University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

A dark Landscape—Tower behind.
Enter Kilmorack, Coucy, Attendants.
Cou.
Where do you mean to bear the girl, my lord?

Kil.
To the first lonely dwelling we can reach.
Hast thou thy gown, thy breviary, and cowl?

Cou.
Yes; but I little wot how they'll become me.

Kil.
Short be thine office;—join our hands, look up,
And speak in unknown words,—it nought avails
What be the purport. O! without that potion,
That stillient of the soul, which beauty drinks
From churchman's hand, we chevaliers of love
From many a fruitless foray might return!—
She knows not we are here; but she denies
All fix'd appointment. Yet my page assures me
That she is much perplex'd:—Her father absent,—
Her mother's tongue pouring forth advocation
On my behalf,—from such a promised harvest
What man would shrink?

Cou.
My heart misgives me much.
If you affect the dame,—she's nobly born,—
Why not wed her in mode ostensible?

Kil.
God bless the apothegm!—'tis the first breath
That e'er was shaped to semblancy of virtue
By Coucy's lips!—It is sheer envy, knight;
I know thee well. Say, is it not more chivalrous
To bear her off, which not inhibits wedlock,
But often renders it more obligation?
Without some travail and combustion
In the attainment of delight, 'tis nought,—
I would not have it. Ye propitious stars,
I worship you! See who comes gliding here,
Like the mild spirit of the twilight, sent
To shed the odours and the dews of life
On panting nature!—O, ye suasive powers!
That mould the heart of woman by mere sound,
Hang on the evening winds, that every breath
Which my rapt bosom drinks may be thine own,
And flow in strains of wonderful conjurement!—
Retire, good friends; and if my suit avail not,
Which shall be fashion'd to the very frame
Of her kind motion'd soul, then be you ready.

Enter Annabel—Kilmorack steps from the side, and takes her hand.
Anna.
Ah!

Kil.
And art thou come indeed? may I believe it?

Anna.
Kilmorack!—My Lord Kilmorack here!

Kil.
Here, my sweet angel.—Blessings on thy head
For this last kindness!—Here I should have stood
Until the day-beam crested green Carleven,
Ere I had quit my post. O let me kneel,
For I'm unworthy of this holy trust!

Anna.
Trust! my good lord.—I no instruction had,
By word or thought, that thou wast here; and much
It doth amaze me.

Kil.
A resistless hand
Still drags me here. Had I but seen thy form
From yonder casement, I had ween'd my pains
A thousand times o'erpaid, and should have sped
From this beloved retreat more satisfied.

Anna.
I'm truly grieved that you are bound to leave
The chace, the forest, and your friends so soon.

Kil.
'Tis thy divine perfections, peerless maid;—
The chace or forest has no charms for me
Since I'm denied thy presence. I must go
To my own home, and sigh for thee in silence.

Anna.
I could not ween your love for me was such;
But you have said it, and it must be so.
O stay, my lord! stay but a little while;
My father may be won.

Kil.
Before to-morrow's sun hath tipt the cone
Of yon high western hill with burning gold,
Or flung the eastern shadows o'er the vale,
I shall be gone far from these hills, and all
My heart holds dear!—I cannot say the word,
That cutting word, forever!—O, 'tis painful
This last embrace! but yet that pain is sweet.
I see you're moved—One kiss, and then farewell!
Think sometimes of me, Annabel.

Anna.
Farewell, my lord. Are you,—are you then gone?

Kil.
O, I could stay thus till the distant morn,
The last that wakes o'er this devoted world;—
Till the loud peal that waked my kindred dust
Should rouse me from my trance! But what avails?
How proud would I have been, could I have borne
A bride so peerless to my native vale!
The envy of the land!—I'm most unworthy;
But if thou'lt go with me, sweet Annabel,
No lady in our isle in state shall cap
Kilmorack's bride.

Anna.
I have thought of it, my lord; I cannot go.

Kil.
I will not press it, beauteous Annabel;
Thy prudence may judge fairer than my love.
Give me a token—one small lock of hair;
I'll case't in gold, and wear it next my heart,
And press it to my lips each day I live.
When the death-bell hath slowly toll'd me home,
And my last vesper been in requiem sung,
My head upon that precious relic pillow'd,
Will make my sleep more sweet.
(She gives it him, much affected.)
Adieu!—'twill break my heart longer to stay.

Anna.
But think'st thou their's are safe who stay behind?

Kil.
O, stay not then!—Your will's your own, and free
As the dun deer that wanders on the waste,
Or bird that cleaves the firmament: My heart
Is solely yours. The thing most wish'd on earth
By me, is to be one with Annabel.
Should you leave all for me, kindred and friends,
How doubly dear 'twould make thee!

Anna.
(Looking at the castle.)
My father and mother—

Kil.
Think not I urge it, gentle Annabel;
'Twould be too much to say, thou might'st confide
In me, or trust my love and honour.

Anna.
O, I could trust thee with my life, my lord;
And if there's any thing more dear to me,
I could with that, methinks, now trust thee too:
A love so generous has no selfish end!—
I wonder at my heart: It is not right,—
I know I should not go; and yet there is
A little puny elf within, still whispering—
“Go with thy lover, Annabel!”
What does it mean?

Kil.
That thou'rt all innocence and purity,
And must and shall be mine.—Come,—come!

Anna.
(Weeping and looking back.)
I know I'm doing wrong, and yet—Farewell!—
(Stops short and starts.)
Hold, my good lord, a while;
Let me deliberate calmly on this act:
Short conference with my own heart will serve.—
Fair candid maid,—Can'st thou, in time to come,
Answer, with open truth and stedfast look,
To prudence, virtue, parents, and the world,
For this?—Not one:—No; not to one of them!
Ah, what a gulf reflection has unveil'd!—
My lord, I would not thus, in secret guise,
Go with thee to be made this island's queen;
And, ere th'infection catches me again,
I take my leave.—Adieu, my lord!

Kil.
Nay, stay;—I cannot, and I will not lose thee:
Thou needs must go with me.

Anna.
No,—never;
In this clandestine mode I never will.—
I pledge my oath; therefore desist, my lord.

Kil.
Then since it must be so—

(Whistles—Enter Coucy and Attendants.)
Anna.
Ha! is it thus?
Hold off your impious servile palms from me;—
Here do I cling for safety!—My good lord,
Since thus I'm in your power, I'll rather trust
Your honour than my strength.—I go with you.

(Weeps.—Exeunt.)