ACT SIXTH.
SCENE I.
Early morning in the condemned cell where Isola lies sleeping. In one corner of it a warder sits, with his head sunk on his chest, asleep. The first sign of day dawn is stealing through the barred window.
Isola (gradually awaking, says dreamily): “’Tis somewhat hard my rugged, earthy couch, Yet the brown heather nurtures Liberty. I’d rather nestle in its arms, than lie Cushioned and canopied on regal couch.” [Wakes more fully, and starts up into a sitting posture, as consciousness and remembrance return. “’Tis neither, though. Memory has returned. Morning is breaking on my last one here. In a few hours my deathless Counterpart Will meet once more my loved Escanior. Escanior! I am coming, Escanior! They sought to part us. We shall meet again.” (She looks at the dim light in the cell, and says): “’Tis a lone scene. A dreary aspect. Cold.” [Shivers. “Bare walls, grey dawn, a flick’ring light at play A drowsy gaoler, with his sleeping head, Nodding upon his almost soulless breast. What is he but a thing mechanical, The tool of icy and unfeeling law? Law, sacred law! No matter how unjust. An idol to be viewed with veneration! Yes, Death is nigh, nigh unto Isola. It has no terror for her, still she fain Would turn aside its grip from dear Vulnar, And faithful Scrutus, too, if possible. Why should they die for saving Hector’s son? Hector, awake! Save them, preserve their lives. What is their crime? Did they not save Vergli, Half-brother of our little Bernis? Hark! Far off I hear a clock tower tolling six. Just two hours more. Bernis, awake? My child. Bernis, arouse your father, bid him save, Bid him give Scrutus and Vulnar their lives. It matters not for me, but for these two, Bernis awake him, bid him think of them. My little boy, make haste. Time glides along; It waits for no one, peasant, peer, or king.”
[Enter another gaoler, the drowsy one starts up.
Gaoler. “The pastor’s here. Would you converse with him? And let him shrift your soul from coal black sin? What will you have to eat? Name your desire, And I will see it is attended to. You must be hungry, aye, and thirsty too, For two whole days food has not passed your lips, Nor water either. Are you not famishing?”
Fortunatus. “Ask the wild bird, deprived of Liberty, And caged inside a narrow prison cell, Either to eat of seed or drink of water! I am not hungry friend, I need no food, Nor do I need the pastor’s aid to shrive My soul of some imaginary sins. Let me be left in peace. ’Tis all I ask, And when the hour arrives for me to die, I’ll leave this cage ever so joyfully.”
Gaoler. “You’re a queer lot, you evolutionists. I would not like to die, at all, at all, And without eating, or a steadying dram To keep the nerves together. Think of it! It is to me incomprehensible. Queer fish indeed these evolutionists.”
Isola (musingly to herself): “Hector might wake. My voice may have reached him, Those thoughts of mine might possibly strike home! Somehow I feel he’ll wake and send reprieve. Send it, yes, but will it arrive in time? I’ll claim the privilege of dying first. Each moment saved is precious. Dear Vulnar, Your staunch fidelity to me and Truth, Merits not death, but Honour, Liberty. And you, too, Scrutus, you so faithful. No, You do not merit such a punishment. Hector! Art coming? Give these men their lives.”