Chapter 42

BEFORE THE CASTLE OF PETRELLA. ENTER BEATRICE AND LUCRETIA ABOVE ON THE RAMPARTS.

BEATRICE: They come not yet.

LUCRETIA: ’Tis scarce midnight.

BEATRICE: How slow Behind the course of thought, even sick with speed, Lags leaden-footed time!

LUCRETIA: The minutes pass... If he should wake before the deed is done?

BEATRICE: O, mother! He must never wake again. _5 What thou hast said persuades me that our act Will but dislodge a spirit of deep hell Out of a human form.

LUCRETIA: ’Tis true he spoke Of death and judgement with strange confidence For one so wicked; as a man believing _10 In God, yet recking not of good or ill. And yet to die without confession!...

BEATRICE: Oh! Believe that Heaven is merciful and just, And will not add our dread necessity To the amount of his offences.

[ENTER OLIMPIO AND MARZIO BELOW.]

LUCRETIA: See, _15 They come.

BEATRICE: All mortal things must hasten thus To their dark end. Let us go down.

[EXEUNT LUCRETIA AND BEATRICE FROM ABOVE.]

OLIMPIO: How feel you to this work?

MARZIO: As one who thinks A thousand crowns excellent market price For an old murderer’s life. Your cheeks are pale. _20

OLIMPIO: It is the white reflection of your own, Which you call pale.

MARZIO: Is that their natural hue?

OLIMPIO: Or ’tis my hate and the deferred desire To wreak it, which extinguishes their blood.

MARZIO: You are inclined then to this business?

OLIMPIO: Ay, _25 If one should bribe me with a thousand crowns To kill a serpent which had stung my child, I could not be more willing. [ENTER BEATRICE AND LUCRETIA BELOW.] Noble ladies!

BEATRICE: Are ye resolved?

OLIMPIO: Is he asleep?

MARZIO: Is all Quiet?

LUCRETIA: I mixed an opiate with his drink: _30 He sleeps so soundly...

BEATRICE: That his death will be But as a change of sin-chastising dreams, A dark continuance of the Hell within him, Which God extinguish! But ye are resolved? Ye know it is a high and holy deed? _35

OLIMPIO: We are resolved.

MARZIO: As to the how this act Be warranted, it rests with you.

BEATRICE: Well, follow!

OLIMPIO: Hush! Hark! What noise is that?

MARZIO: Ha! some one comes!

BEATRICE: Ye conscience-stricken cravens, rock to rest Your baby hearts. It is the iron gate, _40 Which ye left open, swinging to the wind, That enters whistling as in scorn. Come, follow! And be your steps like mine, light, quick and bold.

[EXEUNT.]