Chapter 14

_Tent of_ JULIAN.

RODERIGO _and_ JULIAN.

_Jul._ To stop perhaps at any wickedness Appears a merit now, and at the time Prudence or policy it often is Which afterward seems magnanimity. The people had deserted thee, and thronged My standard, had I rais’d it, at the first; But once subsiding, and no voice of mine Calling by name each grievance to each man, They, silent and submissive by degrees, Bore thy hard yoke, and, hadst thou but opprest, Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived; Thou hast done all a foren foe could do, And more, against them; with ingratitude Not hell itself could arm the foren foe— ’Tis forged at home, and kills not from afar. Amid whate’er vain glories fell upon Thy rainbow span of power, which I dissolve, Boast not how thou conferredst wealth and rank, How thou preservedst me, my family, All my distinctions, all my offices, When Witiza was murder’d, that I stand Count Julian at this hour by special grace. The sword of Julian saved the walls of Ceuta, And not the shadow that attends his name It was no badge, no title, that o’erthrew Soldier, and steed, and engine—don Roderigo, The truly and the falsely great here differ, These by dull wealth or daring fraud advance, Him the Almighty calls amidst his people To sway the wills and passions of mankind. The weak of heart and intellect beheld Thy splendour, and adored thee lord of Spain— I rose—Roderigo lords o’er Spain no more.

_Rod._ Now to a traitor’s add a boaster’s name.

_Jul._ Shameless and arrogant, dost thou believe I boast for pride or pastime? forced to boast, Truth costs me more than falsehood e’er cost thee. Divested of that purple of the soul, That potency, that palm of wise ambition— Cast headlong by thy madness from that high That only eminence ’twixt earth and heaven, Virtue—which some desert, but none despise— Whether thou art beheld again on earth, Whether a captive or a fugitive; Miner or galley-slave, depends on me: But he alone who made me what I am Can make me greater, or can make me less.

_Rod._ Chance, and chance only, threw me in thy power, Give me my sword again and try my strength.

_Jul._ I tried it in the front of thousands.

_Rod._ Death At least vouchsafe me from a soldier’s hand.

_Jul._ I love to hear thee ask it—now my own Would not be bitter; no, nor immature.

_Rod._ Defy it, say thou rather.

_Jul._ Death itself Shall not be granted thee, unless from God; A dole from his and from no other hand. Thou shalt now hear and own thine infamy—

_Rod._ Chains, dungeons, tortures—but I hear no more.

_Jul._ Silence, thou wretch, live on—aye, live—abhor’d. Thou shalt have tortures, dungeons, chains, enough— They naturally rise and grow around Monsters like thee, everywhere, and for ever.

_Rod._ Insulter of the fallen! must I endure Commands as well as threats? my vassal’s too? Nor breathe from underneath his trampling feet?

_Jul._ Could I speak patiently who speak to thee, I would say more—part of thy punishment It should be, to be taught.

_Rod._ Reserve thy wisdom Until thy patience come, its best allie: I learn no lore, of peace or war, from thee.

_Jul._ No, thou shalt study soon another tongue, And suns more ardent shall mature thy mind. Either the cross thou bearest, and thy knees Among the silent caves of Palestine Wear the sharp flints away with midnight prayer, Or thou shalt keep the fasts of Barbary— Shalt wait amid the crowds that throng the well From sultry noon till the skies fade again, To draw up water and to bring it home In the crackt gourd of some vile testy knave, Who spurns thee back with bastinaded foot For ignorance or delay of his command.

_Rod._ Rather the poison or the bow-string.

_Jul._ Slaves To other’s passions die such deaths as those, Slaves to their own should die—

_Rod._ —What worse?

_Jul._ Their own.

_Rod._ Is this thy counsel, renegade?

_Jul._ Not mine; I point a better path, nay, force thee on. I shelter thee from every brave man’s sword While I am near thee: I bestow on thee Life: if thou die, ’tis when thou sojournest Protected by this arm and voice no more; ’Tis slavishly, ’tis ignominiously, ’Tis by a villain’s knife.

_Rod._ By whose?

_Jul._ Roderigo’s.

_Rod._ O powers of vengeance! must I hear? endure? Live?

_Jul._ Call thy vassals? no! then wipe the drops Of froward childhood from thy shameless eyes. So! thou canst weep for passion—not for pity.

_Rod._ One hour ago I ruled all Spain! a camp Not larger than a sheepfold stood alone Against me: now, no friend throughout the world Follows my steps or hearkens to my call. Behold the turns of fortune, and expect No better; of all faithless men, the Moors Are the most faithless—from thy own experience Thou canst not value nor rely on them.

_Jul._ I value not the mass that makes my sword, Yet while I use it I rely on it.

_Rod._ Julian, thy gloomy soul still meditates— Plainly I see it—death to me—pursue The dictates of thy leaders, let revenge Have its full sway, let Barbary prevail, And the pure creed her elders have embraced: Those placid sages hold assassination A most compendious supplement to law.

_Jul._ Thou knowest not the one, nor I the other. Torne hast thou from me all my soul held dear! Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banish’d from me Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recall Those solaces of every grief, erewhile! I stand abased before insulting crime. I faulter like a criminal myself. The hand that hurled thy chariot o’er its wheels, That held thy steeds erect and motionless As moulten statues on some palace-gates, Shakes, as with palsied age, before thee now. Gone is the treasure of my heart, for ever, Without a father, mother, friend, or name! Daughter of Julian—Such was her delight— Such was mine too! what pride more innocent, What, surely, less deserving pangs like these, Than springs from filial and parental love! Debarred from every hope that issues forth To meet the balmy breath of early life, Her sadden’d days, all, cold and colourless, Will stretch before her their whole weary length Amid the sameness of obscurity. She wanted not seclusion, to unveil Her thoughts to heaven, cloister, nor midnight bell; She found it in all places, at all hours: While, to assuage my labours, she indulged A playfulness that shunn’d a mother’s eye, Still, to avert my perils, there arose A piety that, even from _me_, retired.

[_Roderigo_, _much agitated—after a pause_.

_Rod._ Such was she!—what am I!—those are the arms That are triumphant when the battle fails. O Julian, Julian! all thy former words Struck but the imbecile plumes of vanity; These, thro’ its steely coverings, pierce the heart. I ask not life nor death; but, if I live, Send my most bitter enemy to watch My secret paths, send poverty, send pain— I will add more—wise as thou art, thou knowest No foe more furious than forgiven kings. I ask not then what thou woudst never grant: May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand, receive A pardon’d man, a chasten’d criminal.

_Jul._ This further curse thou hast inflicted; wretch, I cannot pardon thee.

_Rod._ Thy tone, thy mien, Refute those words.

_Jul._ No—I can _not_ forgive.

[_Julian greatly moved_, _goes towards him_.

_Rod._ Upon my knee, my conqueror, I implore— Upon the earth, before thy feet [_starts back_]—hard heart!

_Jul._ Audacious! hast thou never heard that prayer And scorn’d it? ’tis the last thou shouldst repeat. Upon the earth! upon her knees! O God!

_Rod._ Resemble not a wretch so lost as I: Be better; O! be happier; and pronounce it.

_Jul._ I swerve not from my purpose: thou art mine, Conquered; and I have sworne to dedicate —Like a torne banner on my chapel’s roof— Thee to that power from whom thou hast rebelled. Expiate thy crimes by prayer, by penances—

_Rod._ Hasten the hour of trial, speak of peace.

[_Julian looks sternly on the ground and does not answer_.

Pardon me not, then—but with purer lips Implore of God, who _would_ hear _thee_, to pardon.

_Jul._ Hope it I may—pronounce it—O Roderigo! Ask it of him who can; I too will ask, And, in my own transgressions, pray for thine.

_Rod._ One name I dare not—

_Jul._ Go—abstain from that, I do conjure thee; raise not in my soul Again the tempest that has wrecked my fame; Thou shalt not breathe in the same clime with her. Far o’er the unebbing sea thou shalt adore The eastern star, and—may thy end be peace.