SCENE II.—_A room in LISANDRO’S house.

_Enter LISANDRO, JUSTINA, and LIVIA._

_Justina._ At length the day draws in.

_Lisandro._ And in with it The impious acclamation that all day, Block up our doors and windows as we may, Insults our faith, and doubly threatens it. Is all made fast, Justina?

_Just._ All shall be, sir, When I have seen you safely to your rest.

_Lis._ You know how edict after edict aim’d By Rome against the little band of Christ— And at a time like this, the people drunk With idol-ecstasy—

_Just._ Alas, alas!

_Lis._ Oh, gladly would I scatter these last drops That now so scarcely creep along my veins, And these thin locks that tremble o’er the grave, In such a martyrdom as swept to heav’n The holy Paul who planted, and all those Who water’d here the true and only faith, Were ’t not for thee, for fear of thee, Justina, Drawing you down at once into my doom, Or leaving you behind, alone, to hide From insult and suspicion worse than death— I dare not think of it. Make fast; keep close; And then, God’s will be done! You know we lie Under a double danger.

_Just._ How so, sir?

_Lis._ Aurelio and Fabio, both, you know, So potent in the city, and but now Arm’d with a freshly whetted sword of vengeance Against the faith, but double-edged on us, Should they but know, as know they must, their sons Haunting the doors of this suspected house.

_Just._ Alas, alas! That I should draw this danger on your head! Which yet you know—

_Lis._ I know, I know—God knows, My darling daughter; but that chaste reserve Serves but to quicken beauty with a charm They find not in the wanton Venus here: Drawn as they are by those withdrawing eyes Irradiate from a mother’s, into whose The very eyes of the Redeemer look’d, And whom I dare not haste to join in heav’n At cost of leaving thee defenceless here.

_Just._ Sufficient for the day! And now the day Is done. Come to your chamber—lean on me— Livia and I will see that all is fast; And, that all seen to, ere we sleep ourselves, Come to your bedside for your blessing. Hark! Knocking ev’n now! See to it, Livia.

(_She leads out LISANDRO, and returns._)

Oh, well I got my father to his chamber! What is it?—

_Livia._ One would see your father, madam.

_Just._ At such an hour! He cannot, Livia; You know, the poor old man is gone to rest— Tell him—

_Livia._ If not your father, then yourself, On matter that he says concerns you both.

_Just._ Me too!—Oh surely neither of the twain We both so dread?

_Livia._ No, madam; rather, one I think that neither need have cause to fear,— Cipriano.

_Just._ Cipriano! The great scholar, Who did my father service, as I think, And now may mean another; and God knows How much, or quickly, needed!

_Livia._ So he says.

_Just._ What shall I do! Will not to-morrow—

_Cipriano_ (_entering_). Oh, lady, You scarce can wonder more than I myself At such a visit, and at such an hour, Only let what I come to say excuse The coming, and so much unmannerly.

_Just._ My father is withdrawn, sir, for the night, Never more wanting rest; I dare not rouse him, And least of all with any troubled news. Will not to-morrow—

_Cipr._ What I have to say Best told to-night, at once; and not the less Since you alone, whom chiefly it concerns, Are here to listen.

_Just._ I!—Well, sir, relying On your grave reputation as a scholar, And on your foregone favour to my father, If I should dare to listen—

_Cipr._ And alone?

_Just._ Livia, leave us.

[_Exit LIVIA._

_Cipr._ Oh, lady—oh, Justina— (Thus stammers the ambassador of love In presence of its sovereign)— You must—cannot but—know how many eyes Those eyes have wounded—

_Just._ Nay, sir,—

_Cipr._ Nay, but hear. I do not come for idle compliment, Nor on my own behalf; but in a cause On which hang life and death as well as love. Two of the noblest youths in Antioch, Lelio and Floro—Nay, but hear me out: Mine, and till now almost from birth each other’s Inseparable friends, now deadly foes For love of you—

_Just._ Oh, sir!

_Cipr._ I have but now Parted their swords in mortal quarrel cross’d.

_Just._ Oh, that was well.

_Cipr._ I think, for several sakes— Their own, their fathers’, even Antioch’s, That would not lose one of so choice a pair; And, I am sure you think so, lady, yours, So less than covetous of public talk, And least of all at such a fearful cost.

_Just._ Oh, for all sakes all thanks!

_Cipr._ Yet little due For what so lightly done, and it may be So insufficiently; this feud not stopt— Suspended only, on a single word— Which now at this unseasonable hour I stand awaiting from the only lips That can allay the quarrel they have raised.

_Just._ Alas, why force an answer from my lips So long implied in silent disregard?

_Cipr._ Yet, without which, like two fierce dogs, but more Exasperated by the holding back, They will look for it in each other’s blood.

_Just._ And think, poor men, to find their answer there! Oh, sir, you are the friend, the friend of both, A famous scholar; with authority And eloquence to press your friendship home. Surely in words such as you have at will You can persuade them, for all sakes—and yet No matter mine perhaps—but, as you say, Their fathers’, Antioch’s, their own—

_Cipr._ Alas! I doubt you know not in your maiden calm How fast all love and logic such as that Burns stubble up before a flame like this.

_Just._ (_aside_). And none in heaven to help them!

_Cipr._ All I can But one condition hardly wringing out Of peace, till my impartial embassy Have ask’d on their behalf, which of the twain— How shall I least offend?—you least disdain.

_Just._ Disdain is not the word, sir; oh, no, no! I know and honour both as noblemen Of blood and station far above my own; And of so suitable accomplishments. Oh, there are many twice as fair as I, And of their own conditions, who, with half My wooing, long ere this had worn the wreath Tied with a father’s blessing, and all Antioch To follow them with Hymenæal home.

_Cipr._ But if these fiery men, do what one will, Will look no way but this?—

_Just._ Oh, but they will; Divert their eyes awhile, a little while, Their hearts will follow; such a sudden passion Can but have struck a shallow root—perhaps Ere this had perish’d, had not rival pride Between them blown it to this foolish height.

_Cipr._ Disdain is not the word then. Well, to seek, What still as wide as ever from assent— Could you but find it in your heart to feel If but a hair’s-breadth less—say disesteem For one than for another—

_Just._ No, no, no! Even to save their lives I could not say What is not—cannot—nay, and if it could And I could say that was that is not—_can_ not— How should that hair’s-breadth less of hope to one Weigh with the other to desist his suit, Both furious as you tell me?

_Cipr._ And both are: But ev’n that single hair thrown in by you Will turn the scale that else the sword must do.

_Just._ But surely must it not suffice for both That they who drew the sword in groundless hope Sheathe it in sure despair? Despair! Good God! For a poor creature like myself, despair! That men with souls to which a word like that Lengthens to infinite significance, Should pin it on a wretched woman’s sleeve! But as men talk—I mean, so far as I Can make them, as they say, despair of that Of which, even for this world’s happiness, Despair is better hope of better things— Will not my saying—and as solemnly As what one best may vouch for; that so far As any hope of my poor liking goes, Despair indeed they must—why should not this Allay their wrath, and let relapsing love In his old channel all the clearer run For this slight interjection in the current? Why should it not be so?

_Cipr._ Alas, I know not: For though as much they promised, yet I doubt When each, however you reject him now, Believes you might be won hereafter still, Were not another to divide the field; Each upon each charging the exigence He will not see lies in himself alone, Might draw the scarcely sheathèd sword at once; Or stifled hate under a hollow truce Blaze out anew at some straw’s provocation, And I perhaps not by to put it out.

_Just._ What can, what can be done then?

_Cipr._ Oh Justina, Pardon this iteration. Think once more, Before your answer with its consequence Travels upon my lip to destiny. I know you more than maiden-wise reserved To other importunities of love Than those which ev’n the pure for pure confess; Yet no cold statue, which, however fair, Could not inflame so fierce a passion; but A breathing woman with a beating heart, Already touch’d with pity, you confess, For these devoted men you cannot love. Well, then—I will not hint at such a bower As honourable wedlock would entwine About your father’s age and your own youth, Which ev’n for him—and much less for yourself— You would not purchase with an empty hand. But yet, with no more of your heart within Than what you now confess to—pity—pity, For generous youth wearing itself away In thankless adoration at your door, Neglecting noble opportunities; Turning all love but yours to deadly hate— Sedate, and wise, and modestly resolved, Can you be, lady, of yourself so sure— (And surely they will argue your disdain As apt to yield as their devotion)— That, all beside so honourably faced, You, who now look with pity, and perhaps With gratitude, upon their blundering zeal, May not be won to turn an eye less loath On one of them, and blessing one, save both?

_Just._ Alas! I know it is impossible— Not if they wasted all their youth in sighs, And even slavish importunities, I could but pity—pity all the more That all the less what only they implore To yield; so great a gulf between us lies.

_Cipr._ What—is the throne pre-occupied?

_Just._ If so, By one that Antioch dreams little of. But it grows late: and if we spoke till dawn, I have no more to say.

_Cipr._ Nor more will hear?

_Just._ Alas, sir, to what purpose? When, all said, Said too as you have said it— And I have but the same hard answer still; Unless to thank you once and once again, And charge you with my thankless errand back, But in such better terms, As, if it cannot stop ill blood, at least Shall stop blood-shedding ’tween these hapless men.

_Cipr._ And shall the poor ambassador who fail’d In the behalf of those who sent him here, Hereafter dare to tell you how he sped In making peace between them?

_Just._ Oh, do but that, And what poor human prayer can win from Heaven, You shall not be the poorer. So, good-night!

[_Exit._

_Cipr._ Good-night, good-night! Oh Lelio and Floro! If ever friends well turn’d to deadly foes, Wiser to fight than I to interpose.

[_Exit._

_Lucifer_ (_passing from behind_). The shaft has hit the mark; and by the care Of hellish surgery shall fester there.

[_Exit._