing his scant grey hairs, e'en on the ground,
Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa—
Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants
His infants—poor Teresa!—all would perish,
All perish—all! and I (nay bear with me)
Could not survive the complicated ruin!

Zulimez.
Nay now! I have distress'd you—you well know,
I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome!
You are a painter, one of many fancies!
You can call up past deeds, and make them live
On the blank canvas! and each little herb,
That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,
You have learnt to name—
Hark! heard you not some footsteps?

Alvar.
What if it were my brother coming onwards?
I sent a most mysterious message to him.

Enter Ordonio
Alvar.
It is he!

Ordonio
(to himself as he enters).
If I distinguish'd right her gait and stature,
It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife,
That passed me as I entered. A lit taper,
In the night air, doth not more naturally
Attract the night-flies round it, than a conjuror
Draws round him the whole female neighbourhood.
[Addressing Alvar.
You know my name, I guess, if not my person.
I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez.

Alvar.
The Son of Valdez!

[Ordonio walks leisurely round the room, and looks attentively at the plants.
Zulimez
(to Alvar).
Why, what ails you now?
How your hand trembles! Alvar, speak! what wish you?

Alvar.
To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness!

Ordonio
(returning, and aloud).
Plucked in the moonlight from a ruined abbey—
Those only, which the pale rays visited!
O the unintelligible power of weeds,
When a few odd prayers have been muttered o'er them:
Then they work miracles! I warrant you,
There's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks
Some serviceable imp.
There's one of you
Hath sent me a strange message.

Alvar.
I am he.

Ordonio.
With you, then, I am to speak:
[Haughtily waving his hand to Zulimez.
And mark you, alone.
[Exit Zulimez.
‘He that can bring the dead to life again!’—
Such was your message, Sir! You are no dullard,
But one that strips the outward rind of things!

Alvar.
'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds,
That are all dust and rottenness within.
Would'st thou I should strip such?

Ordonio.
Thou quibbling fool,
What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journeyed hither
To sport with thee?

Alvar.
O no, my lord! to sport
Best suits the gaiety of innocence.

Ordonio
(aside).
O what a thing is man! the wisest heart
A fool! a fool that laughs at its own folly,
Yet still a fool!
[Looks round the cottage.
You are poor!

Alvar.
What follows thence?

Ordonio.
That you would fain be richer.
The inquisition, too—You comprehend me?
You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power,
Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty:
And for the boon I ask of you but this,
That you should serve me—once—for a few hours.

Alvar.
Thou art the son of Valdez! would to Heaven
That I could truly and for ever serve thee.

Ordonio.
The slave begins to soften.
[Aside.
You are my friend,
‘He that can bring the dead to life again,’
Nay, no defence to me! The holy brethren
Believe these calumnies—I know thee better.
Thou art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee!

Alvar
(aside).
Alas! this hollow mirth—Declare your business.

Ordonio.
I love a lady, and she would love me
But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
Have you no servants here, no listeners?

[Ordonio steps to the door.
Alvar.
What, faithless too? False to his angel wife?
To such a wife? Well might'st thou look so wan,
Ill-starr'd Teresa!—Wretch! my softer soul
Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience!

Ordonio.
In truth this lady lov'd another man,
But he has perish'd.

Alvar.
What! you kill'd him? hey?

Ordonio.
I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it!
Insolent slave! how dar'dst thou—
[Turns abruptly from Alvar, and then to himself.
Why! what's this?
'Twas idiotcy! I'll tie myself to an aspen,
And wear a fool's cap—

Alvar.
Fare thee well—
I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.

[Alvar is retiring.
Ordonio.
Ho!

[Calling to Alvar.
Alvar.
Be brief, what wish you?

Ordonio.
You are deep at bartering—You charge yourself
At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

Alvar.
I listen to you.

Ordonio.
In a sudden tempest
Did Alvar perish—he, I mean—the lover—
The fellow—

Alvar.
Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart
To call him villain!—Why stand'st thou aghast?
Men think it natural to hate their rivals.

Ordonio.
Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me.

Alvar.
Are you not wedded, then? Merciful Heaven!
Not wedded to Teresa?

Ordonio.
Why, what ails thee?
What, art thou mad? why look'st thou upward so?
Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air?

Alvar.
Proceed. I shall be silent.

Ordonio.
To Teresa?
Politic wizard! ere you sent that message,
You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
In all my fortunes. Hah! you prophesied
A golden crop! Well, you have not mistaken—
Be faithful to me and I'll pay thee nobly.

Alvar.
Well! and this lady!

Ordonio.
If we could make her certain of his death,
She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,
She tied a little portrait round his neck,
Entreating him to wear it.

Alvar.
Yes! he did so!

Ordonio.
Why no: he was afraid of accidents,
Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like.
In secrecy he gave it me to keep,
Till his return.

Alvar.
What! he was your friend then?

Ordonio.
I was his friend.—
Now that he gave it me,
This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard—
Can call the dead man up—he will not come.—
He is in heaven then—there you have no influence.
Still there are tokens—and your imps may bring you
Something he wore about him when he died.
And when the smoke of the incense on the altar
Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture.
What say you now?

Alvar.
Ordonio, I will do it.

Ordonio.
We'll hazard no delay. Be it to-night,
In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez.
I will prepare him. Music too, and incense,
(For I have arranged it—music, altar, incense)
All shall be ready. Here is this same picture,
And here, what you will value more, a purse.
Come early for your magic ceremonies.

Alvar.
I will not fail to meet you.

Ordonio.
Till next we meet, farewell!

[Exit Ordonio.
Alvar
(alone, indignantly flings the purse away and gazes passionately at the portrait).
And I did curse thee!
At midnight! on my knees! and I believed
Thee perjur'd, thee a traitress! thee dishonour'd!
O blind and credulous fool! O guilt of folly!
Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses,
Thy infant loves—should not thy maiden vows
Have come upon my heart? And this sweet Image
Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment,
And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble—
Ah, coward dupe! to yield it to the miscreant,
Who spake pollution of thee! barter for life
This farewell pledge, which with impassioned vow
I had sworn that I would grasp—ev'n in my Death-pang!
I am unworthy of thy love, Teresa,
Of that unearthly smile upon those lips,
Which ever smiled on me! Yet do not scorn me—
I lisp'd thy name, ere I had learnt my mother's.
Dear portrait! rescued from a traitor's keeping,
I will not now profane thee, holy image,
To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find
A picture, which will wake the hell within him,
And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience.