SCENE II.—_An Audience Hall in the Palace of PEDRO, King of Arragon.
_Enter DON LOPE DE URREA and DON GUILLEN._
_Guil._ Such bosom friends, sir, as from infancy Your son and I have been, I were ashamed, You being in such trouble, not to offer My help and consolation. Tell me aught That I can serve you in.
_Urr._ Believe me, sir, My heart most deeply thanks your courtesy. When came you to the city?
_Guil._ Yesterday, From Naples.
_Urr._ Naples?
_Guil._ To advance a suit I have in Arragon.
_Urr._ I too am here For some such purpose; to beseech the King A boon I doubt that he will never grant.
_Guil._ Ev’n now his Highness comes.
_Enter KING PEDRO and Train._
_Urr._ So please your Majesty, listen to one, Of whom already you have largely heard— Don Lope de Urrea.
_King._ Oh! Don Lope!
_Urr._ I come not hither to repeat in words The purport of so many past petitions, My sorrows now put on a better face Before your Highness’ presence. I beseech you To hear me patiently.
_King._ Speak, Urrea, speak!
_Urr._ Speak if I can, whose sorrow rising still Clouds its own utterance. My liege, my son, Don Lope, loved a lady here; seduced her By no feign’d vows of marriage, but compell’d By me, who would not listen to a suit Without my leave contracted, put it off From day to day, until the lady, tired Of a delay that argued treachery, Engaged her brother in the quarrel; who With two companions set upon my son One night to murder him. The lad, whose metal Would never brook affront, nor cared for odds, Drew on all three; slew one—a homicide That nature’s common law of self-defence Permits. The others fled, and set on him The officers of justice, one of whom In his escape he struck— A self-defence against your laws I own Not so to be excused—then fled himself Up to the mountains. I must needs confess He better had deserved an after-pardon By lawful service in your camp abroad Than aggravating old offence at home, By lawless plunder; but your Highness knows It is an ancient law of honour here In Arragon, that none of noble blood In mortal quarrel quit his native ground. But to return. The woman, twice aggrieved, Her honour and her brother lost at once, (For him it was my son slew of the three,) Now seeks to bring her sorrows into port: And pitying my grey hairs and misery, Consents to acquit my son on either count, Providing I supply her wherewithal To hide her shame within some holy house; Which, straiten’d as I am, (that, by my troth, I scarce, my liege, can find my daily bread,) I have engaged to do; not only this, But, in addition to the sum in hand, A yearly income—which to do, I now Am crept into my house’s poorest rooms, And, (to such straits may come nobility!) Have let for hire what should become my rank And dignity to an old friend, Don Mendo Torellas, who I hear returns to-day To Saragossa. It remains, my liege, That, being by the plaintiff’s self absolved, My son your royal pardon only needs; Which if not he nor I merit ourselves, Yet let the merits of a long ancestry, Who swell your glorious annals with their names Writ in their blood, plead for us not in vain; Pity the snows of age that misery Now thaws in torrents from my eyes; yet more, Pity a noble lady—my wife—his mother— Who sits bow’d down with sorrow and disgrace In her starved house.
_King._ This is a case, Don Lope, For my Chief Justice, not for me.
_Urr._ Alas! How little hope has he who, looking up To dove-eyed mercy, sees but in her place Severely-sworded justice!
_King._ Is ’t not fit That the tribunal which arraign’d the crime Pronounce the pardon also?
_Urr._ Were it so, I know not where to look for that tribunal, Or only find it speechless, since the death Of Don Alfonso.
_King._ His successor’s name This day will be announced to Arragon.
_Urr._ Yet let a father’s tears—
_King._ They might indeed The marble heart of justice make to bleed.
[_Exeunt KING, DON GUILLEN, and Train._
_Urr._ And thus to satisfy the exigence Of public estimation, one is forced To sacrifice entreaty and estate For an ill son. Yet had but this petition been inflamed With love, that love of his had lit in me, My prayer had surely prosper’d. But ’tis done, Fruitless or not: _well_ done, for Blanca’s sake; Poor Blanca, though indeed she knows it not, And scarcely would believe it— But who comes here?—the friend of better days, Don Mendo! I would hide me from his eye, But, oh indignity, his ancient friend, Equal in birth and honour to himself, Must now, reduced to ’t by a shameless son, Become his tavern-keeper! For the present I may hold back—the King too! come to meet And do him honour.
_Enter, meeting, KING, with Train, and DON MENDO._
_Men._ My royal master, let me at your feet Now and for ever—
_King._ Rise, Don Mendo, rise, Chief Justice of all Arragon.
_Men._ My liege, How shall I rise with such a weight of honour And solemnest responsibility, As you have laid upon my neck!
_King._ ’Tis long Since we have met. How fare you?
_Men._ How but well, On whom your royal favour shines so fair!
_King._ Enough. You must be weary. For to-day Go rest yourself, Chief Justice. And to-morrow We’ll talk together. I have much to tell, And much to ask of you.
_Men._ Your Highness knows How all my powers are at your sole command, And only well employ’d in doing it.
[_Exit KING with Train._
_Urr._ If it be true that true nobility Slowly forgets what once it has esteem’d, I think Don Mendo will not turn away From Lope de Urrea.
_Men._ My old friend! I must forget myself, as well as honour, When I forget the debt I owe your love.
_Urr._ For old acquaintance then I kiss your hand; And on two other counts. First, as your host, You know, on your arrival; be assured That I shall do my best to entertain you: And, secondly, congratulating you On your new dignity, which you hardly don Before I am your suitor.
_Men._ Oh Don Lope, How gladly shall I serve you!
_Urr._ This memorial I had presented to the King, and he Referr’d to his Chief Justice.
_Men._ Oh trust to me, And to my loyal friendship in the cause.
_Urr._ A son of mine, Don Mendo,—
_Men._ Nay, no more— I am apprized of all.
_Urr._ I know that men Think my heart harden’d toward my only son. It might have been so; not, though, till my son’s Was flint to me. O Mendo, by his means My peace of mind, estate, and good repute Are gone for ever!
_Men._ Nay, be comforted: I fill a post where friendship well can grant What friendship fairly asks. Think from this hour That all is ended. Not for your sake only, But for your son’s; to whom (you soon shall hear The whole strange history) I owe my life, And sure shall not be slack to save his own. All will be well. Come, let us to your house, Whither, on coming to salute the King, I sent my daughter forward.
_Urr._ I rejoice To think how my poor Blanca will rejoice To do her honour. You remember Blanca?
_Men._ Remember her indeed, and shall delight To see her once again. (_Aside._) O lying tongue, To say so, when the heart beneath would fain We had not met, or might not meet again!