Part 4

Norna. Sinful man, didst think thy death-bed could be peaceful? As they have haunted thee in life, so shall spirits darken thy last hour. _I_ bore thy murdered wife to a quiet grave, and raised a spirit to affright and haunt thee to thy death. _I_ freed the Lady Leonore; _I_ mocked and haunted thee in palace, wood, and cell; _I_ warned Hugo, and betrayed thee to his power; and _I_ brought down this awful doom upon thee. As thou didst refuse all mercy to thy victims, so shall mercy be denied to thee. Remorse and dark despair shall wring thy heart, and thou shalt die unblessed, unpitied, unforgiven. Thy victims are avenged, and Norna's work is done.

[Norna _vanishes._

Rod. Ha! ha! 'tis gone,--yet stay, 'tis Louis' ghost! How darkly his eyes shine on me! See, see,--the demons gather round me! How fast they come! Old Norna is there, muttering her spells. Let me go free! Unbind these chains! Hugo, Louis, Leonore, Theresa,--thou art avenged!

[_Falls dead._ Norna _glides in and stands beside him._

[_Tableau._

CURTAIN.

CAPTIVE OF CASTILE;

OR,

THE MOORISH MAIDEN'S VOW.

CHARACTERS. Bernardo . . . . . . _Lord of Castile._

Ernest L'Estrange . . . . _An English Lord._

Hernando . . . . . . _A Priest._

Selim . . . . . . . _A Slave._

Zara . . . . . . . _Daughter to Bernardo._

CAPTIVE OF CASTILE;

OR

THE MOORISH MAIDEN'S VOW.

SCENE FIRST.

[_A thick wood. Storm coming on. Enter_ Ernest.]

Ernest. This summer sky, darkened by storm, is a fit emblem of my life. O happy England, why did I leave thee; why let dreams of fame and honor win me from a home, to wander now a lonely and bewildered fugitive? But why do I repine? Life, health, and a brave heart yet are mine; and 'mid all my peril, God may send some joy to cheer me on to happiness and honor. Hist! a footstep. 'Tis a light one, but a Moorish foe steals like a serpent on his prey. I'll hide me here, and if need be I'll sell my life as a brave man should [_conceals himself among the trees_].

[_Enter_ Zara, _weeping._

Zara. Heaven shield me! Whither shall I turn? Alone in this wild forest, where may I find a friend to help. The dark storm gathers fast, and I am shelterless. The fierce Spaniard may be wandering nigh, and I dare not call for aid. Mistress of a hundred slaves, here must I perish for one to lead me. Father, the faint heart turns to thee when earthly help is past; hear and succor thy poor child now, who puts her trust in thee.

Ernest [_coming forward_]. Lady, thy prayer is heard. God hath not sent me here in vain. How may I best serve thee?

Zara. Gentle stranger, pity and protect a hapless maid who puts her faith in thee. Guide me from this wild wood, and all the thanks a grateful heart can give are thine.

Ernest. I ask no higher honor than to shield so fair a flower from the storm, or from rude hands that may harm it. But how chanced it, lady, that thou art wandering thus unattended? 'Tis unsafe for youth and beauty while the Spanish army is so near.

Zara. It was a foolish fancy led me hither, and dearly am I punished. Journeying from a distant convent to my father's home, while my attendants rested by a spring I wandered through the wood, unthinking of the danger, till turning to retrace my steps, I found myself lost and alone. I feared to call, and but for thee, kind stranger, might have never seen my home again. Ask not my name, but tell me thine, that in my prayers I may remember one who has so aided me.

Ernest. It were uncourteous to refuse thy bidding, lady. Ernest L'Estrange is the name now honored by the poor service I may do thee. In the Spanish army I came hither, and fear I have seen the last of home or friends. The Moors now seek my life, and ere I can rejoin my ranks, I may be a slave. But the storm draws nearer. Let me lead thee to some shelter, lady.

Zara. Methinks I see a glimmer yonder. Let us seek it, for with thee I fear no longer. I can only give thee thanks, most noble stranger; yet a day may come when she for whom thou dost now risk thy life may find a fit return, worthy thy courtesy to one so helpless and forlorn.

[_Exit_ Ernest _and_ Zara.

CURTAIN.

SCENE SECOND.

[_Room in the castle of_ Bernardo. Zara _alone_].

Zara. 'Tis strange how the thought haunts me still. Long months have passed since last I saw that noble face, and yet those gentle eyes look on me! Ernest!--'tis a sweet English name, and 'twas a noble English heart that felt such tender pity for a helpless maid. Hark! my father's step! He comes to tell of victories gained, of kingdoms won. Oh, would he might bring some word of him I have so longed to see and thank once more!

[_Enter_ Bernardo _with a casket._

Ber. Joyful tidings, Zara! Grenada is free. Here, love, are gems for thee; they have shone on many a fair lady's neck, but none more fair than thine. And here are things more precious far to me than all their gold and gems,--a goodly list of prisoners taken in the fight, and sent to cool their Spanish blood in our deepest cells. Ah, many a proud name is here,--Ferdinand Navarre, Carlos of Arragon, Lord L'Estrange, and Baron Lisle. But, child, what ails thee?

Zara [_starting up_]. L'Estrange! Is he a prisoner too? Hast thou read aright? Father, Father, it was he who saved me from a bitter death in yonder forest. I never told his name lest it should anger thee. For my sake spare him, and let the gratitude thou hast felt for that kind deed soften thy heart to the brave stranger.

Ber. Nay, Zara! He is thy country's foe, and must be sacrificed to save her honor. 'Twas a simple deed thou hast spoken of. What brave man but would save a fair girl from storms or danger? 'Tis a foolish thought, love; let it pass.

Zara. Oh, Father! I who never bent the knee to man before, implore thee thus [_kneels_]. Be merciful! Leave not the English lord to the dark and fearful doom that waits him. I know too well the life-long captivity, more terrible than death itself, that is his fate. Oh, speak! Say he is forgiven, Father!

Ber. Nay, what wild dream is this? Listen, child! I tell thee he must suffer the captivity he merits as thy country's foe. He hath borne arms against thy king, slain thy kindred, brought woe and desolation thro' the land our fathers gave us. And thou wouldst plead for him! Shame on thee! Thou art no true daughter of thy suffering country if thou canst waste one tear on those who were well lodged in our most dreary dungeons. Call thy pride to aid thee, Zara, and be worthy of thy noble name.

Zara. Father, thou hast often told me woman's lot was 'mid the quiet scenes of home, and that no thoughts of fame or glory should lie within a heart where only gentleness and love should dwell; but I have learned to honor bravery and noble deeds, and I would pledge my troth for the noble stranger. See the English knight, and if he win thee not to gratitude, thou art not the tender father who, through long years, hath so loved and cherished thy motherless child.

Ber. Nay, Zara, nay; honor is a sterner master than a father's love. I cannot free the captive till the king who hath sealed his doom shall pardon also. The prisoners are men of rank, and for thy country's sake must die. Forget thy foolish fancy, child, and set thy young heart on some fairer toys than these false English lords. Adieu, love; I must to the council.

[_Exit_ Bernardo.

Zara. Ah, there was a time when Zara's lightest wish was gladly granted. This cruel war hath sadly changed my father; he hath forgotten all his generous pity for suffering and sorrow. But my work is yet undone, and the stranger is a captive. He _shall_ be free, and I will pay the debt of gratitude I owe him. I will brave my father's anger; but whom can I trust to aid me? Ha! Selim! He is old and faithful, and will obey [_claps her hands_].

[_Enter_ Selim.

Selim. Your bidding, lady.

Zara. Selim, thou hast known me from my birth, and served me well. I have done thee many a kindness. Wilt thou grant me one that shalt repay all that I have ever shown to thee?

Selim. Lady, thou hast made a slave's life happy by thy care, and through the long years I have served thee, hast never bid me do aught that was not right. If my poor services can aid thee now, they are most gladly thine.

Zara. Listen, Selim, while I tell thee what I seek. Thou knowest an English soldier saved and led me from the forest yonder, and thou knowest how my father thanked and blessed the unknown friend who had so aided me. Yet now, when it is in his power to show the gratitude he felt, he will not, and has doomed the man he once longed to honor to a lonely cell to pine away a brave heart's life in sorrow and captivity. I would show that gentle stranger that a woman never can forget. I would free him. Thou hast the keys. This is the service I now crave of thee.

Selim. Lady, canst thou ask me to betray the trust my lord, thy father, hath been pleased to place in me? Ask anything but this, and gladly will I obey thee.

Zara. Ah, must I ever ask and be refused? Selim, listen! Thou hast a daughter; she is fair and young, and thou hast often sighed that she should be a slave. If thou wilt aid me now, the hour the chains fall from the English captive's limbs, that hour shalt see thy daughter free, and never more a slave. If thou wilt win this joy for her, then grant my prayer, and she is free.

Selim. Oh, lady, lady, tempt me not! much as I love my child, I love mine honor more. I cannot aid thee to deceive thy father.

Zara. Nay, Selim, I do not ask it of thee. The proud name my father bears shall ne'er be stained by one false deed of mine. I ask thee but to lead me to the prisoner's cell, that I may offer freedom, and tell him woman's gratitude can never fail, nor woman's heart forget. And if my father ask thee aught of this, thou shalt answer freely. Tell him all, and trust his kindness to forgive; and if evil come _I_ will bear it bravely,--thou shalt not suffer. Thou shalt win thy fair child's freedom, and my fadeless thanks.

Selim. Thou hast conquered, lady; and for the blessed gift that is my reward, I will brave all but treachery and dishonor. Thou shalt find thy truest slaves in the old man and his daughter [_kneels and gives the keys_].

Zara. Thanks, good Selim, thanks; thou shalt find a grateful friend in her thou hast served so well. I will disguise me as a female slave, and thou shalt lead me to the cell. Now go; I will join thee anon. [_Exit_ Selim.] Oh, Ernest, Ernest! thy brave heart shall pine no longer. Another hour, and thou art free. Chains cannot bind, nor dungeons hold when woman's love and gratitude are thine.

[_Exit._

CURTAIN.

SCENE THIRD.

[_Dungeon in the castle of_ Bernardo. Ernest L'Estrange, _chained._]

Ernest. So end my dreams of fame and honor! A life-long captive, or a sultan's slave are all that fate has left me now. Yet, 'mid disgrace and sorrow, one thought can cheer me yet, and one sweet vision brighten e'en my dreary lot. I have served my country well, and won the thanks of Spain's most lovely daughter. Sweet lady, little does she dream amid her happiness that memories of her are all now left to cheer a captive's heart. But hist!--a footstep on the stair. Perchance they come to lead me forth to new captivity or death. [_Enter_ Zara, _disguised as a slave_] Ah, who comes here to cheer the cell of the poor captive?

Zara. Captive no longer, if life and liberty be dear to thee. Say but the word, and ere the sun sets thou shalt be free amid the hills of Spain.

Ernest. Who art thou, coming like a spirit to my lonely cell, bringing hopes of freedom? Tell me, what hath moved thee to such pity for an unknown stranger?

Zara. Not unknown to her I serve. She hath not forgot thee, noble stranger. When thou didst lead her from the dim wood, she said a day might come when she, so weak and helpless then, might find some fit reward for one who risked his life for her. That hour hath come, and she hath sent her poor slave hither, and with her thanks and blessing to speed thee on thy way.

Ernest. And is she near, and did she send thee to repay my simple deed with one like this? Ah, tell her name! Where doth she dwell, and whence the power to set me free?

Zara. I may not tell thee more than this. Her father is Bernardo of Castile. She heard thy name among the captives doomed, and seeks to save thee; for if thou dost not fly, a most cruel death awaits thee. Listen to her prayer, and cast these chains away.

Ernest. It cannot be. Much as I love my freedom, I love my honor more; and I am bound until my conqueror shall give back my plighted word, to seek no freedom till he shall bid me go. Nay, do not sigh, kind friend; I am no longer sad. From this day forth captivity is sweet. Tell thy fair mistress all my thanks are hers; but I may not take the gift she offers, for with freedom comes dishonor, and I cannot break my word to her stern father. Tell her she hath made my fetters light, this cell a happy home, by the sweet thought that she is near and still remembers one who looks upon the hour when first we met as the happiest he hath known.

Zara. If there be power in woman's gratitude, thou shalt yet be free, and with thine honor yet unstained. She will not rest till all the debt she owes thee is repaid. Farewell, and think not Zara will forget [_turns to go; her veil falls_].

Ernest [_starting_]. Lady!--and is it thou? Ah, leave me not! Let me thank thee for the generous kindness which has made a lone heart happy by the thought that even in this wild land there is still one to remember the poor stranger.

Zara. Pardon what may seem to thee unmaidenly and bold; but thou wert in danger; there were none whom I could trust. Gratitude hath bid me come, and I am here. Again I ask, nay, I implore thee, let me have the joy of giving freedom to one brave English heart. England is thy home: wouldst thou not tread its green shores once again? Are there no fond hearts awaiting thy return? Ah, can I not tempt thee by all that man most loves, to fly?

Ernest. Lady, my own heart pleads more earnestly than even thy sweet voice; but those kind eyes were better dimmed with tears for my sad death than be turned coldly from me as one who had stained the high name he bore. And liberty were dearly purchased if I left mine honor here behind. Ask me no more; for till thy father sets me free, I am his prisoner here. Ah, dearest lady, thou hast made this lone cell bright, and other chains than these now hold me here.

Zara. Then it must be. Much as I grieve for thy captivity, I shall honor thee the more for thy unfailing truth, more prized than freedom, home, or friends. And though I cannot save thee now, thou shalt find a Moorish maiden true and fearless as thyself. Farewell! May happy thoughts of home cheer this dark cell till I have won the power to set thee free.

[_Exit_ Zara.

Ernest. Liberty hath lost its charms since thou art near me, lovely Zara. These chains are nothing now, for the fetters that thy beauty, tenderness, and grace have cast about my heart are stronger far.

CURTAIN.

SCENE FOURTH.

[Zara's _chamber_. _Enter_ Bernardo.]

Ber. [_unfolding a scroll_]. At length 't is done, and here I hold the doom of those proud lords who have so scorned my race. The hour has come, and Bernardo is revenged. What, ho! Zara, where art thou?

[_Enter_ Zara.

Zara. Dear father, what hath troubled thee, and how can Zara cheer and comfort thee?

Ber. 'Tis joy, not sorrow, Zara, gives this fierce light to mine eye. I have hated, and am avenged. This one frail scroll is dearer far to me than all the wealth of Spain, for 'tis the death-knell of the English lords.

Zara. Must they all die, my father?

Ber. Ay, Zara,--all; ere to-morrow's sun shall set they will sleep forever, and a good deed will be well done. I hate them, and their paltry lives can ill repay the sorrow they have wrought.

Zara. Let me see the fatal paper. [_Takes the scroll; aside._] Yes, _his_ name is here. Ah, how strange that these few lines can doom brave hearts to such a death! [_Aloud._] Father, 'tis a fearful thing to hold such power over human life. Ah, bid me tear the scroll, and win for thee the thanks of those thy generous pity saves.

Ber. [_seizing the paper_]. Not for thy life, child! Revenge is sweet, and I have waited long for mine. The king hath granted this; were it destroyed, the captives might escape ere I could win another. Nay, Zara, this is dearer to me than thy most priceless gems. To-night it shall be well guarded 'neath my pillow. Go to thy flowers, child. These things are not for thee,--thou art growing pale and sad. Remember, Zara, thou art nobly born, and let no foolish pity win thee to forget it.

[_Exit_ Bernardo.

Zara. Oh, Father, Father, whom I have so loved and honored, now so cold, so pitiless. The spirit of revenge hath entered thy kind heart, and spread an evil blight o'er all the flowers that blossomed there. I cannot win him back to tenderness, and Ernest, thou must perish. I cannot save thee,--perhaps 'tis better so; but oh, 'twill be a bitter parting! [_Weeps._] Nay, nay, it shall _not_ be! When this wild hate hath passed, my father will repent. Alas! 't will be too late. _I_ will save him from that sorrow when he shall find he hath wronged a noble heart, and slain the friend he should have saved. But stay! how shall I best weave my plot? That fatal paper, once destroyed, I will implore and plead so tenderly, my father will repent; and ere another scroll can reach his hands, I will have won thy freedom, Ernest! This night beneath his pillow it will be; and I, like a midnight thief, must steal to that couch, and take it hence. Yet, it shall be done, for it will save thee, Father, from a cruel deed, and gain a brave heart's freedom. Ernest, 'tis for thee! for thee!

CURTAIN.

SCENE FIFTH.

[_Chamber in the castle._ Bernardo _sleeping_. _Enter_ Zara.]

Zara. He sleeps calmly as a child. Why do I tremble? 'T is a deed of mercy I would do, and thou wilt thank me that I dared to disobey, and spare thee from life-long regret. The paper,--yes, 'tis here! Forgive me, Father; 'tis to save thee from an evil deed thy child comes stealing thus at dead of night to take what thou hast toiled so long to win. Sleep on! no dark dream can break thy slumber now; the spirit of revenge shall pass away, and I will win thee back to pity and to love once more. Now, Ernest, thou art saved, and ere to-morrow's sun shall rise this warrant for thy death shall be but ashes, and my task be done.

[_Exit_ Zara.

CURTAIN.

SCENE SIXTH.

[Zara's _chamber_. Zara _alone_].

Zara. The long, sleepless night at length hath passed. The paper is destroyed, and now nought remains but to confess the deed, and brave my father's anger.

[_Enter_ Bernardo.

Ber. Zara!

Zara [_starts_]. Why so stern, my father? Hath thy poor Zara angered thee?

Ber. I have trusted thee as few would trust a child. Thou art fair and gentle, and I had thought true. Never, Zara, till now hast thou deceived me; and if thou wouldst keep thy father's love and trust, I bid thee answer truly. Didst thou, in the dead of night steal to my pillow, and bear hence the paper I had told thee would be there? Thy slave girl, Zillah, missed thee from thy couch, and saw thee enter there. She feared to follow, but none other came within my chamber, and this morn the scroll is gone. Now answer, Zara! Didst thou take the warrant, and where is it now?

Zara. Burnt to ashes, and scattered to the winds. I have never stained my soul with falsehood, and I will not now. Oh, Father! I have loved and honored thee through the long years thou hast watched above me. How could I love on when thou hadst stained with blood that hand that blessed me when a child, how honor when thou hadst repaid noble deeds with death? Forgive me that I plead for those thou hast doomed! I alone am guilty,--let thine anger fall on me; but, Father, I implore thee, leave this evil deed undone. [_Kneels._]

Ber. Thou canst plead well for thy father's and thy country's foe. What strange fancy hath possessed thee, Zara? Thou hast never wept, tho' many a Christian knight hath pined and died within these walls; and even now, methinks, thou speakest more of gratitude than mercy, and seem strangely earnest for the English lord who did thee some small service long ago. Speak, Zara! wouldst thou save them _all_? Were I to grant thee all their lives save his, wouldst thou be content to let _him_ die?

Zara. Nay, Father; but for his tender care thou wouldst have no daughter now to stand before thee, pleading for the life he bravely risked in saving mine. Oh, would I had died amid the forest leaves ere I had brought such woe to him, and lived to lose my father's love! [_Weeps._]

Ber. Listen, Zara! Little as I know of woman's heart, I have learned to read thine own; and if I err not, thou hast dared to love this stranger. Ha! is it so? Girl, I command thee to forget that love, and leave him to his fate!

Zara. Never! I will not forget the love that like a bright star hath come to cheer my lonely heart. I will _not_ forget the noble friend who, 'mid his fiercest foes, could brave all dangers to restore an unknown maiden to her home. And when I offered liberty (for I have disobeyed and dared to seek his cell), he would not break the word he had plighted, Father, unto thee. He bade me tempt him not, for death were better than dishonor. Ah, canst thou doom him to a felon's death? Then do it; and the hour that sees that true heart cease to beat, that hour thou hast lost the child who would have loved and clung to thee through life.

Ber. Child, thou hast moved me strangely. I would grant thy prayer, but thou shalt never wed one of that accursed race. I bear no hate to the young lord, save that he is thy country's foe; and if he gains his freedom, he will win thee too. By Allah! it shall never be. Yet, listen, Zara! If I grant his life wilt thou ask no more?

Zara. 'T is all I ask; grant me but this, and I will give thee all the gratitude and love this poor heart can bestow.

Ber. Then 'tis done. Yet hold! the price that thou must pay for this dear boon is large. Thou must swear never to see him more; must banish love, nay, even memory of that fatal hour when first he saw and saved thee. If thou wilt vow to wed none but one of thine own race, his life and liberty are thine to give. Speak, Zara! Wilt thou do all this?

Zara. Oh, Father, Father, anything but this! Pity, gratitude, and love have bound me to him, and the fetters thou hast cast around him are not stronger than the deep affection he hath wakened in my heart. Ah, why wilt thou not give life and liberty to him, and joy to thy child? I will not take the vow.

Ber. Then his fate is sealed. Thy girl's heart is too selfish to forego its own joy for his sake. Thou dost not love enough to sacrifice thy happiness to win his freedom. I had thought more nobly of thee, Zara.

Zara. I _will_ be worthy all thou mayst have thought me; but thou canst little know the desolation thou hast brought me. Thou shalt see how deeply thou hast wronged me, and my love. I will bear all, suffer all, if it will win the life and liberty of him I love so deeply and so well.

Ber. Would to Heaven thou hadst never seen this English stranger! Again, and for the last time, Zara, I ask thee, Wilt thou leave the captive to his fate, and seek another heart to love?

Zara. Never! I could mourn his death with bitter tears; but oh, my love is worthy a deeper sacrifice! He shall never suffer one sad hour if I may spare him, and never know that liberty to him will bring such life-long sorrow unto me.

Ber. Then thou wilt take the vow I bid thee?

Zara. I will.