“Gentil Signore,
Cesare Borgia, figlio del Pastore.”
CESARE.
[As if waking.] Why, that is what they sing at my Cesena,
’Mid the snow-marbled Apennine. My shepherds
Hailed me the Shepherd’s son—their simpleness
Could so attune the distant Vatican
With their cool valleys ... and I cannot laugh.
JUANITO.
I have the rope: soon you will hear a call
Hummed up upon a trumpet.
CESARE.
O royal Italy!
O my Romagna ... but I cannot breathe!
The sun is fallen, the air of the abyss
Blows like blue fields of waving flax. Look down!
The little stream Zapadiel disappears,
And the wild brushwood and the flock of goats;
Even the East has faded....
Did you tell me
They play up from the fosse a trumpet-note
When the horses wait? Once more to touch a bridle,
Once more astride to feel the rocking flanks!
Ha, ha! And then my sudden apparition,
As if I were the devil. Hark, a sound!
Listen! [He trembles all over.
A snake-note darting up ... a bugle!
JUANITO.
No, no, no!
The bleating of a goat.