ACT · II
SCENE · 1
Hall in Manuel’s house. MARGARET and CONSTANCE.
MARGARET.
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Sweet, happy Constance, tell me why thou sighest.
What can’st thou lack?
CONSTANCE.
I am not very happy.
Mar. Not happy, thou? Woe for the world! I thought
Love was God’s perfect recipe, to drowse
All mortal stings. Yet sainted marriage hath
One threat—the loss of liberty: is’t that?
It well may fright. To have been a girl with me
So long, and make at last the outrageous stroke,
And live as do our aunts! Were’t not my brother,
I’d kill the man.
Con.Margaret!
Mar.Well mayst thou sigh:
I can sigh for thee.
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Con.I should love to hear thee.
Thou owest me sighs, for mine were thoughts of thee.
Mar. Because I love not? Hast thou forgot already
Life may be tolerable for a woman
Without thy joy?
Con.You treat poor Livio
Unkindly, Margaret.
Mar.Now, if that’s the grief,
We have threshed it out before.
Con.I shall not spare you,
Till you are kinder.
Mar.Yet if I were kinder,
And he should build a hope upon that kindness,
Until it proved unkinder than unkindness?
Con. He loves you well.
Mar.No better than the others;
Than Ventimiglia loves, or Chiaramonte,
Good Michael Rosso, or the impudent Blasco,
Or my new courtier Ferdinand.
Con.He loves
With all his heart. Life is as tedious to him
As to the dark and dusty wheel, which jerks
Behind the dial-face, until he see you;
When for his joy you give him but disdain.
Mar. Thou didst not tell him thou wouldst speak for him?
Con. Why not?
Mar.Now I, Constance, have something fresh:
A mystery.
Con.A mystery?
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Mar.Yes, a mystery.
Guess what it is.
Con.How should I guess?
Mar.Indeed,
Guessing would never wind it.
Con.Then, prithee, tell me.
Mar. I died to tell thee ere thou camest, and now
I grudge it sadly. Yet, for the fresh mount
’Twill give thy thoughts, I’ll tell. ’Twas yesternight,
Just on the stroke of one ...
Con.’Tis not a ghost?
Mar. If after all ’twere but a ghost!
Con.Come, tell me.
Mar. Thou wilt not breathe a word?
Con.No, not a word.
Mar. Thou know’st the casement of my bedroom looks
Across the court. There as I stood last night,
Watching the moon awhile, ere I shut out
The sleepless splendour from my dreams, I heard
A heavy step pass down the gallery.
’Tis Manuel, I thought, who goes to lie
In the little chamber at the back,—for Philip
Had his;—but, for some strangeness in the step
Pricked my attention, and to content my thought,
I lent my ear to the sound, until it reached
The door at the end: there, standing by the window
I saw him plain: ’twas he, but in his arms
A woman, fainting as I thought, or dead.
Her arms hung loose, and o’er his shoulder thrown
Her head fell back.
Con.A woman! art thou sure?
Mar. He could not carry a ghost. Besides, this morning
I watched him: he took thither meat and drink,
And locked the door, and strictly bade the servants
They should not enter.
Con.Hast thou questioned him?
Mar. I have not so much as let him speak with me.
He might forbid me: and, O my curiosity,
I must know more.
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Con.What dost thou think to learn?
Mar. I have neither guess nor hope; I lay awake
An hour, and thought of fifty things, not one
Of any likelihood. In all romance
No lady in distress ere came at midnight
To the house of the chief justice. I could wish
This beauteous maiden were a young princess
Fled o’er the seas disguised.
Con.Then thou couldst see
What she was like.
Mar.Why, no,—how could I see?
I only saw that she was dark.
Con.Thou saidst
That she was beautiful.
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Mar.Of course she is young
And beautiful. Why,—you are not jealous, Constance?
Con. Not jealous, no.
Mar.And the only pity of it
Is that she’ll prove in the end a poor relation
Fall’n to our care, or some more hapless girl
Left on the doorstep dying.
Con.In such case,
What were the need of secrecy?
Mar.I wish
I had never told thee aught. Why shouldst thou fancy
Impossibilities?
Con.What is impossible?
Mar. I fear now that the sight of thy old love,
Philip the false, hath turned thy happier trust.
Thou’rt changed.
Con.Nay, nay: I am not: and yet ’tis true
His coming is my trouble. [Weeps.
Mar.Forgive me, sweetest.
Con. Margaret, you know I have none at all but you
To unfold my heart to: only you can tell
What I must feel at his return: you know
How far I loved, how much I was deceived.
His oaths of faith you heard from me, and shared
The joy of my delusion: and at last,
When he deserted me, you made your heart
The prison of my sorrows: you exhorted,—
O, you advised me well,—Be sure, you said,
Love that so breaks cannot be trusted more.
You bade me cast it off like an ill dream.
You found what life he led: how he profaned
His honourable passion in the play
Of errant gallantries. All that sad time
I leaned on you, and ’twas your friendship gave
The occasions whence my love with Manuel sprung.
You led me still, you gave me confidence;
Your comfort turned to joy, Manuel was mine.
When suddenly on some mysterious cause
He holds aloof: my joy is bid await.
O, Margaret, if you understood love’s joy,
How closely ’tis inwoven with fear to lose,
You would not wonder that I tremble, seeing
This shadow blot my sunshine, that my fear
Discolours every circumstance. To me
The common course of things on which men count
Is the only miracle, all chances else
As they are feared are likely. O, do not blame me.
Philip is like an evil spirit beside me
That stands to smile on what I dread to think.
Mar. Philip being false can give no cause to doubt
Of Manuel’s faith.
Con.I doubt him not: and yet
If I speak of my brother you only laugh,
But if you speak of yours ...
Mar.Round, round again.
Betwixt our brothers grant some difference.
Thy Livio is a boy of slender parts,
Led by his passions. Manuel is a man
Austere and stern; he is above suspicion.
Con. I do not doubt his truth, but find such sternness
Unkind to love. My brother’s love for you
Is simple: Manuel’s love hath some reserve;
A veil, behind which, since I have never seen,
I have dreamed or feared a terror lay: ofttimes
When I have been with him, a pleasant hour
Has ended suddenly, as if his spirit
Was angered, and withdrew: then in his eyes
Is nothing left but barren contemplation,
To which I am an object as another;
Until he sighs, as conscious of the change.
The disappointment of our marriage brings
Scarce a regret to him: I heard him speak
Late to my father of it, as ’twere a thing
He held indifferently. There is some secret
Which I would know: maybe this is a clue.
Mar. What is the clue?
Con.This lady.
Mar.O, thou’rt sick.
But I can cure thee, wilt thou do my bidding.
Con. What would you bid?
Mar.Give rein to jealousy,
Ay, spur it on to falling. Fear the worst,
Believe the worst. Thou shalt suspect my brother;
He trifles, loves this lady: choose your tale:
Thou wilt not doubt again.
Con.I do not doubt him.
Nay, I will bid him tell me all.
Mar.And so
Betray thy doubt to him. Be wiser, madam!
Look to thy cure: indulge thy jealousy:
To which end I encourage it. Indeed,
I am come to think there’s cause, and thy suspicion
Hath much enhanced my mystery. Go thou home:
There make thyself unhappy. I meanwhile
Will root this out, and since I am housekeeper
I can go where I will.
Con.I pray thee, Margaret ...
Mar. I must be jealous where my brother is wronged.
Thou art the accuser, and the evidence
Tells now for thee: ’tis my part to acquit us.
Hinder me not.
Con.When wilt thou know?
Mar.Maybe
’Tis as thou fearest.
Con.Wilt thou mock me so?
Mar. I bid thee go. Be sure I’ll come to thee,
Or send thee word.
Con.But when?
Mar.I make no promise.
I cannot pity thee, and till thou goest
I can do nothing.
Con.Promise me to send.
Mar. I have promised that. Farewell!
Con.To-day?
Mar.To-day.
Trust me, I go at once. [Exeunt.
SCENE · 2
Room in the Palace. Enter BLASCO.
BLASCO.
I have sucked this Ferdinand. Duke Philip bears
Secret despatches sealed, not to be broken
Save on emergency; from which I gather
That if emergency arise, this Philip
Will be our viceroy. Palicio being escaped
Must make the emergency.—Then, where am I?
Packed off to Spain with Hugo’s broken service,
To answer his impeachment. ’Tis high time
I cast by these old friends, such as they are,
And turn my face to the rising sun, this Philip.
I see the way too. Manuel’s love for Constance
Hath roused again his former love for her
To a burning jealousy; if I feed that
I win his ear, and make my foe his foe.
As for Palicio, should he hold back
I have a way with him, and can contrive
He shall seize Hugo, or himself be seized,
As may suit best. The mischief set on foot,
Philip must break his seals; and I come in
With him as friendly to the people’s rights,
And trusted servant of the crown. By heav’n,
I shall deserve their credit. See, here he comes.
Enter Philip.
Good morrow to your grace.
PHILIP.
Good morrow, Blasco.
Bl. I served thy father well.
Ph.I know it, Blasco.
What of it now?
Bl.I do not urge my service
Looking for recompense; I do not ask
So much as that your grace remember me
At court, to mention my forgotten name
In the new king’s ear; as, When I was in Sicily
I saw old Blasco; nay, ’twas for good-will
I served, and now ’tis that I want a master
Which bids me speak. If but your grace could find me
Employment worth my wits, I would serve well.
Ph. I’ll think of it.
Bl.Let your grace know my life
Spent in this court should make my loyalty
More than a counsellor. In this rebellion
I know where Hugo fails, where Manuel leans;
Could blow upon the flame or snuff it out,
Could bring you to the leaders.
Ph.Honest Blasco,
Thou know’st the world.
Bl.I know that one who comes
To make peace in a quarrel that he knows not,
Needs other knowledge than he is like to get
From either party. The strings of policy
Are coiled in private chambers; if your grace
Would pull at these ...
Ph.True. If thou serve me thus
I’ll take instruction.
Bl.Let your grace now prove me
In any question.
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Ph.This, then. We in Spain
Supposed that your revolt stood on two legs,
Over-taxation and the hate of Hugo;
And had its claim for justice countenanced
By Manuel’s voice: but coming here, I find
That he and Hugo’s daughter are betrothed.
Now here’s a private matter, which, I take it,
Involves the public. Say, doth Manuel play
His policy on Hugo, or hath Hugo
Trumped up a match with Manuel to support
His failing credit?
Bl.They are not betrothed, your grace.
What passes between lovers is unknown:
But this is sure, Hugo withholds consent,
And doth so to win Manuel to his side.
Ph. Doth not that win him?
Bl.Nay.
Ph.Then I conclude
He loves not.
Bl.Nay, indeed; it gives me pain
To witness his indifference; for the lady
Deserves the best.
Ph.Stay, count. Remember
In what has passed that word may well blame me.
Bl. I hearken not to idle tales. Your grace
May be punctilious; but in Manuel’s instance
There’s no excuse.
Ph.I care not what men say.
And now it hurts me more to hear thee blame
Another for the fault I stumbled in,
Than if ’twas said of me. I need thy knowledge.
Look, thou canst serve me; and I let none serve
For nothing. Take my purse (gives it); thou mayst have need
To spend so much for me.
Bl.I thank your grace.
I shun no obligation, and I am poor.
Ph. True, all men are so. Come now to my chamber,
Where we may talk in private.
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Bl. (aside). ’Tis well begun.
[Exeunt.
SCENE · 3
A room in Manuel’s house. PALICIO reclining on a long chair half-dressed. Daylight nearly excluded: one candle burns.
PALICIO.
I seem to have lived a life in these few days;
To have died, and waked in no less strange a place,
Than where I think departed spirits will fly
In doom of death and unendurable silence
After their day of doing. Oh! ’tis strange
What just the shedding a few drops of blood
Will bring about—to loosen a handkerchief,
And on her undiscoverable journey
The soul sets forth. Nay, but to bleed so far
As I have done, breeds fancies much akin
To death; else would my spirit more revolt
’Gainst this enforcèd quiet and idleness:
This blocking of my life just on the stir
And hurry of hope, when all my operations
Pressed to success. I am surely very weak,
That I can lie and fret not, when I hear
The distant cries, passing from street to street,
Which tell how prompt and ripe my people were
For this their lost occasion. (Knocking heard.) Some one knocks.
Nay, the key turns. ’Tis Manuel.
MARGARET (at door).
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May I come in?
Pal. (aside). Ah! who is this? Who’s there?
[Covering himself.
Mar. (entering).
’Tis only I,
Manuël’s sister. I have come to see
If I can do you any service, lady.
Pal. He did not send you?
Mar.Nay, but I may hope
I shall not seem to intrude, thus waiting on you.
Pal. (aside). What’s to be done?
Mar.The room is dark. I fear you are ill.
Pal. I am hurt and must not stir.
Mar.Then lying here
In pain you must want help and company.
’Tis well I came. May I draw back the curtains?
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Pal. Nay, there was reason, madam, why your brother
Shut door and window: I have enemies.
Mar. Alas, alas!
I can shew equal care. First to relock the door.
(Aside, going to door.) She is a lady.
Pal. (aside). ’Tis the famous Margaret.
Mar. Now let me light these candles.
[Stage brightens.
Pal. (aside). Surely in God’s paradise, that rest of souls,
His angels and pure spirits look and speak
And move like this. O wonder! Wherefore comes she?
And how to keep her but a moment longer
From the discovery? and how to tell her?
Mar. Now while I sit. [Finds gown on the chair.
... Why, oh! ’tis drenched with blood,
Your gown. Are you so hurt?
Pal.A sword-thrust, lady.
Mar. A sword-thrust. Ah!
Pal.Thou earnest unadvised,
Lady: I wore the gown; if that deceived thee.
Yet ’twas but a disguise to save my life.
I am Palicio.
Mar.Sir!
Pal.Escaped from prison
And my pursuers hither. Thy brother’s kindness
Hides me from death awhile.
Mar.I pray thy pardon.
’Twas not mere idle curiosity
That made my fault; but made I’ll mend it, sir,
As soon as may be. [Going.
Pal. (springing up). Stay, nay, put down that key.
I bid thee stay. Thou hast forced my secret. Hear
The whole, and when thou hast heard I shall not fear
The unlocking of thy lips.
Mar.Why, sir, the thing
My brother means to hide is hidden to me.
Pal. ’Tis not alone my life ...
Mar. Ah! see the blood is trickling down thy hand!
Pal. Pest! it hath started freshly.
Mar.Cannot I help thee?
Pal. Ay, ’tis the bandage on this arm.
Mar.To tie it?
Pal. My moving hath displaced it.
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Mar.See, alas!
The ill I have done. Sit, I will bind it for thee.
Pal. Myself I cannot.
Mar.Nay. Tell thou me how.
Pal. Here, round this pad. As tightly as thou wilt.
Nay, tighter yet.
Mar.Shall I not harm thee?
Pal.Tighter.
Mar. I cannot pull it tighter.
Pal.Knot it so.
’Twill do: the blood hath ceased.
Mar.Oh, I am glad.
Do not thou stir: see, now, to wash thine arm,
I’ll bring thee water. [Goes for it.
Pal. (aside). By heaven, where have I lived,
Like a wild beast beneath the open skies,
In dens and caves, and never known the taste
Of this soft ravishment? The rich of the earth
Are right: their bars and bolts are wisely wrought,
Having such treasure in their closed chambers.
Mar. Here ’tis. Reach forth thine arm.
Pal.Nay, give’t to me.
Stain not thy hands.
Mar.I pray thee.
Pal.As thou wilt.
Mar. How did it happen?
Pal.Wouldst thou hear it?
Mar.Tell me.
Pal. I had been two days in prison ...
Mar.Tell me, first,
How could they catch thee?
Pal.Treachery: I was taken
By Hugo’s soldiers as I knelt at mass.
Three stole behind me, seized me by the arms,
And dragged me forth. I knew I was betrayed;
I had entered but that morning in the town;
I was not known to them, nor did the hirelings
Look on my face. They led me straight to prison,
Thrust me in a cell so dank and dark and small,
That to be built alive into the grave
Were not more horrible.
Mar.Hugo would have killed thee.
Pal. Or let me starve; or else some gentle mercy;
Gouged my live eyeballs out, or lopped my hands.
Mar. How couldst thou ’scape?
Pal.Now thou wilt see our people
Have their account. The second night my gaoler
Brought in a woman with a deed to sign.
I knew my hope, and to her feigned reproach
Answered in anger back: but when she bade
I took the deed, and felt beneath the paper
A dagger’s edge. That was my key to heaven,
Could I strike silently. To make occasion,
I thrust her from me with an oath: she fell,
As well she knew, against the foe, who stooping,
Stooped to his death and fell without a groan.
Then quick she doffed her gown for my disguise,
Telling me in few words how this was planned
By friends who had seen me taken: they had not means
For present rescue, but discovering soon
Who had betrayed me, used his cursed name
With the governour of the prison, to admit
Her, his pretended wife, that she might claim
Settlement of some debt before I died.
So was it paid. Then we went forth together,
I in her woman’s garments, following her,
Who wore the habit of the soldier slain:
And she went clear: but I, for some suspicion
Was questioned at the gate. Of those two men,
One I slew straight: the other, as I struck,
Thrust thro’ my arm, yet not so hurtfully
But that he fell for it too. But thence alarm
Was given: I fled pursued, and gat me clear,
Leaping your garden wall.
Mar.Who was the woman?
Pal. One of our people.
Mar.May her name be told?
Pal. I never heard it.
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Mar.Yet she knew thee well.
I had been proud to have done her deed. I think
There are not many men as brave as she.
Pal. O, lady, there are many, women and men,
Sworn to risk life in our good cause.
Mar.Alas,
That such fine courage should be so misled!
Pal. Misled? how, if I lead it?
Mar.I had forgot.
Pardon me, sir. It was my brother’s word.
Pal. Ay, ’tis his word. And yet I honour Manuel.
Were’t not for him there scarce would be a man
Of all our people who would reverence
Justice and order, and those other names
Of social welfare. ’Tis to him alone
We have looked to give us these. But if he stand
Where he can take our tyrants by the arm
And show them baits of righteousness, and lead them
Where they should go, shall we who lie beneath
Forbear to sting the laggard heel of justice,
Or think it crime to obstruct the path of wrong?
I blame not him that from his higher place
He finds offence in outcry and disorder:
To such as without loss or shame outride
The storms of shifting fortune this is easy.
Mar. What dost thou but exasperate ill-will?
Pal. Already our bread has been untaxed two days.
Mar. And may be two days more.
Pal.I have better hope,
Or had: for if I had once provoked the Spaniard
To set his troops against us, all the nobles,
Who now retired hold neutral parliament,
Would then have joined the people, and compelled
The justice of our claim by force of arms.
Mar. All, say’st thou?
Pal.All save one or two, who are bought
With Hugo’s money.
Mar.Say’st thou bought?
Pal.O lady,
Unto their great dishonour they are bought,
With sweated pence wrung from the labourer,
Ere he can buy a loaf to feed his children
Out of the corn his hands have sown and reaped.
Is not this shame?
Mar.’Tis shame.
Pal.And shall Palicio
See this thing done, because he hath not office,
Or those few paltry florins, which might turn
The scale for poor Sicilians?
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Mar.Ah, indeed,
I knew, I felt that thou wert right; and now
I see it: I never blamed thee.
Pal.No, nor Manuel
Blames me at heart, tho’ he forbid my means.
Think, had I kept my old estate, and he
Had fallen as I, should I not do as he,
And he as I am doing?
Mar.Oh, I think
’Tis nobler to be poor. To share the suffering
Of them we pity ranks above redress.
I am come to envy thee.
Pal.And certain it is,
They who have least to lose will venture most.
Mar. Yet those that have can give. What’s the best hope
Of this rebellion?
Pal.We would make thy brother
Viceroy in place of Hugo.
Mar.Will that be?
Pal. Here I know nothing, save that nought is done.
Mar. Is there no leader then but thee?
Pal.The people
Are limbs without a head.
Mar.When will thy wound
Be healed?
Pal. Thy brother says that any surgeon
Could mend it quickly, but that his own skill,
Which knows the injury, was never practised
To find out and to bind the wounded vessel,
Which, being unhelped of art, may run to death.
Mar. To death! And hath he sent no surgeon?
Pal.Nay,
That were the greater risk for him and me.
Mar. Not so, if he could cure thee. I shall bring one. [As going.
Pal. It cannot be.
Mar.Thou mayst believe there’s none
In all Palermo but myself could do it:
Yet can I do it.
Pal.Speak with Manuel first.
Mar. Oh! I shall tell him all. He will consent.
’Tis well I came. No surgeon for thee! Ah!
I go.
Pal. Thou wilt return?
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Mar.Be sure, be sure.
And with the leech. [Exit.
Pal.She is gone.
[Scene shuts across.
SCENE · 4
In Manuel’s house. MARGARET and MANUEL meeting.
MARGARET.
Brother, what wilt thou say? Wilt thou forgive me?
Hear me confess.
MANUEL.
What now, my mischief-maker?
Mar. I have seen Palicio.
Man.Hey! ’twas thy evil genius
Led thee that way.
Mar.I thinking him a woman,
Offered some service: whereupon he told me
Who he was, all his story, and of his wound.
Man. I am sorry; I should have warned thee, for the knowledge
Makes thee so far accomplice; and I know not
How ’twill be taken when ’tis known.
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Mar.O, brother,
Thou hast done nobly.
Man.I will tell to thee
My motives.
Mar.Nay, I need no motives.
Man.Hear them.
Palicio’s life is forfeit, for he has killed
Three of his guards: but to the dangerous deed
He had provocation, such as I should hold
Clears him of crime: wherefore I take upon me
To force a loan of Justice while she sleeps,
For fear a thief should rob her: to this, moreover,
The claim of kinship binds me,—nay, be patient,
And hear me out.—Already our disorders
Have been reported at the Spanish court;
The enquiry set on foot will much endamage
Hugo’s good name: I doubt not we shall have
Another viceroy, and the revolution
Will justify the movers.
Mar.Oh! all that,
Be as it may, will never cure his wound.
He needs a surgeon: we must find a surgeon.
Man. No: he must lie concealed till I procure
His pardon. His discovery now were death.
Mar. But if I bring one secretly?
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Man.How secretly?
Better cry down the streets the man is here:
That might escape attention.
Mar.I know a man.
Have I not sometimes shewn thee certain sonnets
Writ in Sicilian speech?
Man.Eh! Michael Rosso?
Mar. ’Tis he. I think he’d love to do my bidding
In a more dangerous matter. Give me leave,
I’ll bring him here to-night.
Man.I had thought of him,
But shrank from taxing his good-will. And yet—
(Aside.) For his own sake ’twere kind ... and Margaret asks it ...
Secrets, they say, discover sympathies.—
(Aloud.) Ay, ’tis well thought of.
Mar.I can answer for him.
Man. I see. Yet there’s no cause why he should know.
Escort him blindfold hither; let Palicio
Have his face covered. Let him ask no questions:
And when ’tis done convey him blindfold back.
’Twere best he should not know.
Mar.O, brother, I thank thee.
Man. Why, girl, thou’rt crazed.
Mar.May I not go at once?
Man. Nay, wait till dusk; and see, take here my seal,
Since thou must go alone: ’twill be thy freedom
From any questionings of any people.
Use all precautions, and impose on Rosso
Sacredest secrecy: ’tis thou and he
Must carry it thro’. Be careful.
Mar.I will put on
Some common clothing, and disguise my face.
I thank thee. [Exit.
Man.The girl’s in love. Now, bravo Rosso!
I wish thee well. There’s not a purer spirit
Fleshed in all Sicily; nay, nor a man
I’d sooner call brother. Why, ’twas my choice,
Long urged in vain. That chanceth in an hour
Which comes not in nine years. ’Tis very true,
Fancy resents all judgment, and another’s
Will often kill it quite. Now, when I looked
Rather for anything than my own wish,—heigh-ho!
’Tis I that stand in the way. I must discourage it.
Enter Philip (with some papers).
Ah, Philip.
PHILIP.
Let me give you back the papers.
I have read them.
Man.Well?
Ph.The viceroy’s guilt is plain.
Your purpose cannot be to press this count.
Man. If the complaints, which I have already made,
Be quashed at court, I shall.
Ph.’Tis peculation
So gross, ’twould ruin Hugo to expose it.
Wished you to break with him,—yet his disgrace
Cannot be nothing to you: I should marvel
You had no associations, no affections,
Shocked at the thought.
Man.To interests manifold
As manifest, Justice is blind. If Spain
Remove not Hugo on the charges laid,
I have shewn thee what’s to follow. Would you avert it,
Press his dismissal. I must to the palace.
Guard thou the papers for me till I am back. [Exit.
Ph. These papers are conviction. Blasco is right:
He loves not. That is clear; for he would ruin
Her father. Then again my rivalry
Avowed,—ay, if he had an ear, avowed,—
He doth not see. So cold, how could he win her?
Or wish to win her? She is mine.—And yet I would
’Twere any man but Manuel. Ah! who comes?
’Tis she. Now may I prove her.
Enter Constance with Servant.
CONSTANCE (to servt.).
If she be not within, prithee enquire
Where she is gone. I will await thee here.
[Exit servt.
I have been most foolish. (Seeing Philip.) Philip!
Ph.Yes, ’tis I.
Constance.
Con.What wouldst thou?
Ph. (kneeling). I entreat a favour,
Which is to me the one boon in the world.
Con. Rise, sir, what is’t?
Ph.That I may speak, nor leave
Love’s wound unhealed.
Con.’Twere well to seal forgiveness,
Companion of forgetfulness. Say, therefore.
The few words that are due.
Ph.Tho’ I repent,
Repentance cannot own forgetfulness.
It pleads forgiveness in the name of love.
Con. How in that name?
Ph. Constance, I love thee still.
Con.Sir!
920
Ph.Oh! ’tis true ...
Reproach me not, Constance: my evil life
I have quite renounced. I used it but to learn
The wisdom of that other. I come back
From folly and idleness and evil days.
Whate’er hath been, Constance, I have not left thee:
There hath been nothing near thee, nothing like thee,
Nothing but thee: and I return to find thee
More beautiful than ever ...
Con.Pray you, sir,
Remember.
Ph.Let me speak.
Con.When thou didst ask to speak,
I looked for that one word, which thou in honour
Wert, to amend thy silence, bound to speak.
’Twas in thy power to salve thy breach of faith
With full and free renouncement. Thine earlier ill
I had then forgiven: for if thou art not changed,
Philip, I am: then I was ignorant—
Maybe we both were—both mistook; but thou
Didst add an injury, and to-day thou addest
Another worse. Knowing me now betrothed,
How canst thou offer to renew thy love?
940
Ph. O, Constance, Manuel doth not, cannot, love thee
As I.
Con. I pray he doth not.
Ph.Hear me, Constance!
Con. Nay, sir; no more. [Exit.
Ph.My passion hath aroused
Passion in her; and that must work for me.
Is it likely such a temper would sit down
And eat cold fare at Manuel’s feast of reason?
She will be mine. Ay, tho’ she said betrothed—
Once ’twas to me. So now to see her father;
He’s but a market where I rule with ease.
The papers! By heav’n, I had left them lying! [Stoops.
Ha!
Blood! blood upon the floor! I have knelt in blood—
Here were an omen, were I superstitious.—
And scarcely dry. This city hath fallen accurst.
There is nothing spoke of ... Ah! but what if this
Should be the track they seek? Palicio
Took shelter here! Impossible. Even Blasco
Thought not so ill of Manuel. Yet the other
Under the wall, and this within the house ...
They tally. Peace! I will go search the garden.
[Exit.
SCENE · 5
Room in Manuel’s house. PALICIO as before (sitting).
PALICIO.
To stand true to a cause because ’tis noble,
Tho’ it be thankless; to command a people
Against a tyranny, and teach their arms
To enforce the reasonable rights of life,
Beneath the crushing bond of wealth and power;—
To be an outcast, but to leave a name
Untarnished and beloved, remembered long;—
That was my choice, my hope. Can I now waver?
Shall I—having so well begun—
Step up into a throne above the throng,
And smiling on them from the hated height,
Take life at ease? Nay, when ’tis reasoned so,
’Tis hideous.—But, oh! thou treacherous enemy,
Thou selfish and unanswerable passion,
That bluntest resolution, and criest down
The voice of virtue! Margaret, Margaret!
Would I had never seen thee, or believed
I could not win thee. If I now could fly,
I might go free.
Squarcialupu, who has appeared at the window, gradually thrusting his head between the curtains, and peering round, enters.
SQUARCIALUPU.
Sq.Captain!
Pal.Ha! Squarcialupu!
Why, what! how com’st thou here? what dost thou?
Sq.Hush!
Pal. Begone, I pray.
Sq.Nay, now I have found thee, captain.
Thine arm is it only?
Pal.A prick in the arm.
980
Sq.So, so!
Then thou canst come.
Pal.Tell me, how didst thou learn
That I was here?
Sq.We guessed it from thy track.
Pal. O, God! I’m tracked?
Sq.Thy blood is on the wall.
I undertook to tell thee. In the dusk
I scaled this window at the back of the house:
Had my old luck, captain. Make haste and fly.
Pal. Stay, stay! I cannot. Is it known to any
I am hiding here?
Sq.What use to stay for that?
Come ere they know it.
Pal.I cannot.
990
Sq.I can help thee.
Pal. Nay, ’tis not that, altho’ I am bled to death.
’Tis honour holds me.
Sq.Honour will not help
Manuel nor thee, if they should search his house.
But if thou fliest ...
Pal.I may not.
Sq.That’s no word
Where life’s at stake. What shall I tell thy men?
Pal. Where are they?
Sq.At the news of thy escape
They gathered on the hills, and wait thee there.
I met a man in the town an hour ago,
Who said he had seen thee riding on the road
To Monreale. All the folk’s astir.
Pal. I cannot come.
Sq.Give me not such a word.
Who would believe I had seen thee, if I said
Palicio lieth safe in Manuel’s house,
And saith he cannot come?
Pal.Begone, I bid thee,
Lest thou be found here.
Sq.Nay, I’ll not be gone.
’Tis but some twenty feet: I’ll lift thee down.
The street is watched.
Pal.Hark, Squarcialupu, tell me;
Is’t true I’m tracked?
Sq.’Tis certain.
Pal.Then I think
If Manuel knew of this ... Hark, I will come.
Go thou and tell my men that I will come.
To-morrow morning let them look to find me
At Monreale. If I come not then
Let none look for me more. But if I come
All shall be well. Go thou and tell them this.
Sq. Come, captain, while thou mayst.
Pal.I bid thee go.
Obey me at once.
Sq. (whistles at window and is answered). I have thy promise.
To-morrow we shall see thee. [Exit.
Pal.But for this cursed wound
I had fled. To cure it must I risk my soul?
Fool that I was, had I escaped with him
I might have found a surgeon—now when she comes
I will say nothing. Nothing ... yet, that’s no hope;
For seeing her I must love her: and if I fail
To win her wholly, I must lose my soul
She is here. (Aside.) Ah! what is this?
Enter Margaret, with Rosso blindfold.
MARGARET (to Rosso).
You now are in the room. Stand in your place.
While I make ready. (To Pal.) Let me wrap this cloth
About thy face. Lie ever still, and speak not.
(To Rosso.) Your eyes, sir, are at liberty.
ROSSO (unbandaging).
Coming hither,
I thought ’twould make a pretty poem to tell
Of one, whose cruel mistress ne’er allowed
The meanest favour, till he dreamed one night
That he was blind, and she, in pity of him,
Led him forth by the hand where he would go,
But left him suddenly; whereat he awoke,
And wished no more to see ...
Mar. Now, sir Apollo, come. Here lies your patient.
Give him your aid, and tell your poem after.
Ros. Well, let us see. Ay, here is all I need.
Set them thus on the table, and here the light,
So. (arranging). ’Tis the right arm. (unbinding.) Ah! when was this done?
Mar. Have you forgot, sir? questions are forbidden.
Ros. See, thou must hold his arm for me. Press here
Thy fingers; firmly,—so. Thou dost not faint
At sight of blood?
Mar.Nay, nay. And yet I know not.
If there be much, I faint.
Ros. (operating). I had forgotten
I might not question;—’tis a surgeon’s habit.—
First,—for where all are eager with their tale,—
’Tis only courteous to invite the telling:—
But chiefly—that it stablishes his judgment—
Built on appearances,—and banishes
Conjecture from experience;—as ’twould now
For me,—should this man say,—’twas yesterday
The wound was made;—and he that dealt it me
Stood on my left,—and thro’ my arm outstretched,—
In attitude of striking at another,—
Thrust with—a sword.—Stir not, ’tis nearly done.—
But I withdrew my arm ere he his weapon.—
Loose not thy grasp: loose not!
Mar.Sir, my attention
Was taken by your story. Never speak:
’Twill mar your work.
Ros.’Tis a small thing. ’Tis done.
’Twas an unlucky lunge that lanced thee there.
(To Mar.) What thinkest thou of my story?
Mar.’Twas but guessing.
Ros. Nay, inference. ’Twere guess to say, the skill
Which staunched the running blood, but could no more,
Might be thy brother’s: that this sunburnt arm,
Fine skin, and youthful fibre, were the body
Of John Palicio.
Pal. (discovering). I am betrayed!
Ros.Not so:
Then had I held my tongue.
Pal.True.—What’s thy name?
Ros. My name is Rosso. Sling thine arm across:
There must it rest until the wound be healed.
Mar. You have guessed the secret, sir, which we withheld
In your respect. This is my brother’s house;
This is Palicio. Guard now what you have learned
As closely, I pray, as if we had freely told it.
Ros. Not to thee, lady, though in this and all
I am thy servant; yet not now to thee
I speak, but to Giovànn Palicio;
To whom I say he need not ask of me
Promise or oath. The good I am proud to have done
I shall not spoil by blabbing.
1080
Pal.Thank thee, Rosso.
Ros. Noble and brave Palicio, mayst thou prosper.
[Bandaging his own eyes.
Pal. Thank thee, I thank thee, Rosso. So now my arm
Is mended. By heaven! this surgery hath a trick
Worth knowing, could one learn it easily.
Ros. (blindfold). Come, lady, and lead me forth.
Mar.Why, what is this?
You know your way: there’s nothing now to hide.
Ros. Didst thou not bargain with me to lead me back?
Mar. But there’s no need.
Ros.Yet will I claim my fee.
Where is thy hand?
Mar.Sir, you but trifle.
Ros.And thou
Refusest me in a trifle? Then I will dare (unbandaging)
To raise my terms. If I may kiss thy hand
I’ll be content.
Mar.’Tis I, sir, should kiss yours.
’Tis that hath earned the homage: and I’ll be kind.
That hath done well; and thus I kiss it. (Kisses Rosso’s hand.) Now,
Go, go in peace: thou’rt paid. [Making him go out.
[Exit Rosso.
Pal. (sitting).Why didst thou that?
Mar. He loves me.
Pal.Wouldst thou be as kind to me,
If I should love thee?
Mar.But he sends me sonnets.
Pal. I could write sonnets.
Mar.Ah, but his are writ
In pure Sicilian.
Pal.’Tis my proper tongue.
1100
Mar. I have kept my promise, sir, and now must leave.
Your wound is healed.
Pal.I fear I scarce can thank thee,
If ’tis thy word to go. Or, if thou stayest
But to cure wounds,—I have another wound
I shewed thee not, which hath a deeper seat:
This hand may cure it.
Mar.Nay, what mean you, sir?
Pal. Margaret, I love thee. There, thou hast it all.
Thou hast stolen my soul. I thought—my pride, my hope—
O, I thought wrong—’tis nothing. All I have done,
Or would do, I cast aside: I love thee only.
1010
Mar. Giovanni.
Pal.O, ’tis true, there’s nothing noble,
Beautiful, sacred, dear, familiar to me,
I hold now at a straw’s worth: body and soul
I am thine, Margaret, I am thine. O, answer me!
Mar. Giovanni, ’tis so strange. ’Tis best I go.
Pal. Thou didst kiss Rosso’s hand.
Mar.For love of thee.
Didst thou not guess?
Pal.O, then, my dearest, kiss me
Now for myself. Can it be true thou lovest me?
Mar. Alas! ’tis learned too quickly.
Pal.Can I think it,
Spite of my savage life, my outlawry,
My poverty?
Mar.O, what are these?
1120
Pal.Indeed,
My blood is noble.
Mar.These are not the checks
Or lures of love. Nay, what is noble blood?
What were’t to be a lion, and to fly
The hunter like a hare? And if man shew
Less fearless fierce and hungry for the right
Than doth a beast for food, what is his title
To be God’s image worth? That best nobility
Hath no more claim.
Pal.But canst thou share my life?
Mar. I am restless for it.
Pal.Leave thy rank? thy wealth?
Mar. I have lived too long that counterfeit of life.
I’ll strive like thee: something I’ll do, like thee,
To lessen misery. Nay, if man’s curse
Hang in necessity, I have the heart
To combat that, and find if in some part
Fate be not vulnerable.
Pal.O joy, my dearest:
I wronged thee ages by a moment’s thought
That thou wouldst shrink ... Then is our marriage fixed?
Mar. There’s none can hinder it.
Pal.O, blessed joy!
Yet how can I be sure, love, that thou knowest,
Finding the word so easy, what a mountain
There lies to lift? Pledging to me and mine
Thy heart this hour, a hundred thousand stings
Will plague thee from this moment, to drive thee back.
Mar. Try me, Giovanni.
Pal.Wilt thou aid me, love,
To fly to-night? By morning I may meet
My men at San Martino: all my schemes
May yet be saved.
Mar.Ah! wilt thou go, Giovanni?
Thou’rt yet too weak.
Pal.My presence, not my strength,
Is needed.
Mar. Alas! I fear.
Pal.What, Margaret, dost thou fear?
Mar. Only for thee. Yet go; I can be with thee
By noon. My brother has a little house
At Monreale, where I am used to stay
When the wish takes me. There I’ll go to-morrow,
And thence can visit thee. Thou didst not mean
I should not come? I shall not hinder thee.
Pal. Nay, nay.
Mar.I’ll let thee from the house to-night,
And give thee money which will aid thee well.
My brother need know nothing. I can make
The journey thither in an hour, and choose
My time to beg his grace.
1160
Pal.What do I owe thee!
Freedom, and life, and love,—thy love ... O, Margaret,
What I shall do will pay thee.
Mar.I must leave:
For Manuel else will question of my stay.
Pal. My treasure lost so soon!
Mar.I go to save
What we have won. Farewell.
Pal.Say at what hour
I may go hence; and how.
Mar.At dead of night:
’Tis safest then.
Pal.And wilt thou come thyself?
Mar. When the church bell with double stroke hath tolled
The death-knell of to-morrow’s second hour,
While its last jar yet shelters in the ear,
Listen: and at thy door when thou shalt catch
A small and wakeful noise, such as is made
By the sharp teeth of an unventurous mouse,
Scraping his scanty feast when all is still,
Come forth. Thou’lt meet my hand, and at the gate
I’ll give thee what I have. Tied in thy bundle
Will be a letter shewing thee the place
Where thou must send me tidings. Now, farewell.
Pal. Yet not farewell.
Mar.To-night I shall not see thee:
Nor must thou speak. So, till to-morrow’s sun
Lasts our farewell.
Pal.Then with to-morrow, Margaret,
My life begins.
Mar.O, ’tis the greater joy
For me than thee.
Pal.Ay, for the giver ever
Hath the best share. And thus I kiss thee, love.
Farewell.
Mar.Be ready.
Pal.Trust me.
Mar.And take thy dagger.
Farewell. [Going.
