SCENE III.

_The dungeon of the Inquisition. The morning of the Auto-da-Fe dawns dimly through a barred window. A few faint stars are shining. Swallows are circling in the dimness without._

_Mosada._ Oh! swallows, swallows, swallows, will ye fly This eve, to-morrow, or to-morrow night Above the farm-house by the little lake That's rustling in the reeds with patient pushes, Soft as a long dead footstep whispering through The brain. My brothers will be passing down Quite soon the cornfield, where the poppies grow, To their farm-work; how silent all will be. But no, in this warm weather, 'mong the hills, Will be the faint far thunder-sound as though The world were dreaming in its summer sleep; That will be later, day is scarcely dawning. And Hassan will be with them--he was so small, A weak, thin child, when last I saw him there. He will be taller now--'twas long ago.

The men are busy in the glimmering square. I hear the murmur as they raise the beams To build the circling seats, where high in air Soon will the churchmen nod above the crowd. I'm not of that pale company whose feet Ere long shall falter through the noisy square, And not come thence--for here in this small ring, Hearken, ye swallows! I have hoarded up A poison drop. The toy of fancy once, A fashion with us Moorish maids, begot Of dreaming and of watching by the door The shadows pass; but now, I love my ring, For it alone of all the world will do My bidding.

[_Sucks poison from the ring._]

Now 'tis done, and I am glad And free--'twill thieve away with sleepy mood My thoughts, and yonder brightening patch of sky With three bars crossed, and these four walls my world, And yon few stars, grown dim like eyes of lovers The noisy world divides. How soon a deed So small makes one grow weak and tottering. Where shall I lay me down? That question is A weighty question, for it is the last. Not there, for there a spider weaves her web. Nay here, I'll lay me down where I can watch The burghers of the night fade one by one, ... Yonder a leaf Of apple blossom circles in the gloom, Floating from yon barred window. New comer, Thou'rt welcome. Lie there close against my fingers. I wonder which is whitest, they or thou. 'Tis thou, for they've grown blue around the nails. My blossom, I am dying, and the stars Are dying too. They were full seven stars; Two only now they are, two side by side. Oh! Allah, it was thus they shone that night, When my lost lover left these arms. My Vallence, We meet at last, the ministering stars Of our nativity hang side by side, And throb within the circles of green dawn. Too late, too late, for I am near to death. I try to lift mine arms--they fall again. This death is heavy in my veins like sleep. I cannot even crawl along the flags A little nearer those bright stars. Tell me, Is it your message, stars, that when death comes My soul shall touch with his, and the two flames Be one? I think all's finished now and sealed.

[_After a pause enter Ebremar._]

_Ebremar._ Young Moorish girl, thy final hour is here, Cast off thy heresies and save thy soul From dateless pain. She sleeps--

[_Starting._]

Mosada--thou-- Oh God!--awake, thou shalt not die. She sleeps. Her head cast backward in her unloosed hair. Look up, look up, thy Vallence is by thee. A fearful paleness creeps across her breast And out-spread arms.

[_Casting himself down by her._]

Be not so pale, dear love. Oh! can my kisses bring a flush no more Upon thy face. How heavily thy head Hangs on my breast. Listen, we shall be safe. We'll fly from this before the morning star. Dear heart, there is a secret way that leads Its paven length towards the river's marge, Where lies a shallop in the yellow reeds. Awake, awake, and we will sail afar, Afar along the fleet white river's face-- Alone with our own whispers and replies-- Alone among the murmurs of the dawn. Among thy nation none shall know that I Was Ebremar, whose thoughts were fixed on God, And heaven, and holiness.

_Mosada._ Let's talk and grieve, For that's the sweetest music for sad souls. Day's dead, all flame-bewildered, and the hills In list'ning silence gazing on our grief. I never knew an eve so marvellous still.

_Ebremar._ Her dreams are talking with old years. Awake, Grieve not, for Vallence kneels beside thee--

_Mosada._ Vallence, 'Tis late, wait one more day; below the hills The foot-worn way is long, and it grows dark. It is the darkest eve I ever knew.

_Ebremar._ I kneel by thee--no parting now--look up. She smiles--is happy with her wandering griefs.

_Mosada._ So you must go; kiss me before you go. Oh! would the busy minutes might fold up Their thieving wings that we might never part. I never knew a night so honey sweet.

_Ebremar._ There is no leave taking. I go no more. Safe on the breast of Vallence is thy head Unhappy one.

_Mosada._ Go not. Go not. Go not. For night comes fast; look down on me, my love, And see how thick the dew lies on my face. I never knew a night so dew-bedrowned.

_Ebremar._ Oh! hush the wandering music of thy mind. Look on me once. Why sink your eyelids so? Why do you hang so heavy in my arms? Love, will you die when we have met? One look Give to thy Vallence.

_Mosada._ Vallence--he has gone From here, along the shadowy way that winds Companioning the river's pilgrim torch. I'll see him longer if I stand out here Upon the mountain's brow.

[_She tries to stand and totters. Ebremar supports her, and she stands pointing down as if into a visionary valley._]

Yonder he treads The path o'er-muffled with the leaves--dead leaves, Like happy thoughts grown sad in evil days. He fades among the mists; how fast they come, And pour upon the world! Ah! well a day! Poor love and sorrow with their arms thrown round Each other's necks, and whispering as they go, Still wander through the world. He's gone, he's gone. I'm weary--weary, and 'tis very cold. I'll draw my cloak around me; it is cold. I never knew a night so bitter cold.

[_Dies._]

_Ebremar._ Mosada! Oh, Mosada!

[_Enter Monks and Inquisitors._]

_First Inquisitor._ My lord, you called.

_Ebremar._ Not I. This maid is dead.

_First Monk._ From poison, for you cannot trust these Moors. You're pale, my lord.

_First Inquisitor._ [_aside_] His lips are quivering. The flame that shone within his eyes but now Has flickered and gone out.

_Ebremar._ I am not well. 'Twill pass. I'll see the other prisoners now, And importune their souls to penitence, So they escape from hell. But pardon me. Your hood is threadbare--see that it be changed Before we take our seats above the crowd.

_First Monk._ I always said you could not trust these Moors.

[_They go._]

W. B. YEATS.

Printed by SEALY, BRYERS AND WALKER, 94, 95, AND 96 MIDDLE ABBEY STREET, DUBLIN.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

Page 5: "my friend," amended to "my friend."

Page 6: "First Inqusitor" amended to "First Inquisitor"

Page 10: "kn ewa" amended to "knew a"