[Juanito comes from the tent and passes into the night.
The tramp, the cavalcade
Of these cursed whirlwinds, of the secret legions—
The hauntings of an army I shall never
Command—
[His voice rises.] shall never summon. I am void;
I cannot buy the forces that I love;
I cannot as a Suzerain compel ...
I have no place, no rank, no furniture.
This march, this freight of cannon—all were mine;
I struck them on the air, cried Halt or On ...
My patrimony! Deep where dreams outspread,
A phantom army, Cesar’s army, rambles
Ungeneralled.
O fury of the night!
This France that has rejected me, this Spain
That bound me hand and foot, this Papacy
That locks me from Romagna with its keys,
From all my captains and my army calling
Across the Alps—I have one lust, one cry
For blood within me....
Ha, to plunge my sword
In vengeance to the heart of France, the throat
Of Spain, the entrails of the Vatican!
To murder countries—not the flesh and blood
Of just a man here, there, but states and kingdoms—
Draw out their life! Has not all checking life
Flowed forth in darkness to my sovereignty?
If I have lost the land that I could rule,
And if my army is a host of winds,
I still can thirst for blood.... I have my sword,
And, sword in hand, the last breath that I breathe
Will be a breath of appetite and hate.
I have my sword—
[He sweeps back the tent-skirts, and stands face to the storm, the torch behind him.
O shifting elements,
Chaos is on me—I am not of Chaos!
I could ride forth
A single horseman riding forth to conquer
The day, the night; I could confine these winds
Had I the watchword.... Beaten back, destroyed!
—Close in!
[He wraps the folds of the tent together. There is no sound in the tent.
A SENTRY’S VOICE.
Who passes? Pampeluna! Do you hear?
I give you Pampeluna!...
[In a whisper.] No, Saint Jaques!
Then it must be the wind.
A SUDDEN GREAT CRY.
Beaumont, a Beaumont!