Dramas (Baillie)/Romiero/Act 4

by Joanna Baillie

ACT IV.

SCENE I.—A Grove of Pines, and the Sky of Morning, before Sunrise, seen through them.

Enter Romiero and Guzman from a thicket at the bottom of the Stage.

ROMIERO.

The dull light through yon bank of misty clouds

Hath changed its tanny hue for silver grey;
'T is near, 'tis actually, 't is past the time.

GUZMAN.

Have patience; for the sun, I guess, is still

Behind the eastern hills.

ROMIERO.

Should they escape!—Some cursed emissary,

Upon the watch, perhaps, hath given alarm.
Should they escape us by some other path!—
It must not be: I will look out.

GUZMAN (drawing him back to the thicket as he is about to advance).

Keep still.

I see them now; but let us be conceal'd
Till they are nearer.

ROMIERO.

They move tardily,

With their damn'd dalliance.—So very fond
That they forget the peril of their state,
Lost in the present bliss.——
Ay; smile with lips which shall, within an hour,
Be closed in death; and glance your looks of love
From eyes which shall, ere long, in coldness glare
Like glassy icicles.

GUZMAN.

Stay; rush not on them now.

ROMIERO.

See that! see that! her hand, and then her lips!

Shall I look on, and give another moment

To such abhorred transport.—Where's my weapon? (Snatching his sword from Guzman, who attempts to remove it.)

GUZMAN.

Be not a madman in thine extacy,

And foil thine own intent.—See, they advance.

Enter Maurice, leading Beatrice muffled in her mantle.

MAURICE.

Come, sweetest mistress mine, move we more quickly;

Our horses wait us some few paces off;
And by the baiting hour, when labouring hinds,
Under some tree, sit round the loosen'd scrip,
Holding on homely fare a merry feast,
We will, like them, in all security,
Enjoy a welcome rest.

ROMIERO. (rushing forth).

Which shall to doomsday last, thou damned villain!—(Draws fiercely upon him, while Beatrice runs away. They fight, but she presently returns and rushes between them, favoured by Guzman.)

ROMIERO.

Forbear, thou shameless woman.—Beatrice!

BEATRICE.

It is, my Lord; and O have pity on me!

It is myself who am the most to blame.
Pardon my dear, dear Maurice.—Yes, you will.
Your look of strange amazement, changed to joy,
Emboldens me.—Our hearts have long been join'd;
O do not sever us!

ROMIERO.

No, simple girl:

Sever ye! by the holy rood I will not!
I am right glad that ye are so united.
Stick to it then; be thrifty of your love,
To make it last; be doves in constancy.
Good sooth, young fools! I will not sever ye.

BEATRICE (kissing his hand).

Thanks, noble, kind Romiero!

MAURICE.

Thanks for this frank and unexpected pardon!

I fear'd, my Lord, that you might deem it right
To thwart my suit with Beatrice, who lived,
Protected, as her friends might haply think,
Beneath your roof.

ROMIERO.

And thou thought'st justly too.

In cooler blood so ought I to have felt.
Beshrew me! whither fled my wits the while?
I have most freely given what is not mine.
(To Guzman.) Do thou, my friend, untie this ravell'd knot.
(Turning again to Maurice.) I'll plead thy cause, at least, and prove, perhaps,
A powerful advocate.—Speak to them, Guzman;
And promise in my name, without reserve,
All that my honour warrants. I, meantime.
Must make my peace where I have need of pardon.
[Exit in eager haste.

MAURICE.

How placable and kind beyond belief!

Would I had fairly own'd to him my love,
Since he is thus inclined! But he appear'd
Hostile, and stern, and fretful at my stay,
Unreasonably prolong'd. I had not courage
To risk my happiness, which his caprice,
Stern sense of honour—call it as you please—
Might in a moment blast.

GUZMAN.

I blame thee not; had'st thou at first declared it,

Thou would'st have found him hostile.

MAURICE.

Then, pray, Don Guzman, what strange freak hath changed him?

GUZMAN.

That he is changed, is your good luck; improve it,

Without inquiring why you are so favour'd.

MAURICE.

And so we will, sweet Beatrice; we will

Delay our happiness, to make it surer.

BEATRICE.

Yes, Maurice; run no further risk; we'll both

Return again and bide within the castle.

GUZMAN.

No; be advised: (to Beatrice) do thou return alone;

Some foolish freak may yet disturb his mind.

I know he'll favour Maurice most when absent.
(To Maurice.) Dost thou not comprehend me?

MAURICE.

Not very clearly: jealousy of one

Whose love is fix'd on an acknowledged mistress,
So fair, so lovely, were absurd—impossible.

GUZMAN.

Nay, only say absurd; for there be husbands,

Ay, lovers too, who, should you cross their way,
New-mated with the Queen of Love herself,
And their own dame or mistress were in form
Black as an Ethiope, would ne'ertheless
Suspect you of designs against their peace.
Then wonder not, Zorada being fair,
If fanciful conceits disturb his brain.

MAURICE.

But I'll be circumspect.

GUZMAN.

Go, foolish boy!

Thy very shadow on the wall will show
Some indication of sinister wishes,
School thou the substance as thou wilt. Go, go!
And be assured I'll prove thy friend when absent.

MAURICE (to Beatrice).

And must we part?

BEATRICE.

We shall not part for long.

MAURICE.

No, not for long, sweet maid: beneath thy window

I'll hold my midnight watch; and when thy casement
Moves slowly on its hinges, I'll look up,
And see thy beauty, by the moon's pale light,
Sending sweet smiles to bless me.—
When thou walk'st forth, I'll in some thicket lurk,
To see thee pass—perhaps to touch thy robe.
Wilt thou not give me, dear, before we part,
Some token of thy love?

BEATRICE.

Yes, gentle Maurice, thou shalt have a token,

Which every hour thou'lt look upon, and think
How dear, how true——

GUZMAN.

I'll leave you for a while

To settle all this nonsense as you will;
That done, we'll meet again in yonder alley,
And I'll conduct the lady to the castle.
[Exeunt severally.

SCENE II.

The Apartment of Zorada.—She enters with Nurse, who carries a basket in her hand.

ZORADA (speaking as she enters).

And see, good Nurse, that where the cold wind enter'd

Thou stop the crevice well. Oh! that his head,
His dear and honour'd head, should so be laid,
While I am couch'd on down! Thou say'st his face
Look'd not so sadly as before.

NURSE.

Indeed I thought so, Madam: he spoke cheerily,

And listen'd to my stories of past days,
As if he liked to hear them.

ZORADA.

Alas! the very sound of human words,

Address'd to him in peace, is now a solace
Enjoy'd but rarely.—I must talk and smile,
And keep my station at the social board,
While my sad heart is thinking of his silent
And lonely state.—There is my picture then,
Since he desires to have it. (Giving her a picture, which he puts into the basket.)

NURSE.

Yes, Madam, he did earnestly desire it.

He bade me say to you, no lover ever
Gazed on the features of a plighted mistress
With such intense and yearning love as he
Will gaze upon this image.

ZORADA.

Yes; he will look, and think that in return

It looks with love on him; but woe is me!
He cannot know how dearly in my heart
His image is impress'd. I call to mind
His kind caresses in my infant years;
His noble form in warlike harness braced,
When he returning caught me to his heart,
And heard my simple welcome with delight,
Filling his eyes with tears. I well remember—
Dost thou not also, Nurse? the voice of fondness
With which, ev'n when I cross'd his graver mood,
He called me little Zada. O 't was sweet!
I thought so then; but now it haunts mine ear
Like portion of some broken melody,
Which mocking bird is so enamour'd of,
He will not learn the whole.—And say, good Nurse,
That I will surely see him ere he go,
If it be possible.[Exit Nurse.
(After a thoughtful pause.) "My little Zada! tush, my little fool!
I will not have thee for my playfellow,
If thou art so perverse."

No more than this; this was my worst rebuke.
He set no heartless stepdame o'er my head,
Though many ladies strove to win his love.
He was both sire and mother to his child,
Gentle as her I lost.
Then for his sake I'll willingly endure
The present misery. O my Romiero!
Wilt thou not trust my conduct for a day?—
Absent all night! To what a state of passion
His brooding fancy must have work'd his mind!
Alas, alas! 't is his infirmity.

Enter Romiero.

ROMIERO.

My dear Zorada! dear, dear wife! thy pardon:

I crave it on my knees. O pardon one
Who has offended from excess of love.
I might have thought all eyes that look'd upon thee,
With more than admiration look'd; but, Oh!
To think that thy pure mind could e'er be moved
To aught which blessed saints might not approve,
Was monstrous, vile—yea a most vile suggestion—
Though all the while 'twas an offence of love.
Thou art amazed, I see, and well thou may'st.
I have but now discover'd what my fears—

ZORADA.

Fears! What hast thou discover'd?

ROMIERO.

Be not alarm'd; naught that can injure thee.

For if thou hast been privy to their love,
Though I might chide thee as a cunning wife,
Who from her husband hath a secret kept,
The bane of confidence; yet being myself
So deep in trespass, I must needs be meek,
And say thou art not very, very naughty.

ZORADA.

Thy words are wild; I do not comprehend them.

ROMIERO.

Dost thou not know thy fair but thoughtless friend

Has to young Maurice's suit such favour given,
That she this morning, short while since, was caught
Escaping in his company?
I watch'd and stopp'd them in the grove of pines.
How glad a sight it was to me, when, wild,
With terror wild, she rush'd between our weapons,
To find it was but Beatrice.

ZORADA.

But Beatrice! whom did'st thou fear to find?

ROMIERO.

Oh! spare me! Crimson shame upon my cheek,

Betrays too plainly that for which already
I've craved forgiveness.

ZORADA (drawing herself up proudly).

Yes, I comprehend thee.

ROMIERO.

Oh! but that look, that air, that flush of anger

Which ne'er before so stain'd thy lovely face,
Speak not of pardon. (She turns away, and he fallows her.) I have much offended.
But he who like offence hath ne'er committed:
Who ne'er hath look'd on man's admiring eye
Fix'd on the treasure of his heart, till fear,
Suspicion, hatred hath bereft his soul
Of every generous feeling; he who never
Hath, in that state of torture, watch'd her face
Till ev'n the traits of saintly innocence
Have worn the shade of conscious guilt; who never
Hath, in his agony, for her dear sake
Cursed all the sex;—may, as the world conceives.
Be a most wise, affectionate, good husband;
But, by all ecstacy of soul, by all
That lifts it to an angel's pitch, or sinks it
Ev'n to perdition, he has loved but slightly—
Loved with a love, compared to what I feel,
As cottage hearth where smould'ring embers lie,
To the surcharged unquenchable volcano.

ZORADA.

What creed is this which thy perturbed mind

Repeats so boldly? Good my Lord, discard it,

As a false faith. I have believed true love
Of such a noble, high, confiding nature,
That neither scandal's breath, nor seeming show
Of fitful change, could shake its gen'rous trust.
'T were agony for me to think thee false;
But till thou front me with a rival—yea,
Till thine own words have own'd that thou art faithless—
I will believe thee true.

ROMIERO.

Believe, believe it! and on these dear hands,

A thousand times caress'd, let me be vow'd
Ne'er to offend again thy noble nature
With ev'n the slightest movement of suspicion.
Dost thou relent, Zorada? Dost thou love me?

ZORADA.

Indeed I do; have I not often said it?

And yet, it seems, thou did'st mistrust my words.

ROMIERO.

Fy on that gibe! let me have perfect pardon.

ZORADA (embracing him).

Thou art forgiven. Now; art thou satisfied?

ROMIERO.

I were a Tartar else, or sullen Turk.

Sweet partner, lovely mate, my gentle wife!
O the soft touch of this dear hand thrills through me,
So dear! as dear as when thou first wert mine.

(Stroking her hand, and then pressing it to his forehead and cheek.) If word, or look, or circumstance, again

E'er tempt me to conceive unworthy thoughts,

I am a vulgar wretch, debased and mean,
Unworthy even to look thee in the face,
Or hold myself akin to virtue. No;
I will no more offend.

Re-enter Nurse, who is busy arranging her basket, and then looking up, starts on seeing Romiero.
Nay, start not, worthy Nurse; pray thee advance.

NURSE.

I came—I thought my Lady was alone.

ROMIERO.

And so she is; for we are so united

In every thought and wish, that thou should'st reckon.
When with each other, we are still alone.
Is it not so?—Thou comest for some good purpose,
I'll swear. To whom bear'st thou that tempting fruit?

NURSE.

To no one, Sir; I come to show its beauty:

It is my Lady's basket.

ROMIERO.

Thou'st cull'd the best: my lips are parch'd and dry.

May I——(Putting his hand to the basket.)

NURSE.

Nay, good my Lord, I'll choose you one.

ROMIERO (rejecting what she offers).

Not that: the further peach my fancy courts.

(Putting his hand into the basket.)
But there be dainty viands and cakes besides!

ZORADA.

A charitable dole for age and want. (Looking to the Nurse significantly.)

That is the reason why I bade her show it,

Ere she should take it to the poor distress'd.

ROMIERO.

Ha! let me then restore my robbery;

And here, to make amends. (Putting money into the basket.)

What have we here?

(Taking out a picture.)
Is this a present for your villager?

NURSE.

Yes, please you.—No, she but desired to see it.

ROMIERO (with bitter irony).

A most refined and sentimental gossip!

Or does she mean to use it as a charm
To cure old aching bones?

NURSE.

You've guess'd it well, my Lord. Quoth she to me,

Could I but see your Lady's blessed face!
Quoth I to her, Thou canst not, by good reason:
My Lord is now return'd. Quoth she again.
Could I but see her picture, lack a day!

ROMIERO.

Have done: I see thy drift. Be not so eager

To tell me how it is. I'm satisfied.

ZORADA.

Come to my closet, Nurse; there is besides

What I must charge thee with.
[Exeunt Zorada and Nurse, the last speaking loudly as she retires.
Ay, ay, quoth she, poor soul! I have a longing
To see that picture. Foolish man, quoth I,
'Tis but a painted—(Her voice still heard as she retires.)

ROMIERO.

Foolish man, quoth I!—The cunning jade

Hath made a slip: it was a woman first.

(A pause, and he stands musing and muttering to himself before he speaks aloud, then in a low smothered voice) Ay, and such thoughts

Which in the breast had perish'd unreveal'd,

Are by these cunning beldames brought to utterance.

Words follow thoughts, acts follow words, and all
The steps of infamy, from which the mind
By nature shrinks, are thus familiar made.
A blighting bane, corroding to its core

Beauty and innocence. (Mimicking the voice of a nurse.)—"My dearest child!

Thou need'st not fear to tell thy thoughts to me;

I know thy tender heart, I know thy fears."

Would the whole race were blasted from the earth! (In his own voice, and stamping on the ground.)

Enter Jerome

What brings thee here?

JEROME.

Old Pietro is below,

And craves to speak with you.

ROMIERO.

The irksome fool!

He trows that I am always in the humour
To hear his prosing proverbs.

JEROME.

He does, my Lord; and oft presuming on it,

Has grown familiar.

ROMIERO.

Art thou his judge?

Tell him I cannot see him now. To-morrow
I'll find him in his cottage.

JEROME.

But what he has to tell you, please you, Sir,

He bade me further add, is of importance.
And may not be delay'd.

ROMIERO.

I'll see him, then, since it must needs be so.

SCENE III.

An Antechamber.

Enter Pietro and a Domestic.

PIETRO (speaking as he enters).

A blessing on thy simple head! impatient!

I have, good sooth! been wont to speak with him
As though he were my fellow. Much shrewd counsel
He hath received from me right pleasantly.
He looks not grave or proud when poor men speak;
At least I'm sure he was not so inclined
Before he married.

Enter Jerome behind him, and listens archly.

Ay, he knows mankind.
With all their knavish arts; ay, and he knows
I know them also. Bless the day! full often

He listen'd to me with a merry face:
Much shrewd discoursing we have had together.

JEROME (advancing).

True, but such shrewd discoursing, as thou call'st it,

Should only upon rainy days take place,
When idle folk, from field and sport debarr'd,
Are glad to while away the weary time
With aught to save the kicking of their heels.

PIETRO.

Will he not see me, then?

JEROME.

I said not so.

He'll see thee presently; but do not teaze him
With a long-winded tale, choked up with saws;
He is not in the humour for it now,
It would, to say the least on't, be a present
More prized by him who gives than who receives it.

PIETRO.

Go to! I have no need of thee to school me:

I know as well as thou dost when to speak,
And when to hold my tongue.

Enter Romiero and Guzman, and the Domestics withdraw.

ROMIERO.

Good morrow, Pietro! thou would'st speak with me.

PIETRO.

Yes, please your honour, I'm a simple man;—

That is to say, I am not school'd or learn'd
As many be, who set great store by it;
But yet, I think, I can, as well as others.
Scent mischief in its covert. Ah, good lack!
This is a wicked world.

ROMIERO.

I know it well.

Thou'st told me so a thousand times, good Pietro.
What is the matter now? Rehearse it briefly,
And plainly too, my friend: enough of comment
Will follow after. Speak,—what is the matter?

PIETRO.

Ay, something is the matter, take my word for 't.

For there be ill enough in this sad world,—
In court and cot, in city and in village.

ROMIERO (interrupting him impatiently).

There is amongst your villagers, I hear,

A person much afflicted.

PIETRO.

We were all well, both young and old of us,

When I left home scarce half an hour since. No;
My story is of other matters; villagers
Are not therein concerned, unless it be
As hired emissaries: for, I trow,
No wealthy devil e'er lack'd some poorer imp.
No rich man ever wants——

ROMIERO.

A truce with proverbs!

What is it thou would'st tell me?

PIETRO.

Marry, that mischief, in or near your castle,

Is hatching secretly.

ROMIERO.

Why dost thou think so?

PIETRO.

A ghost was seen by some benighted fools,

As they report it, near the ancient chapel,
Where light pour'd through the trees, and strangely vanished
They know not how. I much suspect your ghosts.
'Tis said they're ominous of death; but weddings,
Or worse than weddings, oft'ner follow after.
You have a rich and beauteous ward: Don Maurice
Is young, ambitious, and cunning:—No!
It is no ghastly spectre haunts your woods.

ROMIERO.

Was it a female form those fools beheld?

PIETRO.

Yes, by Saint Jago! and it wore, they say,

Donna Zorada's air, who is, you know,
Not much unlike, in size and gait, to Beatrice.

GUZMAN.

We know all this already, worthy Pietro;

Naught ill will follow it; be thou content.

ROMIERO.

If Beatrice hath in the shades of night

Gone forth to meet her lover, she hath err'd
Beyond what we believed. (Calling loud.) Ho! Jerome there!

Re-enter Jerome.

Thou wert the secret agent of Don Maurice;

In this thou'st sinn'd against thy master! Say,
And I'll forgive thee all, if thou speak truly,
Did Donna Beatrice e'er, by night, steal forth
To meet him in the forest?

JEROME.

No, good my Lord; that I will answer truly;

She never did.

ROMIERO.

Good Pietro tells a story

Of frighten'd villagers, who have, at night.
Seen wand'ring in the wood a female form.
Thou seem'st confused; thou, too, hast heard of this?

JEROME.

Not heard of it, my Lord.

ROMIERO.

Then thou hast seen it.

JEROME.

I must confess I saw a form, last night,

Glide hastily before me, through the wood:
The face I could not see.

ROMIERO.

It was a woman?

JEROME.

It was, my Lord.

ROMIERO.

Its stature tall or short?

JEROME.

Neither, my Lord.

PIETRO.

Did I not say it seem'd——

GUZMAN (pulling Pietro back.)

Hush, thou art wise, and should not waste thy words.

ROMIERO (to Jerome).

Did it resemble any female figure

Familiar to thine eye? Why dost thou hesitate?
Speak truth; speak freely; think not to deceive me:
Seem'd it a form familiar to thine eye?

JEROME.

I was confused—I knew not. No, my Lord,

It was no well-known form.

ROMIERO.

Thy words are false!

(Walks perturbedly to and fro, then returning to them.) Why stand ye here to gaze upon me? Go!

GUZMAN (to Pietro).

Retire, and do not speak to him again.

Save thee, good Pietro; and thou, too, Jerome.
[Exeunt Pietro and Jerome.

(Going up to Romiero.) Thou art bereft of reason. In the dark

A gliding form is seen, nor tall, nor short,

Nor having any mark by which to prove
It is or is not any woman breathing;
And thou in thy diseased conceit hast shaped——

ROMIERO.

Thou speak'st in ignorance: I have good cause—

Cause which thou know'st not of. I'll tell thee more
When I have breath to speak.——
My dame, my wife, she whom I made my wife,
Hath secret myst'ries—hath a beldame Nurse—
Hath one conceal'd to whom she sends—O shame!—
Outrageous, frontless shame! the very picture
Which I have gazed upon a thousand times,
Tears in my eyes, and blessings on my lips.
How little thought I once—vain, vain remembrance!
It is a thing most strange if she be honest.

GUZMAN.

How strange?—that thou thyself shouldst be deceived

As many men have been, which is a marvel
Of daily note, amongst the sons of Adam.

ROMIERO.

Deceived! be there witch-powder in mine eyes,

To make that seen which is not; in mine ears,

To make them hear false sounds? I've seen; I've heard:
I am deluded by no gossip's tale.—
O would I were! I loved—I worshipp'd her;
She was the thing that stirr'd within my soul,
Which had no other life. Despise me not;
For tears will force their way.—She was to me——
When I have power to speak, I'll tell thee all.

GUZMAN.

Yes; pause a while, my friend. Thou art too vehement.

ROMIERO (lowering his voice).

Have they overheard me? Has it come to this,

That such as they should know my misery.
I will match wiles with wiles, and borrow of her
That damn'd hypocrisy. Come thou with me,
And give me counsel: thou thyself wilt own
It is no weak conceit disturbs me thus.
But stop, and stand aside. (Stops on seeing Nurse pass by a low window on the outside.)

GUZMAN.

What wouldst thou now?

ROMIERO.

Here comes the beldame Nurse of whom I spoke;

Returning from her mission, as I guess.
Stand thou aside whilst I engage with her,
And, with her own deceits, deceive the witch.
Do thou observe her visage as I speak.

GUZMAN.

Nay; trust not to deceit; for at this moment

Thou hast not o'er thyself as much control
As would deceive the simplest soul on earth.
She will outwit thee; leave the task to me,
And do thou stand aside.—I hear her steps.

Enter Nurse, while Romiero goes behind the arras.

Ha! my good Nurse; thou art a stirring person,

And one of service in this family,
If I mistake it not. How could fair damsels,
And dainty dames, and other tender souls
Endure the thraldom of stern lords and masters,
Brothers, and jealous guardians, and the like,
Were it not for such useful friends as thou?

NURSE.

I know not what you mean by service, Sir;

I serve my mistress honestly and fairly.

GUZMAN.

And secretly, when it must needs be so.

Do I not know it well, and well approve
Thy wary vigilance? Take this broad piece; (giving gold)
A token of respect for all thy virtues.
Thou art, I know, the agent of Zorada
In all her secret charities: how fares it
With that poor invalid?

NURSE.

What invalid?

GUZMAN.

To whom thou took'st that basket of fair fruit.

Let me attend thee when thou goest again;
I have some skill in med'cine.

NURSE.

I thank you, Sir; I have some skill myself,

And that suffices. She will soon be well.

GUZMAN.

It is a woman, then.—Look in my face:

Look at me stedfastly.—I know it is not.
It is a man; ay, and a man for whom
Thy Lady hath some secret, dear regard.
And so, perhaps, hast thou: where is the harm?

NURSE.

And if there be, where is the harm of loving

Those near akin to us?

GUZMAN.

Yes, fairly said! Who can find harm in that?

NURSE.

Whom should we love—I mean, whom should I love,

But mine own flesh and blood?

GUZMAN.

Thy flesh and blood! lies flesh and blood of thine

So near us, and conceal'd?—A son, perhaps?

NURSE.

I have a son; but where he is conceal'd.

Or far or near, I know not.

GUZMAN.

Nay, nay, good Nurse; think of next month's confession,

When lying must be paid for. Father Thomas

For a small penance will not let thee off. (Here Romiero appears from behind the arras, with gestures of impatience, but draws back again.)

GUZMAN.

Know'st thou not where he is, this son of thine?

A handsome youth, no doubt.

NURSE.

As ever stepp'd upon the blessed earth.

When but an infant, he with fair Zorada
Play'd like a brother. Such a pretty pair!
And the sweet children loved each other dearly.
Would he were here! but where he is I know not.

ROMIERO (bursting out upon her).

Vile wretch! thou liest; but thou shalt tell the truth.

I'll press the breath from out thy cursed body,
Unless thou tell me where thy son is hid.

NURSE.

My son, my Lord!

ROMIERO.

Ay, witch; I say thy son;

The ugliest hound the sun e'er looked upon.
Tell me, and instantly, if thou wouldst breathe

Another moment. Tell me instantly. (Shaking her violently, while Guzman interposes, and Romiero, struggling with him, falls to the ground, and Nurse escapes off the Stage.)

GUZMAN (endeavouring to raise him).

I pray thee, pardon me, my noble friend!

When passion led thee to disgrace thyself,
This was an act of friendship.—Rise, Romiero.

ROMIERO.

No; here upon the ground, my bed of agony,

I will remain. Sunk to this deep disgrace,
The centre of the earth were fitter for me
Than its fair surface and the light of heaven.
Oh! this exceeds the worst imagination
That e'er found entrance to this madden'd brain!
That he—this hateful, vulgar, shapeless creature——
Fy, fy!

GUZMAN.

If thou canst harbour such a thought,

Thou art in verity beside thyself.
It is not possible that such a one
Could please Zorada, were she even unfaithful.

ROMIERO (rising fiercely).

Not please her! every thing will please a woman

Who is bereft of virtue, gross, debased.
Yea, black deformity will be to her
A new and zestful object.

Enter Zorada behind him.

GUZMAN (making her a sign to retire).

O Lady! come not here.

ZORADA.

I heard Romiero loud; what is the matter?

ROMIERO.

O nothing, Madam; pray advance. O nothing!

Nothing that you should be surprised to hear.
That ladies can be fair and delicate,
And to the world's eye as saints devout,
Yet all the while be coarse, debased, and stain'd
With passions that disgrace the vulgar kind.

ZORADA.

Alas! what mean you?

ROMIERO.

Thou'st play'd me false; thou art a worthless woman;

So base, so sunk, that those whose appellation
Brings blushes to the cheeks of honest women
Compared to thee are pure.—Off! do not speak!
It is a sick'ning sight to look upon thee,
Fair as thou art. Feign not to be surprised:
Begone, I say, I cannot for a moment

Say what I may not do. (Taking his dagger from his side, and giving it to Guzman, who snatches it hastily from him.)

Now thou art safe; but go, thou shameless creature!

GUZMAN.

Madam, I pray you go, for he is furious,

And would not listen to a saint from heaven.
[Exit Zorada wringing her hands.]

Come, leave this spot, Romiero; some few hours,
I am persuaded, will reveal this mystery.
Meantime, let me constrain thee as a friend;
Thou art not fit to speak or act with reason.

ROMIERO.

Think'st thou to bind and lead me like a maniac?

GUZMAN.

Like what thou art: but here comes Beatrice.

Wouldst thou to her expose thy sorry state?

Enter Beatrice.

ROMIERO.

To her or any one, what boot they now,

Fair seemings and fair words?

BEATRICE.

Are you not well, my Lord?

ROMIERO.

No, damsel; well was banish'd from the world

When woman came to it.

BEATRICE.

Fy! say not so.

For if deprived of women, what were men?
Like leafless elms stripped of the clasping vine;
Like unrigg'd barks, of sail and pennant bare;
Like unstring'd viols, which yield no melody.
Banish us all, and lay my life upon it,
You will right quickly send for us again.

ROMIERO.

Ay, as for parrots, jays, and kirtled apes,

To make vain sport withal. It makes me sick
To think of what you seem and what you are.

BEATRICE.

But say not all, because there are a few.

GUZMAN.

Fair lady, hold no further parley now.

(To Romiero.) And come with me, my friend.
[Exeunt Romiero and Guzman.

BEATRICE (looking after him).

What strange tormenting fancy haunts him now?

She leads a life worse than an Islam slave,
Who weds with such as him. Save me from that!

Enter Maurice by the window, having previously peeped in to see if she were alone.

MAURICE.

Dear Beatrice! to find thee thus alone——

BEATRICE.

Good Heaven preserve us! what has brought thee back?

MAURICE.

To see and hear thee, Love, and yet again

To touch thy fair soft hand.

BEATRICE.

An errand, truly.

To make thee track thy steps so many miles!

MAURICE.

An errand worth the toil ev'n ten times told.

To see thy figure moving in thy veil,
Is worth a course of five good miles at least;
To see thy glowing face of welcome is,
At lowest reckoning, worth ten score of leagues
By sea or land; and this soft thrilling pressure,—
O! 'tis worth all the leagues that gird the globe.
(Taking her hand.)

BEATRICE.

What idle words! how canst thou be so foolish?

I needs must chide thee for it, thoughtless boy!

MAURICE.

Chide me, indeed, who am two years thy elder,

And too good months to boot!—Such high pretension!
Have sixteen summers and a woman's robe
Made thee so very wise and consequential?

BEATRICE (giving him two mock blows on his shoulder).

Take that, and that, for such discourteous words.

MAURICE (catching both her hands and kissing them separately).

Ay, marry will I, and right gladly too,

When this and this are added to the gift.

BEATRICE.

Forbear such idle rapture, 't is a folly:

So tell me truly what has brought thee back
To this disturbed and miserable house.

MAURICE.

What, miserable still? Not yet convinced

That thou, and not Zorada, is the queen
Of my impassion'd heart?

BEATRICE.

Of this, indeed,

He is convinced; but what doth it avail?
Some other fancy, yet I know not what,
Again possesses him. Therefore depart;
Quickly depart, nor linger longer here,
When thou hast told me wherefore thou art come.

MAURICE.

When some way off, it came into my head

That Don Romiero—the occasion past,
Which has excited him to favour us—
May be remiss, or may repent his promise.
I therefore quickly turn'd my horse's head,
Nor drew I bridle till within the forest
I found me once again, close to the postern.

BEATRICE.

What would'st thou do? for in his present state

Thou may'st not speak to him.

MAURICE.

But I would speak to Guzman; he has power

To keep Romiero stedfast in his promise.

I should have thought of this before I went,
And urged him earnestly that no remissness
With thy relations may retard our bliss.

BEATRICE.

Are we not happy now? Is marriage bliss?

I fear to think of it.

MAURICE.

Why should'st thou fear?

Shall I be jealous? O my gentle Beatrice!
I never will believe thee false to me,
Until such proof as that heaven's sun is bright
Shall flash upon me, and the agony
Will be my death-blow and prevent upbraiding.

BEATRICE.

And art thou, then, so tender in thy nature?

In truth it makes me weep to think thou art.

MAURICE.

Let me wipe off those tears, my gentle Love.

Think hopefully and cheerfully, I pray thee.
I feel within my breast a strong assurance
Thou never wilt prove false, nor I suspicious.
Where may I find Don Guzman?[Exeunt.