Chapter 8

_Sis._ Is not thy vengeance for the late affront, For threats and outrage and imprisonment—

_Opas_. For outrage, yes—imprisonment and threats I pardon him, and whatsoever ill He could do _me_.

_Sis._ To hold Covilla from me! To urge her into vows against her faith, Against her beauty, youth, and inclination, Without her mother’s blessing, nay without Her father’s knowledge and authority— So that she never will behold me more, Flying afar for refuge and for help Where never friend but God will comfort her—

_Opas_. These, and more barbarous deeds were perpetrated.

_Sis._ Yet her proud father deigned not to inform Me, whom he loved and taught, in peace and war, Me, whom he called his son, before I hoped To merit it by marriage or by arms. He offered no excuse, no plea; expressed No sorrow; but with firm unfaltering voice Commanded me—I trembled as he spoke— To follow where he led, redress his wrongs, And vindicate the honour of his child. He called on God, the witness of his cause, On Spain, the partner of his victories, And yet amid these animating words Rolled the huge tear down his unvisored face— A general swell of indignation rose Through the long line, sobs burst from every breast, Hardly one voice succeeded—you might hear The impatient hoof strike the soft sandy plain: But when the gates flew open, and the king In his high car came forth triumphantly, Then was Count Julian’s stature more elate; Tremendous was the smile that smote the eyes Of all he passed. “Fathers, sons, and brothers,” He cried, “I fight your battles, follow me! Soldiers, we know no danger but disgrace!” “Father, and general, and king,” they shout, And would proclaim him: back he cast his face, Pallid with grief, and one loud groan burst forth; It kindled vengeance through the Asturian ranks, And they soon scattered, as the blasts of heaven Scatter the leaves and dust, the astonished foe.

_Opas_. And doubtest thou his truth?

_Sis._ I love—and doubt— Fight—and believe: Roderigo spoke untruths— In him I place no trust; but Julian holds Truths in reserve—how should I quite confide!

_Opas_. By sorrows thou beholdest him oppressed; Doubt the more prosperous: march, Sisabert, Once more against his enemy and ours: Much hath been done, but much there still remains.

FOURTH ACT.—FIRST SCENE.

_Tent of_ JULIAN.

RODERIGO _and_ JULIAN.

_Jul._ To stop perhaps at any wickedness Appears a merit now, and at the time Prudence and policy it often is Which afterward seems magnanimity. The people had deserted thee, and thronged My standard, had I raised 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 oppressed, Would still have borne it: thou hast now deceived; Thou hast done all a foreign foe could do, And more, against them; with ingratitude Not hell itself could arm the foreign 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 murdered, 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 amid 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 height, 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 for 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—ay, live—abhorred. 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 ally: 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 cracked gourd of some vile testy knave, Who spurns thee back with bastinadoed foot For ignorance or delay of his command.

_Rod._ Rather the poison or the bowstring.

_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, Torn hast thou from me all my soul held dear! Her form, her voice, all, hast thou banished from me; Nor dare I, wretched as I am! recall Those solaces of every grief, erewhile. I stand abased before insulting crime— I falter like a criminal myself. The hand that hurled thy chariot o’er its wheels, That held thy steeds erect and motionless As molten 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 saddened 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 shunned a mother’s eye, Still, to avert my perils, there arose A piety that, even from _me_, retired.

_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, through 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 wouldst never grant: May heaven, O Julian, from thy hand receive A pardoned man, a chastened criminal.

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

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

_Jul._ No—I can _not_ forgive.

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

_Jul._ Audacious! hast thou never heard that prayer And scorned 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; Oh! be happier; and pronounce it.

_Jul._ I swerve not from my purpose: thou art mine, Conquered; and I have sworn to dedicate, Like a torn 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. 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.

FOURTH ACT.—SECOND SCENE.

RODERIGO _goes_: HERNANDO _enters_.

_Her._ From the prince Tarik I am sent, my lord.

_Jul._ A welcome messager, my brave Hernando. How fares it with the gallant soul of Tarik?

_Her._ Most joyfully; he scarcely had pronounced Your glorious name, and bid me urge your speed, Than, with a voice as though it answered heaven, “He shall confound them in their dark designs,” Cried he, and turned away with that swift stride Wherewith he meets and quells his enemies.

_Jul._ Alas, I cannot bear felicitation, Who shunned it even in felicity.

_Her._ Often we hardly think ourselves the happy Unless we hear it said by those around. O my lord Julian, how your praises cheered Our poor endeavours! sure, all hearts are ope Lofty and low, wise and unwise, to praise. Even the departed spirit hovers round Our blessings and our prayers; the corse itself Hath shined with other light than the still stars Shed on its rest, or the dim taper, nigh. My father, old men say, who saw him dead And heard your lips pronounce him good and happy, Smiled faintly through the quiet gloom, that eve, And the shroud throbbed upon his grateful breast. Howe’er it be, many who tell the tale Are good and happy from that voice of praise. His guidance and example were denied My youth and childhood: what I am I owe—

_Jul._ Hernando, look not back: a narrow path And arduous lies before thee; if thou stop Thou fallest; go right onward, nor observe Closely and rigidly another’s way, But, free and active, follow up thy own.

_Her._ The voice that urges now my manly step Onward in life, recalls me to the past, And from that fount I freshen for the goal. Early in youth, among us villagers Converse and ripened counsel you bestowed. O happy days of (far departed!) peace, Days when the mighty Julian stooped his brow Entering our cottage door; another air Breathed through the house; tired age and lightsome youth Beheld him, with intensest gaze: these felt More chastened joy; those, more profound repose. Yes, my best lord, when labour sent them home And midday suns, when from the social meal The wicker window held the summer heat, Praised have those been who, going unperceived, Opened it wide, that all might see you well: Nor were the children blamed, upon the mat, Hurrying to watch what rush would last arise From your foot’s pressure, ere the door was closed, And not yet wondering how they dared to love. Your counsels are more precious now than ever, But are they—pardon if I err—the same? Tarik is gallant, kind, the friend of Julian, Can he be more? or ought he to be less? Alas! his faith!

_Jul._ In peace or war, Hernando?

_Her._ Oh, neither—far above it; faith in God—

_Jul._ ’Tis God’s, not thine—embrace it not, nor hate it. Precious or vile, how dare we seize that offering, Scatter it, spurn it, in its way to heaven, Because we know it not? the Sovereign Lord Accepts his tribute, myrrh and frankincense From some, from others penitence and prayer: Why intercept them from his gracious hand? Why dash them down? why smite the supplicant?

_Her._ ’Tis what they do?

_Jul._ Avoid it thou the more. If time were left me, I could hear well-pleased How Tarik fought up Calpé’s fabled cliff, While I pursued the friends of Don Roderigo Across the plain, and drew fresh force from mine. Oh! had some other land, some other cause, Invited him and me, I then could dwell On this hard battle with unmixed delight.

_Her._ Eternal is its glory, if the deed Be not forgotten till it be surpassed: Much praise by land, by sea much more, he won; For then a Julian was not at his side, Nor led the van, nor awed the best before; The whole, a mighty whole, was his alone. There might be seen how far he shone above All others of the day: old Muza watched From his own shore the richly laden fleet, Ill-armed and scattered, and pursued the rear Beyond those rocks that bear St. Vincent’s name, Cutting the treasure, not the strength, away; Valiant, where any prey lies undevoured In hostile creek or too confiding isle: Tarik, with his small barks, but with such love As never chief from rugged sailor won, Smote their high masts and swelling rampires down; And Cadiz wept in fear o’er Trafalgar. Who that beheld our sails from off the heights, Like the white birds, nor larger, tempt the gale In sunshine and in shade, now almost touch The solitary shore, glance, turn, retire, Would think these lovely playmates could portend Such mischief to the world, such blood, such woe; Could draw to them from far the peaceful hinds, Cull the gay flower of cities, and divide Friends, children, every bond of human life; Could dissipate whole families, could sink Whole states in ruin, at one hour, one blow.

_Jul._ Go, good Hernando—who _would_ think these things? Say to the valiant Tarik, I depart Forthwith: he knows not from what heaviness Of soul I linger here; I could endure No converse, no compassion, no approach, Other than thine, whom the same cares improved Beneath my father’s roof, my foster-brother, To brighter days and happier end, I hope; In whose fidelity my own resides With Tarik and with his compeers and chief. I cannot share the gladness I excite, Yet shall our Tarik’s generous heart rejoice.

FOURTH ACT.—THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_: HERNANDO _goes_.

_Egi._ Oh, fly me not because I am unhappy, Because I am deserted fly me not. It was not so before, it cannot be Ever from Julian.

_Jul._ What would Egilona That Julian’s power with her new lords can do? Surely her own must there preponderate.

_Egi._ I hold no suit to them—restore, restore Roderigo.

_Jul._ He no longer is my prisoner.

_Egi._ Escapes he then?

_Jul._ Escapes he—dost thou say? O Egilona! what unworthy passion—

_Egi._ Unworthy, when I loved him, was my passion; The passion that now swells my heart is just.

_Jul._ What fresh reproaches hath he merited?

_Egi._ Deeprooted hatred shelters no reproach. But whither is he gone?

_Jul._ Far from the walls.

_Egi._ And I knew nothing!

_Jul._ His offence was known To thee at least.

_Egi._ Will it be expiated?

_Jul._ I trust it will.

_Egi._ This withering calm consumes me. He marries then Covilla! ’twas for this His people were excited to rebel, His sceptre was thrown by, his vows were scorned, And I—and I—

_Jul._ Cease, Egilona!

_Egi._ Cease? Sooner shalt thou to live, than I to reign.

FIFTH ACT: FIRST SCENE.

_Tent of_ MUZA.

MUZA. TARIK. ABDALAZIS.

_Muza_. To have first landed on these shores appears Transcendent glory to the applauded Tarik.

_Tarik_. Glory, but not transcendent, it appears, What might in any other.

_Muza_. Of thyself All this vain boast?

_Tarik_. Not of myself—’twas Julian. Against his shield the refluent surges rolled, While the sea-breezes threw the arrows wide, And fainter cheers urged the reluctant steeds.

_Muza_. That Julian, of whose treason I have proofs, That Julian, who rejected my commands Twice, when our mortal foe besieged the camp, And forced my princely presence to his tent.

_Tarik_. Say rather, who without one exhortation, One precious drop from true believer’s vein, Marched, and discomfited our enemies. I found in him no treachery. Hernando, Who, little versed in moody wiles, is gone To lead him hither, was by him assigned My guide, and twice in doubtful fight his arm Protected me: once on the heights of Calpé, Once on the plain, when courtly jealousies Tore from the bravest and the best his due, And gave the dotard and the coward command: Then came Roderigo forth—the front of war Grew darker—him, equal in chivalry, Julian alone could with success oppose.

_Abd._ I doubt their worth who praise their enemies.

_Tar._ And theirs doubt I who persecute their friends.

_Muza_. Thou art in league with him.

_Tar._ Thou wert, by oaths, I am without them; for his heart is brave.

_Muza_. Am I to bear all this?

_Tar._ All this, and more: Soon wilt thou see the man whom thou hast wronged, And the keen hatred in thy breast concealed Find its right way, and sting thee to the core.

_Muza_. Hath he not foiled us in the field; not held Our wisdom to reproach?

_Tar._ Shall we abandon All he hath left us in the eyes of men? Shall we again make him our adversary Whom we have proved so, long and fatally? If he subdue for us our enemies, Shall we raise others, or, for want of them, Convert him into one against his will?

FIFTH ACT: SECOND SCENE.

HERNANDO _enters_. TARIK _continues_.

Here comes Hernando from that prince himself—

_Muza_. Who scorns himself to come.

_Her._ The queen detains him.

_Abd._ How? Egilona?

_Muza_. ’Twas my will.

_Tar._ At last He must be happy; for delicious calm Follows the fierce enjoyment of revenge.

Her. That calm was never his, no other will be! Thou knowest not, and mayst thou never know, How bitter is the tear that fiery shame Scourges and tortures from the soldier’s eye. Whichever of these bad reports be true, He hides it from all hearts, to wring his own, And drags the heavy secret to the grave. Not victory, that o’ershadows him, sees he! No airy and light passion stirs abroad To ruffle or to soothe him; all are quelled Beneath a mightier, sterner stress of mind: Wakeful he sits, and lonely and unmoved, Beyond the arrows, views, or shouts of men; As oftentimes an eagle, when the sun Throws o’er the varying earth his early ray, Stands solitary, stands immovable Upon some highest cliff, and rolls his eye, Clear, constant, unobservant, unabased, In the cold light, above the dews of morn. He now assumes that quietness of soul Which never but in danger have I seen On his staid breast.

_Tar._ Danger is past, he conquers; No enemy is left him to subdue.

_Her._ He sank not, while there was, into himself. Now plainly see I from his altered tone, He cannot live much longer—thanks to God!

_Tar._ What! wishest thou thy once kind master dead? Was he not kind to thee, ungrateful slave!

_Her._ The gentlest, as the bravest, of mankind. Therefore shall memory dwell more tranquilly With Julian, once at rest, than friendship could, Knowing him yearn for death with speechless love. For his own sake I could endure his loss, Pray for it, and thank God; yet mourn I must Him above all! so great, so bountiful, So blessed once! bitterly must I mourn. ’Tis not my solace that ’tis his desire; Of all that pass us in life’s drear descent We grieve the most for those that wished to die. A father to us all, he merited, Unhappy man! all a good father’s joy In his own house, where seldom he hath been, But, ever mindful of its dear delights, He formed one family around him, ever.

_Tar._ Yes, we have seen and known him—let his fame Refresh his friends, but let it stream afar, Nor in the twilight of home scenes be lost. He chose the best, and cherished them; he left To self-reproof the mutinies of vice; Avarice, that dwarfs ambition’s tone and mien; Envy, sick nursling of the court; and pride That cannot bear his semblance nor himself; And malice, with blear visage half-descried Amid the shadows of her hiding-place.

_Her._ What could I not endure, O gallant man, To hear him spoken of as thou hast spoken! Oh! I would almost be a slave to him Who calls me one.

_Muza_. What? art thou not? begone.

_Tar._ Reply not, brave Hernando, but retire. All can revile, few only can reward. Behold the meed our mighty chief bestows! Accept it, for thy services, and mine. More, my bold Spaniard, hath obedience won Than anger, even in the ranks of war.

_Her._ The soldier, not the Spaniard, shall obey.

[_Goes_.

MUZA _to_ TAR. Into our very council bringest thou Children of reprobation and perdition? Darkness thy deeds and emptiness thy speech, Such images thou raisest as buffoons Carry in merriment on festivals; Nor worthiness nor wisdom would display To public notice their deformities, Nor cherish them nor fear them; why shouldst thou?

_Tar._ I fear not them nor thee.

FIFTH ACT: THIRD SCENE.

EGILONA _enters_.

_Abd._ Advance, O queen. Now let the turbulence of faction cease.

_Muza_. Whate’er thy purpose, speak, and be composed.