SCENE III.
[_THEOGENES enters with two young SONS and a daughter and their MOTHER._
THEOGENES.
If love paternal hath no longer sway To check the fearful deed which I intend; Think, O my sons, if I can now give way, When thoughts of honour with my purpose blend! O poignant is the grief, the sore dismay, We feel when Life must have a sudden end; But mine is more, since I by Fate's decree Your cruel executioner must be! Ye shall not live, O children of my soul, To be the Romans' slaves, nor shall their power, However much it rage beyond control, Above our lives and yours in triumph tower. The shortest road which leadeth to the goal Of our dear Liberty in this sad hour, Which Heaven offers us with piteous breath, Conducts us only to the arms of Death. Nor thou, dear consort, sweetest of thy race, Shalt suffer peril from the Roman bands; Nor shall they soil thy modesty and grace With eyes lascivious, or with ruthless hands! My sword shall snatch thee from this foul disgrace, Their schemes shall baffled be by my commands, And this shall be the guerdon of their lust, To triumph o'er Numantia in the dust! Thou, dear, belovèd consort, it was I Who first advised that we, with one accord, Should rather perish than as cravens lie Beneath the terror of the Roman sword; I will not therefore be the last to die, Nor shall my children here.
_Wife._
If, good my lord, There were some other way to set us free, Then Heaven knows how happy I should be! But since it cannot be, to my regret, And since my road to death is near and plain, Keep back the brutal Roman sword, and let The trophy of our lives with thee remain. Though death be sure, it is my pleasure yet To die within Diana's sacred fane; Good husband, lead us, and in loving ire Consign us to the sword, the rope, the fire!
THEOGENES.
So may it be, nor let our steps be slow, For cruel Fate doth urge me on to death.
_Son._
Why weepest, mother? Whither do we go? Stay, stay, I am so faint, I have no breath! My mother, let us eat, 'tis better so, For me this bitter hunger wearyeth.
_Mother._
Come to my arms, my darling sweet and good, And I to thee will give thy death for food!
[_Exeunt, and two lads enter flying, one of whom is he who will hurl himself from the tower, called VIRIATO, the other SERVIO._
VIRIATO.
Servio, whither shall we fly?
SERVIO.
I will go the way thou shewest.
VIRIATO.
Come, how lazily thou goest! Dost thou wish that both should die? Sad one, look behind, before, Thousand swords pursue to slay!
SERVIO.
Never can we get away, 'Tis for us a task too sore. Tell me, what dost thou desire? Tell me, and I shall decide.
VIRIATO.
I shall run, and straightway hide In the turret of my sire.
SERVIO.
Friend, 'tis well for thee to go, But I cannot, worn and weary, And the road so long and dreary, Hunger gnaws and pains me so.
VIRIATO.
Wilt thou not?
SERVIO.
O leave me here.
VIRIATO.
If thou canst no longer fly, Here, alas, thou hast to die, Slain by hunger, sword, or fear! Go I must, for much I dread All that robs me of my life; Be it fire or cruel knife Which would lay me with the dead!
[_Exit, and THEOGENES enters with two drawn swords, his hands bloody, and as SERVIO sees him come he flees and goes behind._
THEOGENES.
O blood, that from my very bosom flows, Since thou belongest to my children dear; O hand, which wounds thyself with deadly blows, Replete with honour and with might austere; Thou Fortune, who art privy to our woes; Ye Heavens, devoid of pity or of cheer, Afford me now, in this my bitter lot, Some glorious, speedy death upon the spot! O valiant Numantines, take ye account That some perfidious Roman foe am I, Avenge within my bosom your affront, And in its blood your hands and weapons dye!
[_He hurls one sword from his hand._
Of these two swords take one, and quick confront My fury wild, my grief that rageth high; For, dying in the fight, we will not know The keenest rigour of the final blow! And he who cuts the other's vital thread, Let him, in token of the favour free, Entomb within the flame the wretched dead, A duty this of highest charity! Come quick, come now! O whither have ye sped? My life the highest sacrifice will be; That sweet compassion, which to friends ye show, Change now to rabid rage against the foe!
_A Numantine._
Whom, brave Theogenes, dost thou invoke? What novel mode of dying dost thou seek? Why dost thou urge us onward, and provoke To such a strange and lamentable freak?
THEOGENES.
O valiant Numantine, if terror's yoke Hath not unnerved thine arm and made it weak, Take now this sword, and prove its point on me, As if I were thy mortal enemy! This mode of dying better pleaseth me, Than any other in this time of woe.
_Numantine._
It suits me too, and I will pleasure thee, Since evil Fortune seems to will it so. On to the square, where now the fire we see Which burns to have our lives within its glow! Who conquers there may, without fear or shame, Consign the vanquished to the furious flame.
THEOGENES.
Thou speakest well; make haste, for my desire Outruns Fate's tardy step with panting breath; Let sword devour me, or the furious fire, I see our glory in whatever death!
[_Exeunt._