University of Virginia Library

ACT THE FOURTH

Scene the First.

—A cavern, dark except where a gleam of moonlight is seen on one side of the further end of it, supposed to be cast on it from a cranny in a part of the cavern out of sight.
[Ferdinand alone, an extinguished torch in his hand.
Ferdinand.
Drip! drip! drip! drip!—in such a place as this
It has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!
I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch.
Faith 'twas a moving letter—very moving!
His life in danger—no place safe but this.
'Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude!
And yet—but no! there can't be such a villain.
It cannot be!
Thanks to that little cranny
Which lets the moonlight in! I'll go and sit by it.
To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard,
Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep,
'Twere better than this dreary noise of water-drops!
[He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of moonlight, returns after a minute's elapse in an ecstasy of fear.
A hellish pit! O God—'tis like my night-mair!
I was just in!—and those damn'd fingers of ice
Which clutch'd my hair up! Ha! what's that? it moved!

[Ferdinand stands staring at another recess in the cavern. In the mean time Osorio enters with a torch and hollas to him
Ferdinand.
I swear, I saw a something moving there!
The moonshine came and went, like a flash of lightning.
I swear, I saw it move!

[Osorio goes into the recess, then returns, and with great scorn.
Osorio.
A jutting clay-stone
Drips on the long lank weed that grows beneath;
And the weed nods and drips.

Ferdinand
(forcing a faint laugh).
A joke to laugh at!
It was not that which frighten'd me, my lord!

Osorio.
What frighten'd you?

Ferdinand.
You see that little cranny?
But first permit me,
[Lights his torch at Osorio's, and while lighting it.
[A lighted torch in the hand
Is no unpleasant object here—one's breath
Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours
As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.]
You see that cranny there?

Osorio.
Well, what of that?

Ferdinand.
I walk'd up to it, meaning to sit there.
When I had reach'd it within twenty paces—
[Ferdinand starts as if he felt the terror over again.
Merciful Heaven! Do go, my lord! and look.

[Osorio goes and returns.
Osorio.
It must have shot some pleasant feelings thro' you?

Ferdinand.
If every atom of a dead man's flesh
Should move, each one with a particular life,
Yet all as cold as ever—'twas just so!
Or if it drizzled needle-points of frost
Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald—

Osorio
(interrupting him).
Why, Ferdinand! I blush for thy cowardice.
It would have startled any man, I grant thee.
But such a panic.

Ferdinand.
When a boy, my lord!
I could have sat whole hours beside that chasm,
Push'd in huge stones and heard them thump and rattle
Against its horrid sides; and hung my head
Low down, and listen'd till the heavy fragments
Sunk, with faint crash, in that still groaning well,
Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never
A living thing came near; unless, perchance,
Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould,
Close at its edge.

Osorio.
Art thou more coward now?

Ferdinand.
Call him that fears his fellow-men a coward.
I fear not man. But this inhuman cavern
It were too bad a prison-house for goblins.
Besides (you'll laugh, my lord!) but true it is,
My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted
By what had pass'd between us in the morning.
I saw you in a thousand hideous ways,
And doz'd and started, doz'd again and started.
I do entreat your lordship to believe me,
In my last dream—

Osorio.
Well?

Ferdinand.
I was in the act
Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
Waked me. She heard my heart beat!

Osorio.
Strange enough!
Had you been here before?

Ferdinand.
Never, my lord!
But my eyes do not see it now more clearly
Than in my dream I saw that very chasm.

[Osorio stands in a deep study—then, after a pause.
Osorio.
There is no reason why it should be so.
And yet it is.

Ferdinand.
What is, my lord?

Osorio.
Unpleasant
To kill a man!

Ferdinand.
Except in self-defence.

Osorio.
Why that's my case: and yet 'tis still unpleasant.
At least I find it so! But you, perhaps,
Have stronger nerves?

Ferdinand.
Something doth trouble you.
How can I serve you? By the life you gave me,
By all that makes that life of value to me,
My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you,
Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
If it be innocent! But this, my lord!
Is not a place where you could perpetrate,
No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness
(When ten yards off, we know, 'tis chearful moonlight)
Collects the guilt and crowds it round the heart.
It must be innocent.

Osorio.
Thyself be judge.
[Osorio walks round the cavern—then looking round it.
One of our family knew this place well.

Ferdinand.
Who? when? my lord.

Osorio.
What boots it who or when?
Hang up the torch. I'll tell his tale to thee.

[They hang their torches in some shelf of the cavern.
Osorio.
He was a man different from other men,
And he despised them, yet revered himself.

Ferdinand.
What? he was mad?

Osorio.
All men seem'd mad to him,
Their actions noisome folly, and their talk—
A goose's gabble was more musical.
Nature had made him for some other planet,
And press'd his soul into a human shape
By accident or malice. In this world
He found no fit companion!

Ferdinand.
Ah, poor wretch!
Madmen are mostly proud.

Osorio.
He walk'd alone,
And phantasies, unsought for, troubled him.
Something within would still be shadowing out
All possibilities, and with these shadows
His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happen'd,
A fancy cross'd him wilder than the rest:
To this in moody murmur, and low voice,
He yielded utterance as some talk in sleep.
The man who heard him—
Why didst thou look round?

Ferdinand.
I have a prattler three years old, my lord!
In truth he is my darling. As I went
From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep—
But I am talking idly—pray go on!
And what did this man?

Osorio.
With his human hand
He gave a being and reality
To that wild fancy of a possible thing.
Well it was done.
[Then very wildly.
Why babblest thou of guilt?
The deed was done, and it pass'd fairly off.
And he, whose tale I tell thee—dost thou listen?

Ferdinand.
I would, my lord, you were by my fireside!
I'd listen to you with an eager eye,
Tho' you began this cloudy tale at midnight.
But I do listen—pray proceed, my lord!

Osorio.
Where was I?

Ferdinand.
He of whom you tell the tale—

Osorio.
Surveying all things with a quiet scorn
Tamed himself down to living purposes,
The occupations and the semblances
Of ordinary men—and such he seem'd.
But that some over-ready agent—he—

Ferdinand.
Ah! what of him, my lord?

Osorio.
He proved a villain;
Betray'd the mystery to a brother villain;
And they between them hatch'd a damnéd plot
To hunt him down to infamy and death
To share the wealth of a most noble family,
And stain the honour of an orphan lady
With barbarous mixture and unnatural union.
What did the Velez? I am proud of the name,
Since he dared do it.

[Osorio grasps his sword and turns off from Ferdinand, then, after a pause, returns.
Osorio.
Our links burn dimly.

Ferdinand.
A dark tale darkly finish'd! Nay, my lord!
Tell what he did.

Osorio
(fiercely).
That which his wisdom prompted.
He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,
And here he kill'd the traitor.

Ferdinand.
No!—the fool.
He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen
That he, who gull'd thee with a whimper'd lie
To murder his own brother, would not scruple
To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous
And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

Osorio.
Thou would'st not then have come, if—

Ferdinand.
O yes, my lord!
I would have met him arm'd, and scared the coward!

[Ferdinand throws off his robe, shews himself armed, and draws his sword.
Osorio.
Now this is excellent, and warms the blood!
My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
With womanish pulls of pity. Dusky slave,
Now I will kill thee pleasantly, and count it
Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

Ferdinand.
And all my little ones fatherless! Die thou first.

[They fight. Osorio disarms Ferdinand, and in disarming him, throws his sword up that recess, opposite to which they were standing.
Ferdinand
(springing wildly towards Osorio).
Still I can strangle thee!

Osorio.
Nay, fool! stand off.
I'll kill thee—but not so! Go fetch thy sword.

[Ferdinand hurries into the recess with his torch. Osorio follows him, and in a moment returns alone.
Osorio.
Now—this was luck! No bloodstains, no dead body!
His dream, too, is made out. Now for his friend.

[Exit.
Scene changes to the court before the Castle of Velez.
Maria and her Foster-Mother.
Maria.
And when I heard that you desired to see me,
I thought your business was to tell me of him.

Foster-Mother.
I never saw the Moor, whom you describe.

Maria.
'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly
As mine and Albert's common foster-mother.

Foster-Mother.
Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet lady,
As often as I think of those dear times
When you two little ones would stand at eve,
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you,
'Tis more like heaven to come, that what has been!

Maria.
O my dear mother! this strange man has left me
Wilder'd with wilder fancies than yon moon
Breeds in the love-sick maid—who gazes at it
Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye
She gazes idly! But that entrance, mother!

Foster-Mother.
Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Maria.
No one.

Foster-Mother.
My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Leoni. Angels rest his soul!
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy.
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
A friar who gather'd simples in the wood,
A grey-hair'd man—he loved this little boy,
The boy loved him—and, when the friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
So he became a very learned youth.
But O! poor wretch—he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things.
And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray
With holy men, nor in a holy place.
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him,
And once as by the north side of the chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,
The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fall'n
Right on their heads. My lord was sorely frighten'd;
A fever seiz'd him; and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobb'd like a child—it almost broke his heart.
And once as he was working in the cellar,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I described:
And the young man escaped.

Maria.
'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a list'ning child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.
And what became of him?

Foster-Mother.
He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers, who made discovery
Of golden lands; Leoni's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Leoni that the poor mad youth,
Soon after they arrived in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat,
And all alone set sail by silent moonlight,
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more; but 'tis supposed
He liv'd and died among the savage men.

Enter Velez.
Velez.
Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you.

Maria.
O Christ! the tortures that hang o'er his head,
If ye betray him to these holy brethren!

Velez
(with a kind of sneer).
A portly man, and eloquent, and tender!
In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn
That their rude grasp should seize on such a victim.

Maria.
The horror of their ghastly punishments
Doth so o'ertop the height of sympathy,
That I should feel too little for mine enemy—
Ah! far too little—if 'twere possible,
I could feel more, even tho' my child or husband
Were doom'd to suffer them! That such things are—

Velez.
Hush! thoughtless woman!

Maria.
Nay—it wakes within me
More than a woman's spirit.

Velez
(angrily).
No more of this—
I can endure no more.

Foster-Mother.
My honour'd master!
Lord Albert used to talk so.

Maria.
Yes! my mother!
These are my Albert's lessons, and I con them
With more delight than, in my fondest hour,
I bend me o'er his portrait.

Velez
(to the Foster-Mother).
My good woman,
You may retire.

[Exit the Foster-Mother.
Velez.
We have mourn'd for Albert.
Have I no living son?

Maria.
Speak not of him!
That low imposture—my heart sickens at it,
If it be madness, must I wed a madman?
And if not madness, there is mystery,
And guilt doth lurk behind it!

Velez.
Is this well?

Maria.
Yes! it is truth. Saw you his countenance?
How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,
Displac'd each other with swift interchanges?
If this were all assumed, as you believe,
He must needs be a most consummate actor;
And hath so vast a power to deceive me,
I never could be safe. And why assume
The semblance of such execrable feelings?

Velez.
Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
An old man's passion! Was it not enough
That thou hast made my son a restless man,
Banish'd his health and half-unhinged his reason,
But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion,
And toil to blast his honour? I am old—
A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay
Beneath my roof!

[Francesco enters and stands listening.
Velez.
Repent and marry him—
Or to the convent.

Francesco
(muttering).
Good! good! very good!

Maria.
Nay, grant me some small pittance of my fortune,
And I will live a solitary woman,
Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons
May be my household.

Francesco
(advancing).
I abhor a listener;
But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you.
I pray, my lord! will you embolden me
To ask you why this lady doth prefer
To live in lonely sort, without a friend
Or fit companion?

Velez.
Bid her answer you.

Maria.
Nature will be my friend and fit companion.
[Turns off from them.
O Albert! Albert! that they could return,
Those blessed days, that imitated heaven!
When we two wont to walk at evening-tide;
When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard
The voice of that Almighty One, who lov'd us,
In every gale that breath'd, and wave that murmur'd!
O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief,
And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight
Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.

Francesco.
But in the convent, lady, you would have
Such aids as might preserve you from perdition.
There you might dwell.

Maria.
With tame and credulous faith,
Mad melancholy, antic merriment,
Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs!
O God! it is a horrid thing to know
That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
Such as the angels wear!

Francesco
(stifling his rage).
Where is your son, my lord?

Velez.
I have not seen him, father, since he left you.

Francesco.
His lordship's generous nature hath deceiv'd him!
That Ferdinand (or if not he his wife)
I have fresh evidence—are infidels.
We are not safe until they are rooted out.

Maria.
Thou man, who call'st thyself the minister
Of Him whose law was love unutterable!
Why is thy soul so parch'd with cruelty,
That still thou thirstest for thy brother's blood?

Velez
(rapidly).
Father! I have long suspected it—her brain—
Heed it not, father!

Francesco.
Nay—but I must heed it.

Maria.
Thou miserable man! I fear thee not,
Nor prize a life which soon may weary me.
Bear witness, Heav'n! I neither scorn nor hate him—
But O! 'tis wearisome to mourn for evils,
Still mourn, and have no power to remedy!

[Exit Maria.
Francesco.
My lord! I shall presume to wait on you
To-morrow early.

Velez.
Be it so, good father!

[Exit Francesco.
Velez
(alone).
I do want solace, but not such as thine!
The moon is high in heaven, and my eyes ache,
But not with sleep. Well—it is ever so.
A child, a child is born! and the fond heart
Dances! and yet the childless are most happy.

[Scene changes to the mountains by moonlight. Alhadra alone in a Moorish dress, her eyes fixed on the earth. Then drop in one after another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in their Moorish garments. They form a circle at a distance round Alhadra. After a pause one of the Morescoes to the man who stands next to him.
First Moresco.
The law which forced these Christian dresses on us,
'Twere pleasant to cleave down the wretch who framed it.

Second.
Yet 'tis not well to trample on it idly.

First.
Our country robes are dear.

Second.
And like dear friends,
May chance to prove most perilous informers.

[A third Moresco, Naomi, advances from out the circle.
Naomi.
Woman! may Alla and the prophet bless thee!
We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief?
And why didst thou enjoin the Moorish garments?

Alhadra
(lifting up her eyes, and looking round on the circle).
Warriors of Mahomet, faithful in the battle,
My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
An honourable deed? And would ye work it
In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
They are spell-blasted; and whoever wears them,
His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
And his bones soften!

Naomi.
Where is Ferdinand?

Alhadra
(in a deep low voice).
This night I went from forth my house, and left
His children all asleep; and he was living!
And I return'd, and found them still asleep—
But he had perish'd.

All.
Perished?

Alhadra.
He had perish'd!
Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
That he is fatherless, a desolate orphan!
Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
Revenge his murder?

One to Another.
Did she say his murder?

Naomi.
Murder'd? Not murder'd?

Alhadra.
Murder'd by a Christian!

[They all, at once, draw their sabres.
Alhadra
(to Naomi, who on being addressed again advances from the circle).
Brother of Zagri! fling away thy sword:
This is thy chieftain's!
[He steps forward to take it.
Dost thou dare receive it?
For I have sworn by Alla and the prophet,
No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
Wet with the blood of all the house of Velez!

Enter Maurice.
All.
A spy! a spy!

[They seize him.
Maurice.
Off! off! unhand me, slaves!

[After much struggling he disengages himself and draws his sword.
Naomi
(to Alhadra).
Speak! shall we kill him?

Maurice.
Yes! ye can kill a man,
Some twenty of you! But ye are Spanish slaves!
And slaves are always cruel, always cowards.

Alhadra.
That man has spoken truth. Whence and who art thou?

Maurice.
I seek a dear friend, whom for aught I know
The son of Velez hath hired one of you
To murder! Say, do ye know aught of Albert?

Alhadra
(starting).
Albert?—three years ago I heard that name
Murmur'd in sleep! High-minded foreigner!
Mix thy revenge with mine, and stand among us.

[Maurice stands among the Morescoes.
Alhadra.
Was not Osorio my husband's friend?

Old Man.
He kill'd my son in battle; yet our chieftain
Forced me to sheathe my dagger. See—the point
Is bright, unrusted with the villain's blood!

Alhadra.
He is your chieftain's murderer!

Naomi.
He dies by Alla!

All
(dropping on one knee).
By Alla!

Alhadra.
This night a reeking slave came with loud pant,
Gave Ferdinand a letter, and departed,
Swift as he came. Pale, with unquiet looks,
He read the scroll.

Maurice.
Its purport?

Alhadra.
Yes, I ask'd it.
He answer'd me, ‘Alhadra! thou art worthy
A nobler secret; but I have been faithful
To this bad man, and faithful I will be.’
He said, and arm'd himself, and lit a torch;
Then kiss'd his children, each one on its pillow,
And hurried from me. But I follow'd him
At distance, till I saw him enter there.

Naomi.
The cavern?

Alhadra.
Yes—the mouth of yonder cavern.
After a pause I saw the son of Velez
Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise enter'd—
There was another and a longer pause—
And once, methought, I heard the clash of swords,
And soon the son of Velez reappear'd.
He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
And seem'd as he were mirthful! I stood listening
Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!

Maurice.
Thou called'st him?

Alhadra.
I crept into the cavern:
'Twas dark and very silent.
[Then wildly.
What said'st thou?
No, no! I did not dare call, Ferdinand!
Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while,
Belike, I lost all thought and memory
Of that for which I came! After that pause,
O God! I heard a groan!—and follow'd it.
And yet another groan—which guided me
Into a strange recess—and there was light,
A hideous light! his torch lay on the ground—
Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink.
I spake—and while I spake, a feeble groan
Came from that chasm! It was his last! his death groan!

Maurice.
Comfort her, comfort her, Almighty Father!

Alhadra.
I stood in unimaginable trance
And agony, that cannot be remember'd,
Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
But I had heard his last—my husband's death-groan!

Naomi.
Haste! let us go!

Alhadra.
I look'd far down the pit.
My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment,
And it was stain'd with blood! Then first I shriek'd!
My eyeballs burnt! my brain grew hot as fire!
And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
Turn'd into blood. I saw them turn to blood!
And I was leaping wildly down the chasm
When on the further brink I saw his sword,
And it said, Vengeance! Curses on my tongue!
The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here,
And he hath not had vengeance! Ferdinand!
Spirit of Ferdinand! thy murderer lives!
Away! away!

[She rushes off, all following.