SCENE II.
Enter Count, followed by Austin.
Aust. I do believe thee very barbarous;
Nay, fear thy reason touch'd; for such wild thoughts,
Such bloody purposes, could ne'er proceed
From any sober judgment;—yet thy heart
Will sure recoil at this.
Count. Why, think so still;
Think me both ruffian-like, and lunatic;
One proof at least I'll give of temperate reason,—
Not to be baited from my fix'd design
By a monk's ban, or whining intercession.
Aust. Thou canst not mean to do it.
Count. Trust thine eyes.
Thybalt! bring forth the prisoner; bid my marshal
Prepare an axe. The ceremony's short;
One stroke, and all is past. Before he die,
He shall have leave to thank your godliness,
For speeding him so soon from this bad world.
Aust. Where is the right, the law, by which you doom him?
Count. My will's the law.
Aust. A venerable law!
The law by which the tiger tears the lamb,
And kites devour the dove. A lord of France,
Dress'd in a little delegated sway,
Strikes at his sovereign's face, while he profanes
His functions, trusted for the general good.
Count. I answer not to thee.
Aust. Answer to Heaven.
When call'd to audit in that sacred court,
Will that supremacy accept thy plea,
"I did commit foul murder, for I might?"
Count. Soar not too high; talk of the things of earth.
I'll give thee ear. Has not thy penitent,
Young Isabel, disclos'd her passion to thee?
Aust. Never.
Count. Just now, her coldness to my son,
You said, bespoke her heart preoccupied.
The frail and fair make you their oracles;
Pent in your close confessionals you sit,
Bending your reverend ears to amorous secrets.
Aust. Scoffer, no more! stop thy licentious tongue;
Turn inward to thy bosom, and reflect—
Count. That is, be fool'd. Yet will I grant his life,
On one condition.
Aust. Name it.
Count. Join my hand
To Isabel.
Aust. Not for the world.
Count. He dies.
Theodore brought in.
Come near, thou wretch! When call'd before me first,
With most unwonted patience I endur'd
Thy bold avowal of the wrong thou didst me;
A wrong so great, that, but for foolish pity,
Thy life that instant should have made atonement;
But now, convicted of a greater crime,
Mercy is quench'd: therefore prepare to die.
Theod. I was a captive long 'mongst infidels,
Whom falsely I deem'd savage, since I find
Even Tunis and Algiers, those nests of ruffians,
Might teach civility to polish'd France,
If life depends but on a tyrant's frown.
Count. Out with thy holy trumpery, priest! delay not,
Or, if he trusts in Mahomet, and scorns thee,
Away with him this instant.
Aust. Hold, I charge you!
Theod. The turban'd misbeliever makes some show
Of justice, in his deadly processes;
Nor drinks the sabre blood thus wantonly,
Where men are valued less than nobler beasts.—
Of what am I accused?
Count. Of insolence;
Of bold, presumptuous love, that dares aspire
To mix the vileness of thy sordid lees
With the rich current of a baron's blood.
Aust. My heart is touch'd for him.—Much injur'd youth,
Suppress awhile this swelling indignation;
Plead for thy life.
Theod. I will not meanly plead;
Nor, were my neck bow'd to his bloody block,
If love's my crime, would I disown my love.
Count. Then, by my soul, thou diest!
Theod. And let me die:
With my last breath I'll bless her. My spirit, free
From earth's encumbering clogs, shall soar above thee.
Anxious, as once in life, I'll hover round her,
Teach her new courage to sustain this blow,
And guard her, tyrant! from thy cruelty.
Count. Ha! give me way!
Aust. Why, this is madness, youth:
You but inflame the rage you should appease.
Theod. He thinks me vile. 'Tis true, indeed, I seem so:
But, though these humble weeds obscure my outside,
I have a soul, disdains his contumely;
A guiltless spirit, that provokes no wrong,
Nor from a monarch would endure it, offer'd:
Uninjur'd, lamb like; but a lion, rous'd.
Know, too injurious lord, here stands before thee,
The equal of thy birth.
Count. Away, base clod.—
Obey me, slaves.—What, all amaz'd with lies?
Aust. Yet, hear him, Narbonne: that ingenuous face
Looks not a lie. Thou saidst thou wert a captive—
Turn not away; we are not all like him.
Theod. My story's brief. My mother, and myself,
(I then an infant) in my father's absence,
Were on our frontiers seiz'd by Saracens.
Count. A likely tale! a well-devis'd imposture!
Who will believe thee?
Aust. Go on, say all.
Theod. To the fierce bashaw, Hamet,
That scourge and terror of the Christian coasts,
Were we made slaves at Tunis.
Aust. Ha! at Tunis?
Seiz'd with thy mother? Lives she, gentle youth?
Theod. Ah, no, dear saint! fate ended soon her woes,
In pity, ended! On her dying couch,
She pray'd for blessings on me.
Aust. Be thou blessed!
O fail not, nature, but support this conflict!
'Tis not delusion, sure. It must be he.—
But one thing more; did she not tell thee too,
Thy wretched father's name?
Theod. The lord of Clarinsal.
Why dost thou look so eagerly upon me?
If yet he lives, and thou know'st Clarinsal,
Tell him my tale.
Aust. Mysterious Providence!
Count. What's this? the old man trembles and turns pale. [Aside.
Theod. He will not let his offspring's timeless ghost
Walk unappeas'd; but on this cruel head
Exact full vengeance for his slaughter'd son.
Aust. O Giver of all good! Eternal Lord!
Am I so bless'd at last, to see my son?
Theod. Let me be deaf for ever, if my ears
Deceive me now! did he not say his son?
Aust. I did, I did! let this, and this, convince thee.
I am that Clarinsal; I am thy father.
Count. Why works this foolish moisture to my eyes? [Aside.
Down, nature! what hast thou to do with vengeance?
Theod. Oh, sir! thus bending, let me clasp your knees;—
Now, in this precious moment, pay at once
The long, long debt of a lost son's affection.
Count. [Aside.] Destruction seize them both! Must I behold
Their transports, ne'er, perhaps, again to know
A son's obedience, or a father's fondness!
Aust. Dear boy! what miracle preserved thee thus,
To give thee back to France?
Theod. No miracle,
But common chance. A warlike bark of Spain
Bore down, and seiz'd our vessel, as we rov'd
Intent on spoil: (for many times, alas!
Was I compell'd to join their hated league,
And strike with infidels.) My country known,
The courteous captain sent me to the shore;
Where, vain were my fond hopes to find my father:
'Twas desolation all: a few poor swains
Told me, the rumour ran he had renounc'd
A hated world, and here in Languedoc,
Devoted his remains of life to Heaven.
Aust. They told thee truth; and Heaven shall have my prayers,
My soul pour'd out in endless gratitude,
For this unhoped, immeasurable blessing.
Count. Thus far, fond man! I have listen'd to the tale;
And think it, as it is, a gross contrivance—
A trick, devis'd to cheat my credulous reason,
And thaw me to a woman's milkiness.
Aust. And art thou so unskill'd in nature's language,
Still to mistrust us? Could our tongues deceive,
Credit, what ne'er was feign'd, the genuine heart:
Believe these pangs, these tears of joy and anguish.
Count. Or true, or false, to me it matters not.
I see thou hast an interest in his life,
And by that link I hold thee. Wouldst thou save him,
Thou know'st already what my soul is set on,
Teach thy proud heart compliance with my will:
If not—but now no more.—Hear all, and mark me—
Keep special guard, that none, but by my order,
Pass from the castle. By my hopes of heaven,
His head goes off, who dares to disobey me!
Farewell!——if he be dear to thee, remember.
[Exit Count.
Aust. If he be dear to me! my vital blood!
Image of her, my soul delighted in,
Again she lives in thee! Yes, 'twas that voice,
That kindred look, rais'd such strong instinct here,
And kindled all my bosom at thy danger.
Theod. But must we bear to be thus tamely coop'd
By such insulting, petty despotism?
I look to my unguarded side in vain;
Had I a sword——
Aust. Think not of vengeance now;
A mightier arm than thine prepares it for him.
Pass but a little space, we shall behold him
The object of our pity, not our anger.
Yes, he must suffer; my rapt soul foresees it:
Empires shall sink; the pond'rous globe of earth
Crumble to dust; the sun and stars be quench'd;
But O, Eternal Father! of thy will,
To the last letter, all shall be accomplish'd.
Theod. So let it be! but, if his pride must fall,
Ye saints, who watch o'er loveliness and virtue,
Confound not with his crimes, her innocence!
Make him alone the victim; but with blessings
Bright, and distinguish'd, crown his beauteous daughter,
The charming Adelaide, my heart's first passion!
Aust. Oh most disastrous love! My son, my son,
Thy words are poniards here. Alas! I thought
(So thought the tyrant, and for that he rag'd)
The vows exchang'd 'tween Isabel and thee,
Thwarted the issue of his wild designs.
Theod. I knew not Isabel, beyond a moment
Pass'd in surprise and haste.
Aust. O, had malignant fortune toil'd to blast him,
Thus had she snar'd him in this fatal passion!—
And does young Adelaide return thy love?
Theod. Bless'd powers, she does! How can you frown, and hear it!
Her generous soul, first touch'd by gratitude,
Soon own'd a kinder, warmer sympathy.
Soft as the fanning of a turtle's plumes,
The sweet confession met my enraptur'd ears.
Aust. What can I do?—Come near, my Theodore;
Dost thou believe my affection?
Theod. Can I doubt it?
Aust. Think what my bosom suffers, when I tell thee,
It must not, cannot be.
Theod. My love for Adelaide!
Aust. Deem it delicious poison; dash it from thee:
Thy bane is in the cup.
Theod. O bid me rather
Tear out my throbbing heart; I'd think it mercy,
To this unjust, this cruel interdiction.
That proud, unfeeling Narbonne, from his lips
Well might such words have fallen;—but thou, my father——
Aust. And fond, as ever own'd that tender name.
Not I, my son, not I prevent this union,
To me 'tis bitterness to cross thy wish,
But nature, fate, and Heaven, all, all forbid it.
We must withdraw, where Heaven alone can hear us:
Then must thou stretch thy soul's best faculties;
Call every manly principle to steel thee;
And, to confirm thy name, secure thy honour,
Make one great sacrifice of love to justice.
[Exeunt.