My thoughts glanc'd not on thee. Imagination
Pictur'd only, then, her orphan state, helpless;
Her weak and grief-exhausted frame. Alas!
This blow will kill her.
Bland. (Kneeling.) Here, do I myself
Devote, my fortune consecrate, to thee,
To thy remembrance, and Honora's service.
André. Enough! Let me not see her more—nor think of her—
Farewell, farewell, sweet image! Now for death.
Bland. Yet that thou should'st the felon's fate fulfil—
Damnation! My blood boils. Indignation
Makes the current of my life course wildly
Through its round and maddens each emotion.
André. Come, come, it matters not.
Bland. I do remember,
When a boy at school, in our allotted tasks,
We, by our puny acts, strove to pourtray
The giant thoughts of Otway. I was Pierre.
O, thou art Pierre's reality—a soldier,
On whose manly brow sits fortitude enamor'd;
A Mars, abhorring vice, yet doom'd to die
A death of infamy; thy corse expos'd
To vulgar gaze—halter'd—distorted—oh—
(Pauses, and then adds in a low hollow voice:)
Pierre had a friend to save him from such shame—
And so hast thou.
André. No more, as thou dost love me.
Bland. I have a sword, and arm, that never fail'd me.
André. Bland, such an act would justly thee involve,
And leave that helpless one thou sworest to guard
Expos'd to every ill. O, think not of it!
Bland. If thou wilt not my aid—take it thyself.
André. No, men will say that cowardice did urge me.
In my mind's weakness, I did wish to shun
That mode of death which error represented
Infamous: now let me rise superior;
And with a fortitude too true to start
From mere appearances, show your country
That she, in me, destroys a man who might
Have liv'd to virtue.
Bland. (Sheathing his sword.) I will not think more of it;
I was again the sport of erring passion.
André. Go thou and guide Honora from this spot.
Honora. (Entering.) Who shall oppose his wife? I will have way!
They, cruel, would have kept me from thee, André.
Say, am I not thy wife? Wilt thou deny me?
Indeed I am not dress'd in bridal trim.
But I have travelled far:—rough was the road—
Rugged and rough—that must excuse my dress.
(Seeing André's distress.) Thou art not glad to see me.
André. Break my heart!
Honora. Indeed, I feel not much in spirits. I wept but now.
(Enter Melville and Guard.)
Bland. (To Melville.) Say nothing.
André. I am ready.
Honora. (Seeing the Guard.) Are they here?
Here again—the same—but they shall not harm me.
I am with thee, my André—I am safe—
And thou art safe with me. Is it not so?
(Enter Mrs. Bland.)
Mrs. Bland. Where is this lovely victim?
Bland. Thanks, my mother.
Mrs. Bland. M'Donald sent me hither. My woes are past.
Thy father, by the foe released, already
Is in safety. This be forgotten now;
And every thought be turn'd to this sad scene.
Come, lady, home with me.
Honora. Go home with thee?
Art thou my André's mother? We will home
And rest, for thou art weary—very weary.
