Damas. Thy rival and her father. Arm thyself for the truth.—He heeds not.
Mel. She.
Will never know how deeply she was loved!
The charitable night, that wont to bring
Comfort to-day, in bright and eloquent dreams,
Is henceforth leagued with misery! Sleep, farewell,
Or else become eternal! Oh, the waking
From false oblivion, and to see the sun,
And know she is another’s!
Damas. Be a man!
Mel. I am a man!—it is the sting of woe
Like mine that tells us we are men!
Damas. The false one
Did not deserve thee.
Mel. Hush!—No word against her!
Why should she keep, through years and silent absence,
The holy tablets of her virgin faith
True to a traitor’s name! Oh, blame her not;
It were a sharper grief to think her worthless
Than to be what I am! To-day,—to-day!
They, said “To-day!” This day, so wildly welcomed—
This clay, my soul had singled out of time
And mark’d for bliss! This day! oh, could I see her,
See her once more unknown; but hear her voice.
So that one echo of its music might
Make ruin less appalling in its silence.
Damas. Easily done! Come with me to her house;
Your dress—your cloak—moustache—the bronzed hues
Of time and toil—the name you bear—belief
In your absence, all will ward away suspicion.
Keep in the shade. Ay, I would have you come
There may be hope? Pauline is yet so young,
They may have forced her to these second bridals
Out of mistaken love.
Mel. No, bid me hope not!
Bid me not hope! I could not bear again
To fall from such a heaven! One gleam of sunshine,
And the ice breaks and I am lost! Oh, Damas,
There’s no such thing as courage in a man;
The veriest slave that ever crawl’d from danger
Might spurn me now. When first I lost her, Damas,
I bore it, did I not? I still had hope,
And now I—I— [Bursts into an agony of grief.
Damas. What, comrade! all the women
That ever smiled destruction on brave hearts
Were not worth tears like these!
Mel. ‘Tis past—forget it.
I am prepared; life has no further ills!
The cloud has broken in that stormy rain,
And on the waste I stand, alone with Heaven.
Damas. His very face is changed; a breaking heart
Does its work soon!—Come, Melnotte, rouse thyself:
One effort more. Again thou’lt see her.
Mel. See her!
There is a passion in that simple sentence
That shivers all the pride and power of reason
Into a chaos!
Damas. Time wanes; come, ere yet It be too late.
Mel. Terrible words—“Too late!” Lead on. One last look more, and then—
Damas. Forget her!
Mel. Forget her! yes—For death remembers not. [Exeunt.
SCENE II.