An Apartment in the royal Palace.
I've parted them at last. The livelong night
The little King lay, like a page, before
Her chamber door, and ever as he heard
A struggling sigh within, he cried, Alas!
And echoed back her moan, and uttered words
Of comfort. Happy boy!
But he is gone
Towards the gate. Be sure, to seek Prince Julian.
For that I care not, so that I secure
The vision that once flitted from my grasp.
Yet is Julian
Why, after noon to-day,--
And see the sun's already high! he dies,
If he be found in Sicily. Take thou
Two resolute comrades, to pursue his steps,
Soon as the time be past. Did'st thou not hear
The proclamation? Know'st thou where he bides,
Good my lord, 'tis said the Duke
Sure it is, that yesternight
He walked from out the judgement hall, like one
Dreaming with eyes that saw not; ears that heard
No sound, staggering and tottering, like old age,
Or infancy.--And when the kingly robe
Was plucked from him, and he forced from the gate
A deep wound in his side, burst forth, the blood
Welled like a fountain.
And he died?
Fainting, and Julian, who had
Silently, with a spirit so absorbed,
His own shame seemed unfelt, fell on his neck,
Shrieking like maddening woman. There we left him,
And there, 'tis said, he hath outwatched the night.
There, on the ground?
So please you.
Thou hast known
A softer couch, Prince Julian! Is the litter
Prepared,--and Julian's groom?--
My lord, he waits
Call him hither.
Blood welled out
From a deep wound! Said old Leanti sooth?
No matter--Either way they're guilty.
Re-Enter Bertone, with Renzi.
Ha! a reverend knave! Wast thou prince Julian's huntsman?
An please you, Sir, I was.
Dost know the princess?
Doth she know thee?
Right well, my lord.
Dost thou love ducats, Renzi?
Flinging him a purse
Can'st thou grace
A lie with tongue, and look, and action?
Go to the Princess. Say thy master sent
To guide her to him; or the young Alfonso;
Use either name, or both. Spare not for tears,
Or curses. Lead her to the litter. See
That Constance follows not. Bertone'll gain
Admittance for thee--Go.
Bertone seek me
A supple churchman. Know'st thou any? One
Not scrupulous, one, who loves gold, and laughs,
At conscience. Bring him to me. I must hasten
Silently home. Let not the princess guess
That I have left the palace.
No, my lord.
The Country, just without the gates of Messina, a hilly back-ground.
Melfi lying on the Stage. Julian.
He wakes! he is not dead! I am not yet
A parricide! I dare not look on him,
I dare not speak--
Water! my throat is scorched.
My tongue cleaves to my mouth. Water!
Go fetch me water? Am I here alone,
Here on the bloody ground, as on that night,--
Am I there still? No! I remember now,
Yesterday I was king; to-day, I'm nothing;
Cast down by my own son! Stabbed in my fame!
Branded, and done to death! An Outlaw where
I ruled! He, whom I loved with such a pride,
With such a fondness, hath done this, and I
Have not strength to drag me to his presence,
That I might rain down curses on his head,
Might blast him with a look!
Here's water! drink!
What voice is that? Why dost thou shroud thy face?
Dost shame to shew thyself? Who art thou?
I pr'ythee, drink.
'Tis the pure,
And limpid gushing of a natural spring
Close by yon olive ground. A little child
Who stood beside the fount, filled for me
Her beechen cup with her small innocent hand,
And bade our lady bless the draught. Oh drink!
Have faith in such a blessing!
Thou should'st bring
Nothing but poison. Hence, accursed cup!
Dashing the cup to the ground
I'll perish in my thirst. I know thee, Sir.
I have no Son. I had once,
A gallant gentleman, but he... What, Sir,
Did you never hear of that Sicilian Prince,
Who made the fabulous tale of Greece a truth,
And slew his father? He stabbed, and stabbed, and stabbed.
And the poor wretch cannot die.
I think my heart
Is iron, that it breaks not.
I should curse him--
But yet--Dost thou not know that I'm an outlaw?
Under the ban? They stand in danger, Sir,
That talk to me.
I am an outlaw, too.--
Thy fate is mine, our sentence is alike.
What! have they banished thee?
I should have gone,
In very truth, I should have gone with thee
Aye, to the end of the world.
What, banish thee!
Oh, foul ingratitude! weak, changeling boy!
He knows it not. Father, this banishment
Came as a comfort to me, set me free
From warring duties and fatiguing cares,
And left me wholly thine. We shall be happy,
For she goes with us, who will prop my steps,
As once the Maid of Thebes, Antigone,
In that old tale. Chuse thou whatever land--
All are alike to us--but pardon me!
My virtuous son!
Oh, thanks to thee, and heaven! He sinks! He faints!
His lips wax pale! I'll seek the spring once more
What music's that?
I hear none.
Thou art weak and dizzy.
Angels of the air,
Cherub & Seraph, sometimes watch around
I have heard so.
But they were just men, Julian;--they were holy;
They were not traitors.
Strive against these thoughts:
Thou wast a brave man, father! Fight against them,
As 'gainst the Paynims, thy old foes. He grows
Paler and paler. Water from the spring,--
Or generous wine. She will be here anon.
Rest thee, dear father, till I come.
That music! It is mortal. It draws nearer.
No! But if men should pass, must I lie here,
Like a crushed adder? Here in the highway
Trampled beneath their feet? So! So! I'll crawl
To yonder bank--Oh, that it were the deck
Of some great Admiral, and I alone,
Boarding amidst a hundred swords! the breach
Of some strong citadel, and I the first
To mount in the cannon's mouth. I was brave once.
Oh, for the common undistinguished death
Of battle, pressed by horse's heels, or crushed
By falling towers! And thing but to lie
Here like a leper.
Enter Alfonso, Calvi, & Valore.
'Tis the spot where Julian--
And yet I see him not--I'll pause awhile
'Tis likely he'll return. I'll wait.
Whence come those groans? My uncle
Stretched on the ground and none to tend thee? Rest
Thy head upon my arm. Where's Julian? Sure
I thought to find him with thee. Nay, be still,
Strive not to move.
I fain would kneel to thee
Listen not, my liege. The states
Sentenced the Duke of Melfi. Thou hast not
The power to pardon. Leave him to his fate.
'Twere best your highness came with us.
The place! Leave us, cold, courtly lords! Avoid
My sight! Leave us, I say. Send instant succour.
Food, water, wine, and men with hearts, if courts
May breed such. Leave us!
Exeunt Calvi and Valore.
I have no power.
For all I need thou hast.
Give me but six feet of Sicilian earth,
And thy sweet pardon.
Talk not thus. I'll grow
At once into a man, into a king,
And they shall tremble, and turn pale with fear
Who now have dared--
Here's water. Ha!
Alfonso! I thought pity had been dead.
I craved a little wine, for the dear love
Of heaven, for a poor dying man, and all
Turned from my prayer. Drink, father!
I have sent
The time is past.
Aye; 'tis a shepherd's pipe
From yonder craggy mountain. How it swings
Upon the wind! now pausing, now renewed,
Regular as a bell!
A passing bell.
Cast off these heavy thoughts.
The blood wells out.
It eases me.
He dies!--Off!--He's my father! Rest on me.
No! no! no! no! I cannot bear
Thy blessing! Twice to stab! and twice forgiven!
Oh! curse me, rather!
Bless ye both!
And surely he died penitent. That thought
Hath in it a deep comfort. The freed spirit
Gushed out in a full tide of pardoning love.
He blest us both, my Julian--even me
As I had been his son. We'll pray for him
Together, and thy Annabel shall join
Her purest orisons. I left her stretched
In a deep slumber. All night long she watched
And wept for him and thee; but now she sleeps.
Shall I go fetch her? She, better than I,
Would soothe thee. Dost thou hear? He writhes as though
The struggling grief would choke him. Rouse thee, Julian!
Calm thee! Thou frighten'st me!
Am I not calm?
There is my sword--Go.
I'll not leave thee.
Dost thou not see we've killed him? Thou had'st cause,
But I, that was his son--Home to thy palace!
Let me stay beside thee. I'll not speak,
Nor look, nor move. Let me but sit, and drop
Tear for tear with thee.
My cousin Julian--
Madden me not. I'm excommunicate,
An exile, and an outlaw, but a man!
Grant me the human privilege to weep
Alone o'er my dead father. King, I saved
Thy life, repay me now a thousand fold.
Yes, for a sweet Comforter.
The Lady Annabel.--
What! Is she dead?
Have I killed her?
Speak, Paolo. In thy charge
I left her.
Is she dead?
No. Heaven forefend!
But she hath left the palace.
'Tis the curse
Of blood that's on my head, on all I love!
Did she go forth alone?
Prince Julian's aged huntsman, Renzi, came
Sent, as he said, by thee, to bear her where
Her lord was sheltered.
She followed him, nothing fearing; and I too
Had gone, but D'Alba's servants closed the gates,
And, then, my heart misgave me.
Where's my sword?
I'll rescue her! I'll save her!
Hast thou traced
Thy honoured lady?
No; but much I fear--
Certain, a closed and guarded litter took
The way to the western suburb.
There, where lies
The palace of Count D'Alba. Stained! defiled!
He has thee now, my lovely one! There's still
A way--Let me but reach thee! One Asylum!
One bridal bed! one resting place!--All griefs
Are lost in this! Oh! would I lay as thou, my father!
Leave him not in the highway,
For dogs to mangle! He was once a prince.--
Let me go with thee.
No. This deed
Paolo, stay by the corse. I'll after.
He shall not on this desperate quest alone.
Rather, my liege, seek D'Alba. As I deem
He still is at thy palace. So may the sweet lady
Be rescued, and Prince Julian saved.
A Gothic Apartment. A recess in which is a niche window
closed, but so constructed, as light may be thrown in. Near the
recess, a small arched door, thro' which is seen an inner
Annabel is brought in by Servants, and follow'd by Count D'Alba.
Leave her with me. Guard well the gate; and watch
That none approach the tower.
Who is it calls? Where am I? Who art thou?
Why am I here? Now, heaven preserve me! D'Alba!
Where's Julian? Where's prince Julian? Where's my husband?
Renzi, who lured me from the palace, swore
It was to meet my husband.
Many an oath,
First sworn in falsehood, turns to truth. He's here.
Calm thee, sweet lady.
Where? I see him not.
Then he's dead!
Heard I aright? Again!
There is a deafening murmur in mine ears,
Like the moaning sound that dwells in the
So that I hear nought plainly. Say't again.
Now, thanks to heaven! Take me to him!
Where am I?
In an old, and lonely tower
At the end of my poor orchard.
Take me home.
Thou hast no home.
No home! His arms! his heart!
Take me to him!
Sweet Annabel, be still.
Conquer this woman's vain impatiency,
And listen.--Why, she trembles as I were
Some bravo! Oh, that man's free heart should bow
To a fair cowardice! Listen. Thou know'st
The sentence of the Melfi?
Aye, the unjust
And wicked doom, that ranked the innocent
With the guilty. But I murmur not. I love
To suffer with him.
He is banished, outlawed,
Cut off from every human tie.
I am his wife.
Under the church's ban!
I tell thee, Annabel, that learned priest,
The sage Anselmo, deems thou art released
From thy unhappy vows, and will to-night--
Stop! I was wedded in the light of day,
In the great church at Naples. Blessed day!
I am his wife, bound to him ever more
In sickness, penury, disgrace. Count D'Alba,
Thou dost misprize the world, but thou must know
That woman's heart is faithful, and clings closest
If the church proclaim thee free,--
Sir, I will not be free. And if I were,
I'd give myself to Julian o'er again,
Only to Julian. Trifle thus no longer.
Lead me to him. Release me.
Now by heaven,
I'll bend this glorious constancy. I've known thee,
Even from a little child, and I have seen
Thy stubborn spirit broken:; not by fear
That thou can'st quell, nor interest, nor ambition,
But love! love! love! I tell thee, Annabel,
One, whom thou lo'st, stands in danger. Wed me,
This very night.--I will procure a priest,
And dispensations, there shall nothing lack
Of nuptial form,--Wed me, or look
Of bloody justice.
My poor father, Melfi!
The Regent! He is dead.
Heaven hath been merciful.
Is there no other name? no dearer?
Had'st thou such tender love for this high father,
Who little recked of thee, or thy fair looks,--
Is all beside forgotten?
Julian, I say!
He is beyond thy power.
Thanks, thanks, great heav'n! He's ruined, exiled, stripped
Of name, and land, and titles. He's as dead.
Thou hast no power to harm him. He can fall
No deeper. Earth hath not a lowlier state
Than princely Julian fills.
The grave! The grave
What? But thou hast not the power!
Hast thou? Thou can'st not! Oh, be pitiful!
Speak.--I conjure thee, speak!
Didst thou not hear
That he was exiled, outlawed, banished far
From the Sicilian Isles, on pain of death,
If, after noon to-day, he e'er were seen
In Sicily? The allotted bark awaits;
The hour is past, and he is here.
Have mercy on us! D'Alba, at thy feet
Upon my bended knees--Oh pity! pity!
Pity and pardon! I'll not rise. I cannot.
I cannot stand more than a creeping worm,
Whilst Julian's in thy danger. Pardon him!
Thou wast not cruel once. I've seen thee turn
Thy step from off the path, to spare an insect;
I've marked thee shudder, when my falcon struck
A panting bird--though thou hast tried to sneer
At thy own sympathy. D'Alba, thy heart
Is kinder than thou knowest.--Save him, D'Alba!
Am I not his?
And he shall live to the whole age of man
I'm his.--Oh, spare him! only his.
Then, it is thou, that dost enforce the law
On Julian--Thou, his loving wife, that guid'st
The Officer to seize him, where he lies
Upon his father's corse.--Thou, that dost
Thy husband to the scaffold--Thou, his wife!
His loving wife! Thou yet may'st rescue him.
Now, heav'n forgive thee, man! Thou torturest me
Worse than a thousand racks. But thou art not
So devilish, D'Alba! Thou hast talked of love--
Would'st see me die here at thy feet? Have mercy!
Mercy! Aye, such as thou hast shewn to me
Through weeks, and months, and years. I was born strong
In scorn, the wise man's passion. I had lived
Aloof from the juggling world, and with a
Watched the poor puppets ape their several parts,
Fool, knave, or madman; till thy fatal charms,
Beautiful mischief, made me knave and fool,
And madman; brought Revenge, and Love, and Hate
Into my soul. I love, and hate thee, lady,
And doubly hate myself for loving thee.
But, by this teeming earth, this glorious heaven,
And by thyself, the fairest, stubbornst thing,
The fair stars shine upon, I swear to-night--
Thou shalt be mine. If willingly, I'll save
Prince Julian. But still mine. Speak. Shall he live?
Can'st thou not speak? Wilt thou not save him?
Did she die with the word! Did'st hear me, lady?
I asked thee, would'st thou save thy husband?
No. Not so! not so!
Exit Count D'Alba.
Stay! Stay! He's gone.
Count D'Alba! save him! Save him! D'Alba's gone!
And I have sentenc'd him!
After a pause
He would have chosen so.
Would rather have died a thousand deaths, than to
Have lived. Oh, who will succour me, shut up
In this lone tower! none but those horrid guards,
(There's treachery in their face) know where the poor
Poor Annabel is hidden. No man cares
How she may perish.--Only one, and he--
Preserve my wits! I'll count my beads. It will calm me--
What, if I hang my rosary from the casement?
There is a brightness in the gorgeous Jewels
To catch men's eyes, and, haply, some may pass
That are not merciless. This window's closed;
But in yon Chamber--Ah, 'tis open! There
I'll hang the holy gem, a guiding star,
A visible prayer to man and god. Oh, save me
From sin and shame! Save him! I'll hang it there.
End of the Fourth Act